The rain was harsh for certain, but to the busy toymaker it was a soothing background drumming, a soft roar that was reminiscent of ocean waves or crackling flames in an old fireplace. As he worked away, carefully lining up cogs and connecting bands, that sound could be anything he needed it to be. Gazelles on the Serengeti, an avalanche in the Arctic, a mechanical roar of some fantastical metal beast, perhaps. Whatever he needed to keep the spark going for his new, intricate figure. Not for small children at all; the tiny cogs could become dislodged and get lost and then what? But perhaps an older sibling could let the little one watch as he or she tamed the beast made of cogs and springs.
So lost in the intricacies and new questions and trickiness was Mal that he hadn't noticed the sun setting, the clock chiming for seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, midnight. Even as it began the lone chime for one o' clock he took no notice, blue eyes sparkling with energy and ideas, fixed on the clockwork creation on his workbench.Â
Until the clock had finished chiming its lone chime, and almost as if on cue, the door swung open and a crashing of rain droplets followed a young woman into the previously quiet shop, and Mal jumped in fright at the urgency, poking the pad of his finger with one of the sharp tools he'd been holding. The spark of creativity had been extinguished, but the shock ensured weariness would not settle in, and after taking a long look at the intruder, he wordlessly bolted from the shop floor.
She was about his height, which made her very tall for a woman, which was very difficult not to notice, but it wasn't that, nor her imposing or possibly threatening nature, which had caused him to run away so quickly. It was that she had burst in like she had been drowning in that storm, a notion that barked orders in his head: towels, Mal; get her some towels! But what good were towels when she'd be forced to wear those damp clothes? The thoughts were frantic in his head. Robes, a shirt, a pair of jeans, slippers. He grabbed the items, caught on vaguely to the fleeting thought that they had similar builds, raced back to the shop and pushed the soft, dry towels towards her.
"Here, take 'em!" he crackled, high-pitched voice seeming to cut through the silence, as though it was absolutely imperative that she accept the towels as a matter of life or death. "I've got a little... it's like a kitchenette and office area; come on, come on! You can wait it out in there, if you like."
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