"Steelworking is hardly the most delicate art," he says in a tone nothing short of utterly reasonable. The corner of his mouth twitches once. Twice. "I'm self-taught."

His eyes rake the spun-glass fragility of those mechanical intricacies, inserting and adjusting the required constituents with neat, tight tweaks of wrist and fingers.

"Not to mention," he continues airily, punctuating each word with the satisfying click of a mechanism snapping into place, "pure. Dead. Brilliant."

He looks at her and arches a brow. "Try it now."