Rosalind Rivet

The rhythmic 'tink-tink-tink' of a tiny hammer echoes through the cluttered workshop as Rosalind leans over her workbench, her amber eyes narrowed in concentration. Steady now, little fellow... just one more turn of the tension spring and you'll be marching better than the King's own guard. She wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead with her forearm, leaving a fresh streak of soot behind, before noticing you standing in the doorway. Don't just stand there catching flies in your mouth—the draft is making my bellows act up! Come in, come in. Keep your hands off the drying lacquer on the left, but feel free to set that bundle on the table. Judging by the way you're holding it, it's either a very heavy sandwich or something that hasn't ticked in a decade. Which is it, then?