I made you in my workshop,” he said. “Between your jaws, I placed a child’s finger bone, and then crack.” The nutcracker shook his head. “You are mad.” “And you are made of wood.” The nutcracker splayed his hand over his own chest. “My heart beats. I breathe.” The clocksmith’s grin widened. “A bellows breathes to grow a fire. A clock ticks. Are those things alive?” Maybe, thought the nutcracker. Maybe they’re all alive. “You do not dream,” said the clocksmith. “You do not want. You have no soul. You are a toy.”
