Steel, brass and tin littered the colt’s floor, his once immaculate carpet now stained with the various greases and oils that each part of the clockwork train had been drenched in. It would (upon reflection) be a nightmare to clean. The servants certainly wouldn't do it; the bedroom belonged to him and thus was his 'responsibility'.
That was a word he used to say a lot, funnily enough. Something to drill into every adult, to profess to the very heavens.
He. Was. Responsible!
Now he rather wished that word would go away. Responsibility, nine-year-old Blueblood found, was tedious. Oh-so tedious.
Looking at the lavender pup - a smile on her face and a screwdriver in each paw - he felt the tedium waver. Yes, he'd grumble, whine, and certainly demand an extra slice of gateau later...but he could be responsible again.
Just this once.