sitting rooms are that way. Our supper buffet begins at one.”
Approved and dismissed, Alice nodded with relief and stepped into the main ballroom. The main hurdle was over.
The ballroom was a two-storied affair, with a balcony that ran around the upper half. Lush arrangements of fresh red and white roses covered the balcony rail and hung nearly to the floor below, filling the air with the sweet smells of nectar. The string players were stationed upstairs, their rubber-tipped fingers weaving a soft, melodic tapestry at odds with their hard metal faces. High windows looked out on the city, and an enormous electric chandelier-the showpiece of the house-provided bright light. Refreshment tables and sitting areas ringed the polished oak dance floor. Barely twenty people wandered among them, every one much older than Alice, who at twenty-two was fast becoming an old maid. She handed one of her name cards to the elderly butler stationed at the door.
“The Honorable Alice B. Michaels,” he announced over the music.
Reflexively, everyone in the room turned, nodded at Alice, and went back to their conversations. Alice allowed herself a moment of relief-her unescorted entry hadn’t caused even a ripple. Expression pleasant, she drifted toward a refreshment table and found herself falling back into a rhythm she hadn’t felt since Frederick’s death had cast her from the social rolls: pluck a dance card from the tray at the table, tie the ribbon to her fan so she could flash it at eligible gentlemen or conceal it from less desirable ones, select a glass of champagne from the arrangement, let her gaze wander about the room to see who else had arrived. So far she didn’t recognize anyone, which made things awkward-women could converse only with other women, and only a man could ask for a dance. She made herself pointedly available for approach, either for a dance or for conversation.
No one came near her. After a bit, she went up to the balcony to look at the orchestra. A dozen faceless automatons played violin, viola, cello, drum, and other instruments. No music stands or music stood before them, and no conductor waved a baton. Their brass skins gleamed in the light of the chandelier, and Alice was surprised at the sweet precision of the music they produced. Their movements, however, jarred. The fingers moved with quick grace, but the torsos remained motionless, in stark contrast to human musicians, who played with their entire bodies. This orchestra were really nothing more than a giant music box, and Alice decided she’d much rather let a set of live musicians sweep her away.
The cello player faltered. Its bow squawked across the strings, and the dissonance tore through the delicate music. The other musicians continued to play as if nothing had happened. On the floor below, several dancers winced and faltered in their steps. Without thinking, Alice reached in and plucked the bow from the cello player’s fingers. The cello went silent, and the waltz continued with a missing instrument. The cello player jerked in its seat, fingers twitching spasmodically over the strings.
“What’s going on up here?” demanded Lady Greenfellow, skirts still swirling from her indignant scurry up the staircase. “What on earth are you doing to my musicians?”
Alice suppressed a desire to hide the bow behind her back. “I think something went wrong with your cello player,” she said, ignoring the accusation. “I took the bow away before the noise could ruin the dance. Do you have an automatist on staff?”
“No.” Lady Greenfellow’s face flushed. “And we’ll never find one at this time of night. Now what do I do?”
Alice hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I could have a quick look,” she offered. And before Lady Greenfellow could object, Alice scooted around behind the players, stripped off her gloves, and leaned in to pop the rear panel off the errant cellist. The musicians played mechanically on as Alice peered inside one of their number. Gears whirled, oil dripped, and the wheels of an analytical engine spun merrily, trying to direct a body that refused to obey properly. A fascinating little world, where everything was connected to everything else. Alice found herself drawn in, searching for the patterns and for the flaw causing the problem. Her heart quickened a little, and she had to admit she was showing off a bit for her hostess. It wasn’t correct ballroom behavior for a traditional lady, but Alice had been shunned so far. What did she have to lose?
“I don’t think this is quite-” Lady Greenfellow began.
“There’s your problem,” Alice said. “One of the drive pistons has become disconnected, and it’s throwing off the machinery. Easy enough to fix.” Without thinking, she drew back her sleeve to midforearm and reached inside. Lady Greenfellow huffily turned her back and spread herself as wide as she could to provide cover. Alice reconnected the piston and snatched her hand free as it started up again. She put the panel back on, delicately wiped machine oil from her fingers with a handkerchief, and handed the bow back to the cellist, who rejoined the song in progress.
“All fixed,” Alice said, donning her gloves.
Lady Greenfellow turned around and stared. “I… see. Thank you.” Her words were stiff, more ice than gratitude.
“Not at all,” Alice replied, feeling her heart sink. Clearly, having a woman-or perhaps this particular woman- rescue the mechanical musicians wasn’t going to provide the social coup Alice had been hoping for. Perhaps this would be a good time for her first swearwords.
Alice went back downstairs as more guests arrived. She began to recognize people-girls she had gone to school with, attended dances with, discussed weddings and social outings with. They were all married now, attending the dance with their new husbands. And they all ignored Alice. When she approached, they glided away. When she stood still, they kept their distance. None of the men asked Alice for a slot on her dance card. Couples young and old whirled and glided across the dance floor. At first, Alice felt self-conscious and embarrassed, sitting at a small table by herself. Then she felt angry. Then she felt desperate. This was supposed to be her reentry into society, and-
“Not going well, is it?” A woman in a startlingly low-cut blue gown plunked down in a chair opposite Alice’s at the table. “What a bunch of bores.”
“I’m sorry,” Alice said. “I’m afraid I-”
“Louisa Creek,” she said, extending a hand. She looked quite a few years older than Alice. Artful cosmetics couldn’t conceal a bad complexion or a beaky nose, though her thick black hair was coiled in a complex braided bun. Alice tried to guess at her age, but she could have been anywhere from her early thirties to her late forties. The dance card hanging from her fan was as empty as Alice’s. “You’re Lady Michaels-or you will be, once your father dies. We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you. Terrible situation. The clockwork plague hits your family twice, and everyone treats the survivors like lepers. An apt simile, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” Alice said. She found Louisa’s forthrightness shocking, but also a little thrilling. Daring. “Aren’t you afraid everyone will see you talking to me and begin to treat you the same way?”
“It doesn’t matter who
“Yes.”
“He’ll eventually ask me to dance. And so will that man over there, the one hovering near the ice sculpture.”
“How do you know they’ll ask you?”
Louisa grinned. “They’re second sons, dear. No inheritance prospects. But I have pots of money, which makes
“Good Lord, no. Are you?”
Louisa waved her fan. “I haven’t decided. Wouldn’t it just shock these stuffies? It’s been legal for us to vote for three years now, thanks to the wonderful work of the Hats-On Committee in Parliament, but if we take advantage of it, certain people act as if a cow wanted to recite Shakespeare.”
Alice gave a weak smile in acknowledgment. Three years ago, the same wave of clockwork plague that had killed her fiance, Frederick, had also incapacitated several prominent members of Parliament, threatening to cripple the entire government. In a surprise move, their wives took over their affairs, writing letters, giving speeches, and even voting in their husbands’ names while the emergency lasted. They created the Hats-On Committee, so nicknamed because the members didn’t remove their hats indoors. Rumors abounded of an anonymous benefactor who provided the committee with money and other resources, though nothing was ever proven. By the time their
