The Impossible Cube

your doing.”

“I thought it was a chance event,” Gavin said, “so I moved on to play somewhere else, without all the screaming and stampeding. I had no idea you were in trouble.” His voice was tight with tension.

“I’m fine. Really.” Alice sat up to emphasize her words and noticed for the first time the little tavern where they were sitting. It was low-end, with straw on the wood planks and a bored-looking pair of daughters serving bread and beer drawn by their mother, who held forth behind a scarred bar. Alice, Gavin, and Feng occupied a freestanding table near the fireplace, which was empty this late in summer. The faint smell of dead ashes and old alcohol hung on the air, and the working-class patrons were still talking quietly, not drunk yet. “No need to worry, darling. I was just caught a little off guard. Next time, I’ll know better.”

“Next time?” Gavin echoed. “What next time?”

“Next time I heal people,” she said.

“You’re not going to keep doing this?” he asked incredulously.

She pulled away from him. “Of course I am. I have to help, Gavin. The clockwork plague needs to be cured.”

“That’s what the fireflies are for.”

“Every person I cure is one fewer person who dies,” she said with heat. “I can’t hold it back and wait on the chance that a firefly will bite.”

“And you’re putting yourself in danger!”

“It didn’t seem to be an issue when I came to rescue you!”

“That was low.”

Alice’s voice rose. “No lower than you assuming I can’t take care of myself.”

“Of course you can take care of yourself.” Gavin’s voice rose to match. “It’s why Feng had to carry you in here.”

“I often enjoy it when people stare,” Feng said, “but I believe our plan was to keep to ourselves.”

Most of the customers were indeed staring at them. Alice, who noticed she was on her feet, sank slowly back to her chair. Her claws had pierced the tips of her glove. “I apologize, Mr. Ennock,” she said stiffly.

“Me, too, Miss Michaels.”

They finished eating in silence. Alice kept her eyes on her food and fumed, despite her apology. She had a duty to spread the cure. The plague had made victims of her entire family, ruined her life, and she wasn’t going to let anyone else go through the same thing. Her life was replete with sacrifices to the plague, and at last, at last, she could fight back. Was Gavin trying to control her the way her father and fiance had tried to do? Infuriating! More than that, he was a mere commoner, with no right even to speak to her in such a tone. In some parts of England, a baroness like her could still have him…

. . . flogged.

Alice swallowed a bit of carrot without tasting it. Gavin had already been flogged. By the pirates who had captured his airship and shot his best friend and killed his captain. When she embraced him, she could feel the ropy scars through the thin fabric of his shirt. The thought made her ill. He had seen his share of sacrifice. He had already been hurt so badly, and now she was hurting him again. But iron pride stiffened her neck, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to apologize again.

“Did you earn much money?” she asked in a quieter voice. The other patrons went back to their drinking.

“A bit,” he said. “But not as much as I would have liked. I was interrupted by zombies, so—”

The temper flared red again. “Are you implying that I shouldn’t have—”

“I’m not implying anything. Boy, you’re hot under the corset.”

“Mr. Ennock!” She found she was on her feet again. “That… that…”

“What?” he said evenly.

“That… will be all.” She turned and marched out the door.

Angrily, she chose a direction and stalked away down the darkening street. Luxembourg had a number of yellow gaslights to light her way, but they were spaced widely, and each stood out like a giant candlestick in a pool of ink. Closed shops alternated with pubs and hotels. A lonely set of church bells rang a melody Alice didn’t recognize, and the cool evening breeze smelled unfamiliar. A lonely flyer for the circus, its colors muted by the gathering dusk, blew down the street. Music and sounds of men singing in French drifted across the cobbles, and a few people were scattered up and down the walkways. Now that she was outside in the cooler evening air, Alice realized she had no idea where to go or what to do. But she wasn’t going back to the pub. Not now.

A door banged open ahead of her, and a little man carrying a black bag hurried out of a building, pulling on his black coat as he went. Behind him came a woman wringing her hands. She was pleading in rapid French, but the man ignored her. Normally Alice would have averted her eyes and continued on her way, but she caught the word peste—plague—and halted. The man yanked a small jar of paint from his bag, scrawled a large red P on the door over the woman’s protests, and jumped into a waiting hansom, which sped away. The woman watched the man go, then slowly returned to the building and shut the door.

Alice’s mouth went dry, and the spider hung heavy on her left arm. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she strode up to the door and knocked. It opened almost instantly, and Alice saw the hope on the woman’s face die, replaced with a guarded look.

“Oui?” The woman had straight brown hair and tired, blue-gray eyes. Her hands were red and swollen from work, and she wore a limp brown work dress.

In her halting French, Alice said, “Is someone ill?”

“Why do you ask?” the woman responded. “Who are you?”