happened. Had Adames noticed? Had Alice? Or even Feng? None of them reacted. Gavin continued to playing, forcing himself to concentrate harder. By the time Alice got to the last patient, the first one was sitting up and speaking. Berta hurried over with a cup of water.
“Incredible,” Adames breathed. “Dear Lord, it
Feng surreptitiously wiped at his eyes. “That was the saddest I have ever heard you play.” Gavin gave him a wan smile. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the error, then. Still, he felt a little sick. It was stupid, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching, counting up every mistake, and one day he would be called to account for them.
“Now, take me to the catacombs,” Alice said, but she was weaving.
Gavin put his fiddle in its case. “You can barely stand. How much blood have you given up in the last two days?”
She hesitated. “The jar, then,” she said. “In my pack.”
Feng set a stool behind her, and she sank onto it while Gavin pulled the jar from her pack without bothering to remove it from her back first. The fireflies glowed faintly within the glass.
“You rest,” Gavin said. “Let Berta bring you something to eat. Monsignor Adames can take me to help the zombies.”
Leaving Alice under Feng’s watchful eye, Gavin followed the priest out the pivoting door and down a short flight of steps. “The catacombs are almost directly under the altar,” Adames said, brandishing his candle. “When I conduct Mass, I sometimes wonder how the parishioners would respond if they knew what lies beneath their feet. Prepare yourself, my son.”
He pulled open a thick door. It exhaled air heavy with rot and fear. Gavin let the darkness swallow him as they moved inside, though the fireflies provided pale green light. Niches carved into the walls like short beds held dry skeletons, many with ragged cloth still clinging to them. Some clutched rosaries in yellowed fingers while the skulls stared eyelessly at the ceiling, the leavings of death. Gavin shrank away from them, not wanting to touch. He felt like an intruder, one who would be caught and thrown out by some monstrous gatekeeper at any moment. He followed Adames’s candle down a side passage until he heard shuffling footsteps ahead. Bones clattered with a sound that crawled over Gavin’s skin. Ahead, he saw the passage widen, and a shadowy group of zombies huddled in the dark. They shielded their eyes from the candle with ragged arms and groaned like a choir of uneasy spirits. Two of them lay sprawled on the floor, motionless. Dead. Gavin flinched at the sight. If they had arrived a day ago, an hour ago, a minute ago, could they have been saved? There was never enough time. If only there was a way to make more.
Gavin thought about what Adames had said as they entered the catacomb. He saw wealthy ladies in silk skirts and gentlemen in fine coats, their stomachs filled with a good breakfast prepared by paid servants. They spoke in hushed voices and smiled quietly to one another, their soft faces scrubbed pink, while below them moaned hungry, sick people.
“What can you do for them?” Adames asked.
The priest’s voice pulled Gavin back—he had nearly fallen into another fugue. With an embarrassed cough, he stepped farther into the bone room, opened the gleaming jar, and waved a dozen of the fireflies out of it. They streaked through the darkness and landed on some of the zombies.
“What are they?” the priest asked.
“I’m not completely sure,” Gavin said. “Alice’s aunt made them. They spread the cure, and anyone they bite spreads the cure as well. Alice’s cure works faster, but she’s not strong enough to help everyone. How will they get out once they’re better?”
One of the zombies reached a tentative hand toward Adames, who handed it a chunk of bread from his pocket. The creature fumbled to accept it and eat. “The same way they get in—through the graveyard. There’s an entrance in one of the mausoleums. Are you sure this will . . ?”
“Yes.” He looked around, feeling suddenly uneasy. “I think we should get back to—”
A crash thundered through the catacomb and vibrated the very stones. The candle danced in Adames’s hand. Gavin swore.
“They found us!” he said.
Adames was already heading for the door. “Who?”
“The brass demons. We have to run!”
They met Feng and Berta at the spiral staircase. Berta had Gavin’s backpack, and a worried-looking Feng was half carrying Alice. Gavin cursed himself for letting her push herself so hard. Another crash thundered overhead. Wordlessly Gavin yanked on the battery backpack, slapped the whip onto his belt, and snatched Alice out of Feng’s arms. The clockwork plague roared through him, and he barely noticed her weight as he bundled her up the stairs. She clutched the firefly jar to her chest.
At the top, he burst out of the transept and into the crossing of the cathedral, the enormous open space just in front of the altar where the Consolatrix stood on her crescent moon. Two of the priceless stained glass windows, one on each of the long walls of the nave, had been shattered, and the confessional booths standing beneath them were smashed to flinders, crushed beneath stomping metal feet. Standing in the nave, the echoing pillared hall where the congregation gathered for services, were the two mechanicals, their glass bubbles gleaming like captured moons. In front of them was Lieutenant Phipps. Her brass monocle stared coldly about the pale brown chamber.
“How did you find us?” Alice gasped.
“The good father’s secret hospital isn’t as secret as he likes to think,” Phipps said in a scornful tone. “The Ward has known of it for quite some time. It was just a matter of watching until you showed up with your cure—as you did.”
“This is a house of God!” Adames roared, and before Gavin could stop him, he rushed forward to confront Phipps. One of the mechanicals—Glenda—leaned forward and almost casually knocked him aside. Adames slammed into a pillar and slid moaning to the stony floor.
