“To hell with the directive!” he shouted. “Shoot the damned clockworker!”
“We’re trying!” the woman shouted. “We can’t get a clear shot with all these zombies in the way.”
Alice’s eye fell on the calliope. Quickly, she pulled the piece of wood out and tossed it aside. At first glance, the throw seemed to have staved in the side of the machine and broken a steam pipe, but when she looked closer, she could see that one of the fittings had simply popped loose, depriving the calliope of its high-powered steam. She knelt next to it and reached in, but heat from the pipes threatened to sear her hands through her thin evening gloves. Damp steam swirled around her, condensing on her face. A glance down at The Dress told her it was already torn, either from her unexpected ride on the horse or from the moment she had jumped into the wagon. Quickly, she used the tear as a starting point to rip a chunk of thick cloth loose so she could protect her hands. Reaching inside, she managed to push the fittings back together and slide the lock back into place.
D’Arco was still trying to hold the zombies back with the rifle, but already the electricity was weakening. The zombies were starting to move again, and they were nearly close enough to grab d’Arco. He was panting, either from fear or effort; Alice couldn’t tell which. She scrambled to the bench at the strange calliope and, thanking God for the music lessons Father had forced on her, pumped the pedals that worked the bellows.
“I have repaired your machine, Mr. d’Arco,” she called down to him. “What should I play?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, utter surprise written across his face. Clearly, he’d forgotten all about her.
“I hardly suppose they want to hear ‘God Save the Queen,’ ” she prompted, still pumping. “But they are getting closer, sir, and that rifle of yours is nearly played out.”
The electricity sputtered and went out, then started up again, weaker than before. The zombies jerked forward. The grinning clockworker played his jaunty tune.
“A tritone,” d’Arco said. “Play a tritone!”
Alice put her fingers on the keys, still pumping. She could feel the pressure building in the machine. Tiny jets of steam spurted from the calliope’s seams. “Which one?”
“Any one! Just play!”
The rifle spat once more and went out. The zombies lurched forward, reaching for d’Arco. Alice set her fingers on the keys for C and F-sharp-an interval called a tritone because it consisted of exactly three whole steps-and pressed.
The machine roared.
Every zombie in the area clapped hands over its ears and howled. Several collapsed to the ground. The clockworker screamed. He dropped his instrument and the music stopped. Alice pumped the foot bellows and hit the chord again. The clockworker fell to the ground amid the zombies and vanished from her view. Alice played the awful chord again and again. It pounded the air like an angry train whistle. The calliope throbbed beneath her fingers, and her thighs grew tired from the pumping, but she kept going.
At last, she became aware of a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into the face of the female rider. You can stop, she mouthed.
Alice stopped. The calliope groaned to silence, and Alice sat on the bench, panting and sweaty despite the chilly night air.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked. She had a pleasant, round face, chocolate eyes, and light brown hair pulled into a French braid. The nails on her hand were bitten to the quick, and she still wore the leather trousers, though the puffy blouse with the lace at the throat was distinctly feminine.
“I’m… I’m fine,” Alice said. “What happened? Is everyone else all right?”
“Everyone’s fine, thanks to you, love,” the woman said. “You were a wonder! How did you understand Mr. d’Arco’s machine?”
“It was obvious,” Alice replied, “to anyone with a bit of sense. What happened to the zombies?”
“Some are still unconscious, and some have wandered away. Without the clockworker to guide them, they reverted to their normal behavior, poor things.” She gestured at the street behind her. It was empty but for the wreckage of the beer truck and the people on horseback. A single zombie slunk into the darkness, dragging one leg.
“Good heavens,” Alice said. She put a palm to her mouth as elation threatened to overtake her and swell her corsets. A sudden urge to jump up and down and clap her hands like a little girl swept over her, and she barely managed to contain herself. “We did it. We actually did it!”
The woman laughed. “Indeed we did.”
“What about the clockworker, then?” Alice asked.
“He got away.” The woman grimaced. “There was a sewer cover directly beneath him, and he dropped down into it right after you began to play. It was almost as if he’d planned it that way. Perhaps he did.”
Alice blew out a long breath, her elation somewhat deflated. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault, love,” the woman said. “You did far better than we did.”
There it was again-that familiar form of address. It should have bothered Alice, coming from a commoner, even from someone who was probably an Ad Hoc woman, but in the aftermath of the fight, she found it endearing instead, as if she’d been welcomed into a circle of tight-knit friends.
“But what did the clockworker want?” Alice demanded. “What was all that for?”
The woman shrugged. “Clockworkers live in a world of their own. No doubt gathering an army of zombies to tip over beer vans made perfect sense to him. Did they touch you?”
“No.” Alice glanced down at her ruined gown. “But I don’t think I’ll be wearing this again. And it was my only one.”
The woman clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry about that.”
“How does that machine work?” Alice asked, suddenly eager to change the subject. “And why did Mr. d’Arco need me to play a tritone?”
“Ah. I’m afraid I can’t go into that here,” the woman said. “But listen, love, there’s clearly quite a lot to you, far more than that dress can contain. If you ever need help, or if you find you need a change in your life, write to me, all right?”
She handed Alice a card. On it was written:
Miss Glenda Teasdale
Third Ward
v2
“Are you an Ad Hoc woman?” Alice blurted.
Glenda smiled. “Of course. There should be no other kind, if you ask me.”
At that moment, d’Arco rode up on Glenda’s horse, his dark eyes inquisitive beneath mussed black curls. Alice noted for the first time how handsome d’Arco was. His features were even, his jaw long, his smile wide. His body was long and lean beneath his topcoat.
“Did you thank her?” he asked. “Did you tell her she was wonderful?”
“I did, Simon,” Glenda said. “And I’ll thank you to give me Roulette back. You can drive the cart back to headquarters.”
“Your cab is still sitting over there,” d’Arco told Alice as he dismounted. “I’d offer to see you home, but we simply can’t leave the machinery. Can you drive it? What am I saying-a woman of your talents could probably shoe the horse.” And Alice had to laugh.
The drive home was uneventful, and Alice was surprised at how little fear she felt. She should have been jumping at every shadow, but she felt perfectly calm, even a bit thrilled, as she guided the horse through damp streets. The Dress was in violet tatters, her hair was coming down, and anyone might see her in the driver’s seat of the shabby hansom, but she didn’t care in the slightest. She allowed herself a little whoop of glee.