Free The Impossible Cube: A Novel of the Clockwork Empire by Steven Harper Page B

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 fiancé 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?”
    “Someone in your house has
la peste de l’horlogerie
, yes?”
    “Non, non.”
The woman moved to shut the door. “You are mistaken.”
    Alice, not quite believing her own temerity, blocked the door open with her foot. She could smell the dripping paint. “The doctor marked your door for all to see. Now everyone will avoid you and your house. I can help.”
    The woman paused. “Who are you? We have nothing to steal.”
    “I am a friend. I can help. Is it your child?”
    “I… I am…” The woman licked her lips, then suddenly opened the door wider.