by Various
It was coming from her hand.
She bent her arm at the elbow, and the sound was louder. In horror, but with a little fascination, she moved first one arm and then the other. The sounds came from both.
“Impossible.” Alice breathed the word.
“I try to think of seven impossible things before breakfast.” The Watchmaker appeared in the middle of the hall like an apparition. “I know it might be uncomfortable at first, but when the change is complete you’ll be right as rain.”
Alice’s stomach churned, bile crawling up the back of her throat. She pressed her back against the door to get as far away from the Watchmaker as she could. “That’s monstrous.” An even darker thought occurred to her. “All of them, inside? All of them are clockwork?” She left off the bit where they had once been flesh-and-blood people. It was too terrible to think about, let alone say aloud.
The Watchmaker smiled, but it wasn’t malicious or cruel, rather a smile that said he thought he was doing something wonderful and clever. He nodded.
“Do they think? Can they think?”
The Watchmaker’s smile fell. “Why does it matter? Like you, they were unhappy in their lives. I invited them to my ball, and now they are always happy.”
“I’m not unhappy.” It wasn’t a question, or even an argument. It was a statement. “Why do you think I’m unhappy?”
“What else would I think of a girl who has a secret workshop in her attic and dreams of building steam engines?”
Alice fell against the door, the strength drained from her. “How did you know that?”
The Watchmaker shrugged. “Your mother wants you to be a lady, but instead of dresses and slippers, you want gears and springs.”
“And being here, at a ball of all things, will make me happy? How does that make any kind of sense?” Alice gasped as the strange feeling that had begun in her arms moved into her chest. What would happen when her heart turned to clockwork? Her brain? Each of her ribs was turning to metal, one by one, like fingers clamping around her lungs.
“You said you were enjoying yourself. I thought you’d want to stay.” The Watchmaker held out his hand to her, just as he had when she had first set foot in the ballroom. This time it was ominous instead of inviting.
What could she do? Run? Where? The door to her world was locked. Feeling like a mouse that has been cornered by a cat, she took his hand and let him lead her back into the ballroom. The music had stopped, and the dancers were still. No one moved from the dance floor, not to sit and rest or get a drink. There was no laughter, no flirting, not even conversation. It only lasted a few seconds, until the musicians took up with a polka, but it was enough to send a chill down Alice’s spine.
Then the band took up a Redowa, a lively waltz. The dancers moved again, leaping and twirling about the floor. “I know you’ve had a bit of a shock. Skip this dance, and I’ll be back.”
He stepped onto the floor and pulled a woman dancer away from her partner. The male dancer stepped off the dance floor and bent at the waist, his hands dropping to his sides. He did not move. Alice went to see if he needed help. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. She tapped his shoulder, but he did not move. He was just a clockwork doll whose spring had wound down.
If they’re not dancing, they don’t exist. Part of her wanted to open up the back of the doll, to see how it worked, while the other part shuddered in revulsion at the idea of opening up what had once been a flesh-and-bone human being. Still, it was fascinating.
She had to find a way out of here. Emma Allison had warned her about the rabbit. She must have been here and had escaped. How had she done it?
“New partner, move down!”
Alice pinpointed the source of the voice. She followed it across the room and found the white rabbit. He was sitting on a tall stool, holding a cone-shaped speaking trumpet. Alice grabbed his ears and lifted him to eye level.
“You. You dragged me into this, and you will help me out of it.”
The rabbit squirmed. “Put me down. How would you like it if someone pulled you around by your ears?”
Alice had often had just such a thing done to her, by both her mother and her governess. “Not until you tell me how I can fix this.”
The rabbit’s whiskers quivered. “The Watchmaker would disassemble me.”
“A-ha!” Alice used her free hand to point at the rabbit’s nose. “So there is a way.”
The rabbit’s eyes widened. “You tricked me.”
Alice set him on the stool, but didn’t let go. “Tell me.”
“I can’t.” The rabbit cast a nervous look over at the dance floor, perhaps searching for his master. “I won’t.”
Alice changed tack. “Look, if you help me, I’ll…take you with me.” She let go of his ears.
The rabbit shook his head, like a real rabbit. “Really?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t want you disassembled on my account. Come with me, and you’ll never have to see him again.”
The rabbit paused. “One second, please.” He raised the speaking trumpet to his mouth. “New partner! Move down!” He lowered the trumpet and cast an aside glance to make sure no one was listening.
“If you want to stop it, you must leave the Watchmaker’s realm. That’s the only place the potion works.”
Alice’s heart fell. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“You can’t, of course, unless you have your key.”
“My key?” Her thoughts raced to come up with an answer. “The one I used to open the clock? I left it.”
The rabbit shrugged. “If you say so.”
“All right, fine. Where is the key?”
“Where do you think?” the rabbit pointed to the dance floor, directly at his master.
The Watchmaker’s key ring, on the chain attached to his coat. So many keys. About a hundred.
“If I were to count the keys on the ring, would it be the same as the number of dancers?”
The rabbit’s whiskers twitched, and he gave a nod so small Alice almost missed it.
“Perfect.” The potion continued its work inside her, and she could almost feel the time she had left slipping away. “How long is forever?” she muttered, not to anyone in particular.
“Sometimes just one second,” the rabbit replied sadly.
The music ended.
The Watchmaker returned. “Come along, my dear. Time to dance.”
“Where did they all come from?” The whispered question barely made it past her lips. She grimaced at the burning, tearing pain in her feet as the bones, one by one, turned to metal. She had to make this quick.
The Watchmaker shrugged. “Here and there. Poor, miserable souls who wanted to be happy. Now they are.”
“Are you certain?” Alice couldn’t bear to look at them, dancing the polka, unaware of their previous lives.
“They’re smiling, aren’t they?” the Watchmaker smiled, and that was when Alice knew.
“You’re mad. Completely mad.”
The Watchmaker shrugged. “We’re all mad here. Now come.” He held out his hand.
Alice swallowed her horror as she let him lead her to the dance floor. He spun her around, diving right into the dance. Breathless and dizzy, she couldn’t even think of a way to get the key ring. Her clockwork legs felt as if they could dance all night. Which, she supposed, was the point. They were in a never-ending night, at a ball that had no final dance. The polka ended and immediately the dancers formed squares of eight, ready for a Quadrille. This could be Alice’s chance.
The dance began. Alice focused on the steps, forced herself to smile, so that the Watchmaker would think she was enjoying herself. As they crossed paths for the first spin, she slid her hand across his jacket, touching the key ring. At the next pass, she kept eye contact with him as her fingertips caressed the cold metal. When she danced with the other men in their square, she contemplated how to nick the key ring. The best course, she decided, was to grab and pull as hard as she could.
The rip of fabric as the chain pulled free from his jacket was satisfying. Alice ran.
She didn’t notice that the ballroom had gone completely silent until her hand was on the handle of the carved ballroom doors. The quiet was so eerie she had to turn and look.
Every dancer faced her. The musicians had put down their instruments and were standing in front of their chairs.
The Watchmaker, his face angry as a thunderstorm, pointed an accusatory finger. “Bring her to me.”
The first dancer hadn’t even taken a step when Alice ripped the door open and dashed out. She slammed it behind her, realizing it made a poor barrier. She looked for something to put in front of it, but there was nothing.
“Fantastic. Trapped in a corridor full of locked doors.” She had a ring full of keys, but couldn’t lock the door.
“I’d run if I were you,” said a voice.
Alice spun and nearly tripped over the white rabbit. “What are you doing here?” The last words were drowned out by the sound of hundreds of feet on the other side of the door.
“I thought you might try to go back on our deal. If I knew you were going to make a scene, I’d never have told you the secret.” The rabbit waved a paw. “But now you’ve gone and done it. Run.”
Alice lifted her skirts and raced away from the ballroom. The sound of double doors slamming open, hitting the walls behind them, chased her down the corridor.
“How do I know which key?” she yelled to the rabbit. She hadn’t thought this plan through very well. At this point she didn’t care which door she left through. She just wanted to get out of this infernal hallway.
“Come on, this way.” The rabbit hopped ahead, his four feet much faster than her two.
“We need a place to hide.” She was surprisingly fast, and for a fleeting moment she could see the advantage of clockwork legs.
The rabbit kept running, turning right and left as they passed dozens of identical doors. The pace was dizzying and Alice tried to keep a count of how many rights and lefts, but she couldn’t manage it.
The rabbit skidded to a stop. They were at the end of the corridor.
“Give me the keys.”
Alice pulled them protectively to her chest. “Why?”
The rabbit made a clucking sound and rolled his eyes. “Do you want to go home or be a clockwork doll? Give me the keys.”
Alice handed over the brass ring. There were so many keys, some long and some short, some old and some new. The rabbit picked through them, discarding one after the other.
“Hurry,” Alice whispered. Their pursuers couldn’t be far behind.
“Have patience,” the rabbit scolded. He picked out one key and held it away from the others. “This one.”
Alice took the ring, holding on to the key. It was the shiniest one on the ring, with a long barrel and a brass gear on the end.
She glanced at the rabbit. “You’re sure?”
“Are you going to keep your promise?” The white rabbit tilted his head, his whiskers twitching. “Because if not, I’ll wait right here and tell him I was trying to stop you, and you’ll be left to your fate.”
“Of course I’ll keep my promise.”
“Then I’m sure.” The rabbit hopped to the door at the end of the corridor and waited. Alice slipped the key into the lock.
“Stop!”
The Watchmaker had arrived. He stood a few yards away, his army of clockwork dancers behind him. Alice pressed her back against the door. A fog fell over her thoughts like a wool blanket. She was out of time – her brain was turning to clockwork. Another few moments and she’d be just another doll. She shook her head to try to clear the fog. The Watchmaker took a step closer, and his toys followed.
“I’m sorry.” Alice had no idea what she was apologizing for. “I can’t stay.”
The Watchmaker knitted his brow. “Why not? You would be happy here. Always.”
“Life isn’t about always being happy.” The fog began to descend again, and it was harder to breathe. Clockwork dolls don’t need to breathe. She forced her hand to turn the key. The bolt slid back. “And honestly, I don’t think you have any idea what happiness is.”
Alice turned the knob and leaned on the door, falling with it as it opened. There was a feeling of a great weight being lifted from her – her bones and muscles turning back to normal, she guessed. She fell onto the floor of the exhibit hall, landing on her backside. The Watchmaker was at the door, reaching through to grab her. She leaped forward and slammed the door shut, falling against it with a rush of exhaled breath. Every muscle in her body ached, and she was grateful for it.
“Alice? What on earth are you doing?”
Her mother and sister stood in front of her, wearing identical looks of embarrassed amazement. Alice looked down at herself. Her walking dress had returned, and the rabbit, once more a clockwork toy, was in her hands.
“Mother, Katharine. I am so glad to see you! I was…looking at this clockwork rabbit. It’s very well built.” She would never look at any clockwork, or her workshop, the same way again.
Her mother heaved an exasperated sigh. “Alice, when will you learn to be a lady? We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve been right here all along.” She couldn’t even begin to explain her afternoon.
“Well, I hope you’re happy. You’ve missed the very best exhibits in the entire Exposition.” Her mother pulled her lace shawl over her shoulders. “And to think, you wanted to spend the day looking at machines. Come along; it’s time for tea.”
For my parents, who bought me a live white rabbit.
Summer 1665
The outskirts of London, England
Alice wrapped the poultice of stewed onions and garlic in a square of linen and carried it to Edward’s bedside. The fleshy knob growing out of his neck had turned a shiny yellowish-purple, large as a goose egg about to burst. His hair was a disheveled wet mess, his pillow drenched with sweat. A pungent smell hung in the air, vaguely sweet like rotting apples.
“Run, Alice,” he rasped. “Go away from this death house. God has abandoned us.” Edward moaned as a spasm of shivering shook his body.
“Rest easy, brother,” Alice crooned as if to a wee babe, even though Edward was two years her senior. “I am not leaving.” Not that leaving would be possible. Plague was rampant in London, and only the wealthy bearing a certificate of good health signed by the Lord Mayor could exit the city.
Alice laid the soggy packet aside and drew two tail feathers plucked from a live chicken out of her pocket. These she placed over Edward’s swelling and covered them with the poultice to draw out the poison. He lay silent now, his breathing shallow and rapid. She was glad for these plague remedies and protections from Widow Maud who also prescribed the wearing of dead toads and application of powdered unicorn horn. Dead toads were readily found along the muddy roadways, but neither Alice nor Maud knew where to obtain powdered unicorn horn, much less find a live unicorn.
Alice knelt next to Edward’s bed. She folded her hands and rested her head on them. The church taught plague was sent by God to test and punish His people, and the clergy preached repentance. “Dear God,” she began, “please forgive Edward his sins and take the fever from him. He sorely repents…” Alice hesitated. She tried to speak honestly, but the words stuck in her throat. What sins had Edward committed? She lifted her head and sifted through her memory. She could not remember a one. He was an angel upon earth, as was their beloved mother who was taken by plague the month before. If this punishing God was all-powerful, He was also unjust, merciless, and cruel. She would not honor a vengeful God, nor ask for forg
iveness of imagined sins by a brother whose soul was as pure as the first winter snow. Widow Maud was right – prayers were not cures.
“Alice, come,” her father called from outside. “Come see how God has blessed us.”
Alice stood and brushed her hands down her apron, wondering what God could possibly be blessing them with but more plague. She stepped to the door, its front painted with a large red cross, the mark of a plague house. Da’s stooped figure trudged up the path, a bulging fetch-sack slung over his shoulder. Da was a good provider. Could it be true? Had he found a unicorn’s horn after all?
Da swung the sack from his shoulder and sat heavily on a stool near the door. He drew open the drawstrings and reached inside. “How is our boy today, Alice?”
“With us. But still with fever.”
Da raised his eyes to the heavens and muttered a prayer. Alice quickly scanned his neck for swellings and sores. Sweat beaded on his brow. Was it from fever or merely exertion on a hot day? He did not wheeze or complain of headache. His gait was lumbering as usual due to his bowed legs, but Alice saw no signs of muscle pain or weakness. So far, she and Da had been spared the scourge. But for how long?
“What have you brought us, Da?” If Edward was to live, Widow Maud said the unicorn’s horn must be ground to powder, made into a paste, and applied immediately.
“Patience, child.” Da rummaged in the sack and pulled out a dead rabbit by its two hind legs. It was scrawny and flea-bitten, with patchy brown fur. “Set the pot to boil, Alice. I have brought our supper.”
“Oh.” Alice tried to hide her disappointment. She should be thankful. They had not supped on meat for weeks. She fought the urge to ask where the rabbit had been snared and sealed her lips shut. City trade had ceased, the streets empty of merchants. Da had either filched the rabbit from an abandoned market or poached from royal grounds while King Charles and Queen Catherine escaped the sickness at their country estate.