temporary mask back in place. He threw a lever, and the clockwork orchestra began to play Tartini’s ‘Devil’s Trill’ – but with strange lapses and lacunae, filled by the crackling of electrical arcs.
The Countess looked at Erik, mask to mask.
From the podium, Erik picked up a box, which trailed wires deep into the orchestra’s innards and the barrels of explosive. Surmounting the box was a metal switch in the form of a grasshopper.
Christine danced, whirling swords taken from a toy soldier’s wooden fist and a sleeping senior officer’s scabbard, cutting through mannequins. She fought like an eight-armed Hindu goddess with a scimitar in each hand. She heard music, and the music directed her actions. Lady Galatea, Duchess of Omnium, hurled herself at Christine, foot-long porcupine spines sticking out of her chest and back, arms wide for a deadly, skewering hug. Christine stepped under the embrace and used her swords like scissors, snipping the Duchess in half at the waist.
Trilby fought less elegantly, with feet and fists, delivering
savate
kicks and powerful fist-blows. She wrenched the arms off Madame Venus de l’Isle del Gardo, and whirled them about, raking their claws across the toys. Madame del Gardo hopped comically from side to side, off balance, trailing wires from her shoulders, twitching and sparking, lubricational fluids spurting from ruptured rubber tubes like yellow blood. The armless doll, momentarily the image of a more famous Venus, collided with a toy soldier, and its head flew apart in a puff of flame, burning wig shooting across the room, metal and china shrapnel ripping through the soldier. With Venus’s arms, Trilby battered away several more of the wives.
It was a dazzling performance. Within moments, the floor was strewn with spasming, broken things. Springs and cogs scattered underfoot. Pools of yellow liquid formed, and electrical sparks set light to them. Flames ran quickly, spreading from doll to doll, melting wax prettiness away from metal skulls, crumpling lacework and human hair wiggery in instants, taking hold on torn and oily dresses. Some of the husbands sat up, awake, patting at scorching patches on their evening clothes, yelping in pain at the rude disturbance to their dreams.
Irene still wrestled with her single opponent, Madame Gérard, née Francis-Pierre.
Trilby stepped up, and wrenched off Poupée’s head. Her body went limp.
Irene looked at Trilby, holding the head up like Perseus with Medusa. Its eyes still rolled and it tried several sweet smiles before its internal mechanisms wound down and the lids fell shut.
The last of the wives had fallen back to the throne, to protect the Countess, who was trying to make herself heard above the racket. The orchestra broke down, and the Tartini shut off. The wives were assembling themselves into a many-legged war machine, directed by the Countess.
The trio stood before the throne. Trilby and Christine opened their mouths and ululated, a high, clear, pure, penetrating sound that rose. Irene clapped her hands over her ears, but couldn’t completely shut out the sound.
The Countess halted her work on the machine, a trickle of blood leaking from one of her eyeholes.
The voices soared, a wordless sound, two tones entwined. Edison bulbs burst. Champagne flutes flew to splinters. The faceplates of the last brides shattered, showing the intricate works beneath. Even their glass eyes burst.
Irene jammed her fingers into her ears, trying to shut out the pain.
Trilby and Christine, unaffected, seeming to be able to do this without breath, took the sound up to a peak. Somewhere on the barge, something major broke.
Another shrill note came, from Erik’s flute, cutting through his protégées’ voices, shutting them off.
And Christine and Trilby were fully awake, bleeding and puzzled.
‘What happened?’ Trilby asked Irene.
‘You went away for a while,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine now.’
Trilby realised she was
The Countess looked at Erik, mask to mask.
From the podium, Erik picked up a box, which trailed wires deep into the orchestra’s innards and the barrels of explosive. Surmounting the box was a metal switch in the form of a grasshopper.
Christine danced, whirling swords taken from a toy soldier’s wooden fist and a sleeping senior officer’s scabbard, cutting through mannequins. She fought like an eight-armed Hindu goddess with a scimitar in each hand. She heard music, and the music directed her actions. Lady Galatea, Duchess of Omnium, hurled herself at Christine, foot-long porcupine spines sticking out of her chest and back, arms wide for a deadly, skewering hug. Christine stepped under the embrace and used her swords like scissors, snipping the Duchess in half at the waist.
Trilby fought less elegantly, with feet and fists, delivering
savate
kicks and powerful fist-blows. She wrenched the arms off Madame Venus de l’Isle del Gardo, and whirled them about, raking their claws across the toys. Madame del Gardo hopped comically from side to side, off balance, trailing wires from her shoulders, twitching and sparking, lubricational fluids spurting from ruptured rubber tubes like yellow blood. The armless doll, momentarily the image of a more famous Venus, collided with a toy soldier, and its head flew apart in a puff of flame, burning wig shooting across the room, metal and china shrapnel ripping through the soldier. With Venus’s arms, Trilby battered away several more of the wives.
It was a dazzling performance. Within moments, the floor was strewn with spasming, broken things. Springs and cogs scattered underfoot. Pools of yellow liquid formed, and electrical sparks set light to them. Flames ran quickly, spreading from doll to doll, melting wax prettiness away from metal skulls, crumpling lacework and human hair wiggery in instants, taking hold on torn and oily dresses. Some of the husbands sat up, awake, patting at scorching patches on their evening clothes, yelping in pain at the rude disturbance to their dreams.
Irene still wrestled with her single opponent, Madame Gérard, née Francis-Pierre.
Trilby stepped up, and wrenched off Poupée’s head. Her body went limp.
Irene looked at Trilby, holding the head up like Perseus with Medusa. Its eyes still rolled and it tried several sweet smiles before its internal mechanisms wound down and the lids fell shut.
The last of the wives had fallen back to the throne, to protect the Countess, who was trying to make herself heard above the racket. The orchestra broke down, and the Tartini shut off. The wives were assembling themselves into a many-legged war machine, directed by the Countess.
The trio stood before the throne. Trilby and Christine opened their mouths and ululated, a high, clear, pure, penetrating sound that rose. Irene clapped her hands over her ears, but couldn’t completely shut out the sound.
The Countess halted her work on the machine, a trickle of blood leaking from one of her eyeholes.
The voices soared, a wordless sound, two tones entwined. Edison bulbs burst. Champagne flutes flew to splinters. The faceplates of the last brides shattered, showing the intricate works beneath. Even their glass eyes burst.
Irene jammed her fingers into her ears, trying to shut out the pain.
Trilby and Christine, unaffected, seeming to be able to do this without breath, took the sound up to a peak. Somewhere on the barge, something major broke.
Another shrill note came, from Erik’s flute, cutting through his protégées’ voices, shutting them off.
And Christine and Trilby were fully awake, bleeding and puzzled.
‘What happened?’ Trilby asked Irene.
‘You went away for a while,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine now.’
Trilby realised she was
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