“How is Miss Temple?” asked Chang.
“Unchanged.”
Svenson dunked his bread in the broth, biting off the whole of the dampened portion.
“She dreams,” said Elöise.
Chang looked up.
“She is delirious,” said Svenson, chewing. Elöise shook her head.
“I am not so sure. We spoke very little together, at Harschmort— I do not presume to know her—yet I do know she holds her life quite tightly, with such purpose, for someone so young…”
She looked up to find both men watching her closely.
“I do not criticize,” said Elöise. “Did either of you know she looked into a book? A glass book?”
“Not at all,” answered Svenson. “Are you sure?”
“She said nothing,” muttered Chang.
“But when would she have?” admitted Svenson. “What did she say about it?”
“Nothing at all, apart that she had done it—if I remember correctly she mentioned the fact to comfort me. But the book I looked into was empty—that book looked into me, if that does not sound mad.”
“I saw the same at Harschmort,” said Chang. “You are fortunate to retain your mind, Mrs. DuJong.”
“It quite nearly killed her,” said Svenson, a touch importantly.
“The point is that my glass book was empty,” said Elöise, “its intent being to take my memories. But Miss Temple looked into a book that was full.”
Doctor Svenson set down his spoon.
“My Lord. A full book… instead of the few incidents captured in a single glass card. One could experience entire lifetimes—and dear heaven, you would remember those experiences from other lives as things you yourself had done. An entire book… and depending on the memories it contained… and given the decadent tastes of the Comte…” The Doctor paused.
“So I suppose I merely wonder what she dreams,” said Elöise quietly.
Svenson looked across the table at Chang, who was silent. He glanced at Elöise. Her hand shook as she held her mug. She saw his gaze and set it down with another brisk smile.
“I find I cannot sleep,” she said. “Perhaps it is the excess of light this far north.”
A SINGLE CANDLE burned in a dish near the bed in Miss Temple's room. Svenson sat down on the bed next to her, holding the light close to see her clearly. He took her pulse at the throat, feeling the heat of her glistening skin. Her heart was restless and fast. Was there so little else to do? He rose, opened the door, and nearly collided with Elöise, her hands occupied with a basin of water, new towels draped over each arm.
“I thought you'd gone with Sorge,” she said.
“Not at all. I set more herbs to steep, which should be ready. A moment.”
When he returned with the re-charged teapot, he found Elöise on the opposite side of the bed, bathing Miss Temple's body, one limb at a time. The Doctor swirled the tea before pouring it into Miss Temple's small china mug to cool, his eyes caught by the sensual competency of Elöise's fingers. Elöise carefully bent one leg at the knee and sponged along underneath, the beads of water running down the girl's pale thigh into the shadows at her hips. Elöise resoaked the cloth and reached carefully under the shift to wash—Svenson made a point of looking away—between Miss Temple's legs, the movements of her hand a gentle burrowing beneath the fabric. Elöise removed the cloth, dipped it back in the basin, and squeezed it out.
“That will ease her sleep a bit, surely,” she said softly. She handed the cloth to Svenson and nodded to the limb nearest to him. “Will you do that arm?”
He ran the cloth along Miss Temple's pale, thin arm, the cool water trickling to the stubbled pale pit and under the shift to her ribs.
“We were speaking of memory,” he said.
“We were.”
“A curious … phenomenon.”
Elöise did not answer, but instead reached out to glide a strand of hair from Miss Temple's face with an extended finger.
“My own circumstance, for example,” the Doctor continued. “In the course of these past weeks I have squandered all hope of returning as anything but a traitor to my home, my own duty invisible next to a murdered Prince, a slaughtered Envoy, a diplomatic mission in ruins.”
“Doctor…Abelard—”
“Your turn.” He handed the cloth to her and nodded at the other arm. “I am not finished. The point being that while I am presently banished—my mind spinning to imagine a life in exile—what work, what hope, what love…” He did not meet her eyes. “I am made aware by this crisis that the only force binding me to Macklenburg, indeed that has bound me to the world these past six years, is memory. A woman I loved. She died. All has been futility—and yet, that loss, which is also her, seems to be all I know. How can I go forward and not betray what I have been? A fool's dilemma—life being life, corpses being many—and yet, such is my mind.”
“She was… your wife?”
Svenson shrugged. “Never so much—or still more ridiculous. She was my cousin. Corinna. Fever, years ago. Useless regret. And I only say this, any of this, my dear, as a way of explaining my sympathy for your own difficulty—your life, to wonder what that life is, with so much disrupted… memory and time, all you have lost… and within that missing time, all that you feel you may have done.”
Elöise said nothing, absently stroking Miss Temple's arm. He took a deep breath.
“I say all of this so you will understand, when I speak of remaining here, when I see your own tears, so you will know… I am determined—”
Elöise looked up and he stopped speaking. The silence widened and became unbearable.
“It is not that I do not possess feelings for you,” she said softly. “Of course I do, and most tenderly. It is the most awkward thing, and you must think me a terrible person. It would give me no greater pleasure than to offer myself to you, to kiss you right this moment. If I were free. But I am not. And my mind… it cannot be wholly present.”
“Of course not, we are in a wilderness—”
“No—no, please—it is what I recall, and what I feel within those recollections … even if I do not know fully why, or know… who.”
Svenson's throat was at once horribly dry. “Who?”
“There is a locked room in my mind. But there are paths to the room, and from it—there are words I remember being spoken, there are clues about what I cannot recall. As I brood upon them… they imply everything, inescapably, even if—”
“But… you do not know? You mean… there is someone, but—”
“You must think very poorly of me. I think poorly of myself. Not to remember such a thing—though I know the thing to be true. I cannot describe it. I have no faith in who I am.”
She was silent, looking into his eyes. Her own were rimmed with tears, and impossibly sad. He struggled to catch up with her words. She was a widow—with a suitor. Of course she had a suitor, she was beautiful, intelligent, well placed…
But that was not the thing at all.
Svenson recalled her words on the beach. It was all to do with the book, with the memories having been taken, which meant for a reason. No memories of a simple suitor—no lover—would have been added to the glass book and thus expunged from her mind. For the memories to be worth taking, Elöise's lover could only have been someone of value to the Cabal. The number of men this could describe was unpleasantly small.
“Elöise—”
“The tea has cooled. I have been enough of a burden.”
Elöise stood, wiping her eyes. In an instant she was out the door.
The Doctor sat alone, his head pounding, the room a roar of silence. Without a hope in the world he picked up the teacup and eased his other hand behind Miss Temple's head, tilting it so she might drink.
THE NEXT morning, having passed most of the night on Miss Temple's floor, the Doctor rose early, shaved, and threw on his coat, finding Sorge with the chickens. A brief conversation pointed Svenson to the most likely fisherman to accommodate h
is errand. He left word for Chang to join him at the village piers.
The walk did nothing for his mood—the woods were thick with fog, the ground soft beneath his boots, the entire landscape only reminded him of home, and thus of misery. What else had he expected? And why—just because they had survived when they ought to have died ten times? Had luck in one instance ever trumped his unhappiness in another? He had only to remember first entering the halls of Macklenburg Palace—uniform crisp, boots gleaming, a far cry from the ice-rimed cabin of a ship—while the palace of his mind housed only despair. If being the protégé of Baron von Hoern had not assuaged Corinna's death, why should the heroic pleasure of shooting Francis Xonck on the airship grant him happiness with Elöise?
It was an easy enough matter, once money was offered, to arrange for the journey. A few minutes poring over a map of the local sandbars with the fisherman quickly isolated the likely spots where the dirigible must lay. This settled, Svenson inspected the boat's supply of canvas. If they were to bring out the bodies—assuming the storm had not cracked the ship open and scattered the corpses with the tides—he would need enough to hold them.
Chang was not yet there—Svenson was not frankly sure where Chang slept, much less when he woke—and so the Doctor tracked down another fisherman, the one Sorge suggested might have cigarettes. After a minute or two of evasive haggling, the man showed Svenson a brick of waxed paper sealed with a dab of red wax marked with a two-headed bird.
“Danish,” the man explained.
“My habitual brand is Russian,” countered Svenson, doing his best to sound skeptical, when he was so hungry. “One can only acquire them through an agent in Riga—Latvia—as St. Petersburg is barred to Macklenburg merchants.”
The man nodded, as if this was of no interest but he was willing to assume some point lay beyond it.
“The tobacco is quite strong,” said Svenson. “Have you smoked a Russian cigarette?”
“I prefer to chew.” In proof of his claim the fisherman spat into a pewter cup Svenson had assumed to contain an especially bitter-looking coffee.
“Understandable—a sailing man can never depend on a flame. No matter. I will be happy to take them off your hands.”
He gathered up the parcel and placed the price they had agreed to on the table—outrageous by the village's standards, but nothing compared to what he might pay in town… or what the vile sticks were worth to his clear mind.
PUFFING AWAY with the intensity of a fox tearing into a slaughtered hare, Svenson returned to the fishing boat—waiting any longer for Chang's sullen appearance would cost the tide. It took half an hour to pass through the surf into the sea. The Doctor, while no real practical sailor, knew enough to pull on the proper ropes when the fisherman called them out. As they approached the most likely sandbar, Svenson lit up another smoke and did his best to relax in the fresh cold air. But even with the familiar nicotine spur in his lungs, he wondered that he could have surrendered to optimism—from such an unlikely and unlooked-for corner—so very easily.
The airship was not at that sandbar, nor any other, nor anyplace they could spy as they ran the length of the coastline. The fisherman explained the depth of the sea away from the bars, the action of the tide, the force of the storm. The craft must have been pulled from its fortunate perch and then rolled down—keeping together or tearing apart, depending on the strength of its construction and whether it smashed into any outcroppings of rock on its way—to the very deep bottom of the sea.
MISS TEMPLE'S condition did not change. Doctor Svenson had again been dragooned by Sorge, to give his precious medical opinion on a neighbor's afflicted swine, and once back had pounded willow bark at the table for a plaster. It was a task he had hoped to share with Elöise, but instead young (and well intentioned, and fat) Bette had expressed an interest, committing the Doctor to an hour of the girl's belabored enthusiasm. By the time Svenson finally left the table he could hear Elöise helping Lina with the laundry. One could no more speak around Lina than exchange pleasantries with a Jesuit. When he returned from administering the plaster to Miss Temple, none of the women were in the house. He stepped onto the porch and fumbled a cigarette from his restocked silver case. At the other end of the rail, like a statue in its customary spot, stood Chang.
“Have you seen Mrs. Dujong?” Svenson asked, rather casually. They had not spoken of the missed appointment with the fishing boat.
“I have not,” answered Chang.
The Doctor smoked the rest of his cigarette in silence, shivering at the evening chill, and ground the butt beneath his heel.
HE WOKE in near-darkness, on the floor next to Miss Temple's bed, covered with the peacoat. The tallow candle was close to guttering, and he'd no idea of the time. Had Miss Temple made a sound? He had been dreaming, and already the fragments faded—a tree, bright leaves, his own hands caked with ice. He inhaled deeply to push away his thickened thoughts, and shifted closer to the bed.
Miss Temple opened her eyes.
“Celeste?” he whispered.
“Mmmn,” she sighed, though it seemed no sort of reply.
“Can you hear me? How do you feel?”
She turned her head away with a whispered exhalation and said no more. Doctor Svenson tucked the blanket over her exposed shoulder, allowing—and quite viciously disapproving of the gesture the instant he performed it—the tips of his fingers to trace along her skin. He returned to his place on the floor and stared up at the single window, the candle reflected in its dark pool like a distant, dying sun.
HE TRIED again at breakfast, lingering at the table while Elöise piled the plates on a tray for Bette to scrub. The girl clomped outside with the tray, and Svenson, fingering a cigarette, spoke in as general a tone as possible before Elöise could leave the room.
“We must talk about our return. Sorge tells me a train may be caught in Karthe, a mining settlement in the hills, some day's ride away on good roads—though of course the roads are poor after the storm. The forest between has been flooded…”
She turned from the window to face him and he began to stammer.
“In, ah, any event, there is a score of questions about our enemies, about the law, we must also—each of us—because I am not… unmindful, and yet—”
The door opened and Chang stepped into the room.
“That child is an animal,” he snarled.
Svenson turned to him, his face a mask of frustration.
“Doctor Svenson has raised the very important question of our return, of what waits for us,” said Elöise.
Chang nodded, but said nothing.
“The state of our remaining enemies,” Elöise continued. “The law. What is known…”
Chang nodded again but did not speak.
Svenson sighed—it was not what he wanted to talk about at all— nor did he want to be talking to Chang—but he carried on, thoughts tumbling out of order, hoping to catch Elöise's eye. But even when he did, she showed nothing beyond attention to his words.
Then, with a sudden chill Doctor Svenson saw himself, standing in the kitchen. He saw these last days with a startling clarity, with foreboding—tending Miss Temple, desiring Elöise, their isolation—it was all vanity, distraction, a witch's illusion from a tale, a false offer of a life Svenson knew he could not have.
He had delayed. He had tried to turn away. He had dropped his guard.
He stopped talking. He left them standing there and walked into the dirty yard, looking up at the oppressive, heavy sky. Sorge called to him from the boat shed, waving both arms to penetrate the Doctor's thoughts.
THIS NEWEST errand had involved goats, but their owner occupied one of a small cluster of houses and so the appearance of the Doctor had become a social occasion for all of the neighbors. Into this knot of villagers came the news about dead men at the stable… and a rumor of wolves. At once children were bundled inside, livestock penned, and a party of men gathered to investigate. The nerves on the back of his neck tingling with
dread, Svenson volunteered to go along and provide a medical opinion. Sorge looked at him strangely.
“But it is a wolf.”
“Perhaps there is more than one,” said Svenson quickly. “A proper examination of wounds, you see, can make such details clear.”
The men around them murmured approval—and approval of Doctor Svenson in general—but Sorge became noticeably less talkative. Before he could broach the news to Chang—whom he found, to his annoyance, standing with Elöise on the porch—Chang suggested they walk to the shore, so they might search more effectively for any flotsam. Svenson agreed to the obvious lie, and was soon presented with Chang's discovery of blue glass. While it did not prove anything either way, it increased his dread as the two men traveled with Sorge to the stable.
The dead grooms' wounds were vicious and savage enough for a wolf, but lacked teeth-marks. Indeed, the edges of the wounds were ragged, like a hank of bread torn from a loaf. He looked up for Chang, who was not there, and found himself forced to explain the sequence of death to his observers, all the time growing more convinced no animal was to blame at all. When Chang did return, subtly directing him to the privy and its indigo blue stench and finger-stains, the Doctor knew they were all in danger.
The journey back passed in silence due to the proximity of the villagers, more than one of whom eyed Chang with ill-concealed suspicion. Without any relish for the task, Svenson sought a quiet moment to speak frankly about how the villagers' distrust of Chang must be dealt with in light of the murdered grooms. Before he even knew what had happened Chang had angrily stalked off.
Svenson was more than happy to see the man's back for the afternoon. Even if Chang's warning about their enemies—whether any had survived, what havoc might erupt were they to reach the city first— was perfectly sound, his own worry—that the villagers' reaction to Chang jeopardized their safety while Miss Temple's life still hung in the balance—was equally sensible, and serious. In the sober, dank air of the sickroom, it was obvious that both opinions could be managed together, though given Chang's pride it would be up to Svenson to smooth things over. Truly, sharing the cabin with the man was like living with a high-strung horse.
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