It was Francis Xonck, he was sure—though terribly, terribly altered by exposure to the blue glass. Xonck had slain the village grooms, the boy and his father… and all these men. Could a single book be so precious? Svenson scoffed—measured against human life, a hot breakfast would have been more precious to Francis Xonck.
But now… what had happened to him? Xonck had been shot in the chest on the airship… days ago. Could he have saved himself with a spike of blue glass, desperately inserted to cauterize the wound? The airship had been flooding—the only option was death. Yet if the glass had saved him then, it was killing him now, by agonizing, disfiguring increments.
And what was the book—merely the nearest Xonck could snatch up in the final moments on the airship? Or had he chosen it deliberately? Mr. Potts had looked inside it and been deranged. From what Svenson had witnessed at Harschmort, most of the books were populated with the memories of the rich and powerful… what dignitary's memories could have so terrified Potts? Could his rambling about chemicals and viscosity relate to ordnance—powder and explosives? Could the missing book contain the memories of Henry Xonck, the arms magnate?
HE STOOD once more in Karthe, doors shut tight, smoke pluming from chimneys and stovepipes, its people unaware of all those they had so recently lost. His conscience gnawed at him, but Svenson was exhausted, hungry, cold, and full of his own aches. That very night was the next train—had he missed it? Xonck would surely be on it too. Svenson told himself this was more important than speaking to widows—it was a way to make the deaths matter.
He passed by the inn with a curious frown… its door hung open. He hesitated, then forced himself to walk on—Mrs. Daube's grievances were not his concern. But then on his right came another open door… a darkened hut… he had been inside—the body of the boy's father. Was that so strange? The family was dead, and the place had not been tidy… but Svenson walked even faster, into a loping half-jog to the end of the village road, suddenly sure that he was already too late. Ahead of him in the hills, a wolf howled. Doctor Svenson reached the narrow road to the train and began to run.
THE WAY curved through a small collection of unused ore cars, and their cold emptiness struck the Doctor as another omen, like the yawning doorways, of something gone wrong. The muddy road gave out onto the graveled yard and Svenson finally saw the tracks themselves and the waiting train, its engine building up steam: two passenger cars, and all the rest either open-topped cars filled with ore, or boxed carriages to carry goods.
Before him were men with lanterns, clustered about a figure on the ground. At Svenson's call they turned—suspicion and anger on their faces. Svenson raised both hands.
“I am Doctor Svenson—I was here yesterday with Mr. Carper and Mr. Bolte. What has happened here? Who is hurt?”
Without waiting for a reply he sank to his knees, frowning professionally at the bright quantities of blood pouring from a deep gash across the fallen man's face. He snatched a rag from the hand of a trainsman and pressed it down hard on the wound.
“Who did this?” the Doctor demanded.
A half-dozen ragged voices began to answer. Svenson cut them off, realizing that the attack had already accomplished its purpose—to distract every pair of eyes around the train.
“Listen to me. There is a man—dangerous and determined to be aboard this train when it leaves. He must be found.” Svenson looked down at the injured man. “Did you see who attacked you?”
The cut across the fellow's cheek was deep and still bleeding… still bleeding—the man had not been cut with blue glass. The man tried to speak between gasps.
“Came from behind me… no idea…”
The Doctor pushed the cloth against the wound and then seized one of the other men's hands to replace his own. He stood, wiping his hands on his coat, then drew the revolver.
“Maintain this pressure for as long as you can—until the bleeding slows. It will have to be sewn—find a seamstress with a strong stomach. But we must search—a man, and also quite possibly a woman…”
The trainsmen were staring at him, almost quizzically.
“But we already found a woman,” one said.
“Where?” Svenson sputtered. “Why didn't you say so? I must speak to her!”
The man pointed to the first compartment car. But another reached out and opened his palm to Svenson. In it he held a small purple stone.
“She had this in her hand, sir. The woman's dead.”
Four. Corruption
MISS TEMPLE did not make a sound. She could not tell if the shadow in the doorway—hissing in ragged gasps—was climbing in or not. The Contessa's hand tightened hard across her mouth.
There was a shout from outside, from the trainsmen. With the barest scrape of gravel the shadowed figure was gone. Miss Temple struggled to peek but the Contessa sharply pulled her down. A moment later came the sound of more bootsteps, jostling bodies in the doorway, mutters about the godawful smell—and then, like the sudden crash of a cannon, the door to the goods car slammed shut. Another agonizing minute, for the woman was nothing if not careful, and the Contessa at last released Miss Temple's mouth.
Miss Temple spun so her back was against the barrels and raised her knife. Her heart was pounding. The car was dark as a starless night.
“Wait now,” whispered the Contessa. “Just a few moments more…”
Then the entire train car shook, jolting Miss Temple and the barrels behind her, then settled to a regular motion as it gathered speed.
The Contessa laughed out loud. Then she sighed—a pretty, sliding sound.
“You may put away your knife, Celeste.”
“I will not,” replied Miss Temple.
“I have no immediate interest in harming you—I am not hungry, nor am I especially disposed to make a pillow of your lovely hair.”
The Contessa laughed again and Miss Temple heard her rummaging in the darkness. Then the Contessa lit a match, and set it to a white wax candle she had wedged into a knothole in the car's plank floor.
“I do not like to waste them,” the Contessa said, “but a little light will aid our… negotiation. The journey will best be served by a short-term mutually beneficial agreement.”
“What sort of agreement?” hissed Miss Temple. “I cannot imagine it.”
“Simple things. An agreement whereby, for example, we trust each other enough to sleep without fear of never waking.”
“But you are a liar,” said Miss Temple.
“Am I indeed? When have I ever lied to you?”
Miss Temple thought for a moment, and then sniffed. “You are vicious and cruel.”
“But not a liar, Celeste.”
“You lied to the others—to the Comte and Francis Xonck! You lied to Roger!”
“I did not need to lie to Roger, my dear—no one ever did. As for Francis and Oskar, I will admit it. But one always lies to friends—if you had friends you would know friendship relies on that very tradition. But lying to enemies… well, it lessens one's spark.”
“I do not believe you.”
“You would be a fool to believe me. And yet, I am offering a bargain. While we share this train car, I will not harm you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I do not need anything from you, Celeste. What I need is sleep. And sleep in a cold train car will be more restful if we are not barricaded behind barrels of fish oil ready to kill one another. Truly, it is a civilized gesture—a logic beyond morals, if that speaks to you.”
Miss Temple shifted slightly—one of her legs was getting a cramp, and the sweat on her back had cooled. She could feel the weight of her exertions waiting to fall. If she did not sleep well she would slip back into her fever.
“Do you have any food?” she asked.
“I do. Would you like some?”
“I had a perfectly fine supper,” said Miss Temple. “But I expect I will be hungry again in the morning.”
The Contessa smirked, and for the first time Miss Temple
saw the woman's sharp spike had been ready if their conversation had gone another way.
THE CONTESSA removed a small cork-stoppered bottle and a handkerchief from her bag. She tugged the cork free and tamped the cloth over the bottle, tipping it once to soak a small circle. Without a glance to Miss Temple she wiped her face and neck as deliberately and thoroughly as a cat giving itself a bath. Miss Temple watched with some fascination as the woman's face slipped through so many guileless formations—shutting her eyes as the cloth dabbed around them, stretching her lips as she swabbed around her nose and mouth, lifting her jaw as she swept the cloth—resoaked—up and down her throat and under the collar of her dress.
“What is that?” Miss Temple finally asked.
“An alcoholic tincture of rosewater. The scent is horrid, of course, but the alcohol a welcome enough astringent.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Would you like to clean your face, Celeste? In truth, you do not appear at all well.”
“I have had fever,” said Miss Temple.
“Goodness, did you nearly die?”
“As I did not, it does not especially matter.”
“Come here, then.”
The Contessa soaked a new spot on the handkerchief. She held it out and, not wanting to seem either docile or ill-bred, Miss Temple scooted closer. The Contessa took gentle hold of Miss Temple's jaw and started at her forehead, working down. Miss Temple flinched as the cloth came near the bullet weal above her ear, but the woman took account of the rawness and her touch did not hurt at all.
“Did you ever think you. would die?” asked the Contessa musingly.
“When?” replied Miss Temple.
The Contessa smiled. “At any time at all.”
“I'm sure I did. Did you?”
Finished with the face, the Contessa re-drenched the cloth and swabbed brusquely at Miss Temple's neck. “Your hair.”
Miss Temple obligingly lifted both arms and held the curls to either side. A few more swipes with the cloth and the Contessa was finished, but then she blew a cool breath across the newly clean and dampened skin. Miss Temple shivered. The Contessa set down the bottle and cloth and looked up.
“Perhaps you will help me,” she said.
Miss Temple watched the Contessa's fingers undo one line of ebony buttons and then ease her right arm, pale as a swan's wing, from the dark silk dress with wincing difficulty. Miss Temple gasped at the bloody gash on the woman's shoulder blade.
“I can reach it myself,” the Contessa said, “but if you could assist me we would waste less of the tincture.”
The cut was deep but had closed with a near-black clotting seam. Miss Temple frowned, not knowing quite how to begin, a little transfixed by the sweep of the Contessa's shoulder and the smooth line of the Contessa's vertebrae—these were her bones—disappearing down her back like something whispered but not understood. She returned her gaze to the wound.
“It must be soaked,” said the Contessa. “It does not matter—this far north I cannot prevent a scar.”
Miss Temple took up the bottle and poured carefully along the wound, catching the drips with the cloth. The Contessa winced again, but said nothing. The cut seeped blood as Miss Temple pressed against it, refolding the stained cloth several times until the bleeding stopped. At last the Contessa's hand came over hers, holding the cloth in position herself.
“I am obliged to you, my dear.”
“What happened?” asked Miss Temple.
“I was forced to pass through a window.”
“By whom?”
“Cardinal Chang.”
“I see.” Miss Temple's heart leapt. Chang was alive.
“But I was not fleeing Cardinal Chang. I was fleeing Francis Xonck.”
“Francis Xonck is alive?”
“If you can call it life. You smelled him yourself, didn't you?”
“He was chasing me? Just now? The monster?”
“I say this with kindness, my dear, but you really must keep the pace.”
“But Xonck stinks of the blue glass!”
“He does.”
“But the Doctor shot him!”
“One did not think the Doctor had it in him—yet it does seem Francis has taken drastic steps to survive…”
The Contessa carefully returned her arm to her dress and did up the buttons. The close working of her fingers drew Miss Temple's eyes as if their repeated movement was a conjuring sign.
“How did you escape the airship?” Miss Temple asked.
“How do you think?”
“You must have jumped.”
The Contessa tilted her head, encouraging her to go on.
“But your dress—the Doctor said it would have soaked in the water and pulled you down.”
“The Doctor is astute.”
“You took it off!”
The Contessa tilted her head once more.
“I should never have done that,” whispered Miss Temple.
“Then you should have died,” the Contessa told her. “But I think you would have done it. And anything else you needed to. That is how we recognize one another, Celeste.”
Miss Temple's words came suddenly, hot and loud. “But you did not recognize me, madame. You consigned me to death. On more than one occasion!”
The Contessa's eyes glittered, but her voice remained even. “Why should wanting you dead change a thing?”
Miss Temple opened her mouth, then shut it with a snap.
SHE LISTENED to the rattling wheels, wondering what stops there might be between Karthe and the city, and if the contents of their car were even destined for the city. The doors might well open in an hour at another mountain town, or two hours after that in some village that stank of pigs. And would Francis Xonck be waiting for them?
“Where is Elöise Dujong?” she asked.
“I'm sure I've no idea.”
“I thought I was chasing her,” said Miss Temple. “But I was chasing you. The man on the path—Mr. Olsteen, the hunter—”
“The soldier, Celeste.”
Miss Temple ignored her. “He had her knife in his hand.”
“What a conundrum. A shame he cannot explain it.”
“You killed him.”
“Someone had to.”
“How do you know he was a soldier?”
“Because I went to great trouble to avoid him—and his fellows— for some days, while they went to not quite enough trouble to find me.”
“Did they find Chang?” Miss Temple asked, suddenly afraid. “Did they find the Doctor? Who are they?”
“I thought you wanted to know about Mrs. Dujong.”
“I want you to answer my questions.” Miss Temple fixed her gaze on the Contessa quite firmly.
The Contessa studied Miss Temple's face, then yawned, covering her mouth with her hand, and then lowered the hand to reveal another knowing smile.
“I am tired. As you look like without sleep you will die, I would suggest that you do so next to me. It is still the mountains, and we have no blankets. Think of it as a pact for warmth between animals.”
Before Miss Temple could reply the Contessa blew out the candle.
MISS TEMPLE did not move from her barrel, listening with consternation to the rustling of the Contessa's petticoats as the woman sorted herself on the floor. The Contessa was a wicked, wicked creature—it would be the act of an idiot to trust her. Miss Temple was exhausted and shivering. What had happened to Chang? He'd left his note—and then done what, simply vanished to the city, knowing the Contessa was alive and free? And was Doctor Svenson any better? Miss Temple hugged her knees to her chest. She did not wish to find either man a source of disappointment, and yet they had clearly done less than they might have in her service.
The Contessa sighed, rather contentedly. Miss Temple yawned, not even bothering to cover her mouth, and blinked. She was trembling with cold, and felt utterly ridiculous. Staying awake would only waste whatever strength she still possessed—she knew
this for a fact and bitterly resented that in being sensible she was doing the Contessa's bidding.
Miss Temple crawled to the Contessa's side and then, rather hesitantly, pressed her body close, curling her knees behind the other woman's and nestling her face against the nape of the Contessa's neck, which smelled of the alcohol and rosewater. At her touch the Contessa pushed her body gently back into Miss Temple's. Miss Temple held her breath at the suddenly intimate press of the woman's silk-wrapped buttocks into her own pelvis. The Contessa shifted again, nuzzling her body still closer. Miss Temple's impulse was to draw away, though already she was shivering less and it was pleasant to have something as soft as the Contessa's hair upon which to rest her head. From the smell of alcohol and roses she realized that the shoulder inches from her face bore the bloody gash. She found herself tempted to touch it, to even— her eyes were heavy and her thoughts slipping adrift—dab at it with her tongue. But before this thought could even spark her own disapproval, the Contessa reached back, groped between them, and took firm hold of Miss Temple's hand. The hand was pulled across the Contessa's body and tucked tightly between the woman's breasts. The Contessa wriggled a last time—now the hand was no longer in the way—tight against Miss Temple, and sighed deeply. Miss Temple had no idea what to do at all. She gently squeezed the Contessa's hand. The Contessa squeezed hers in return, slipping two of her fingers into Miss Temple's half-formed fist. Within worries that she very much should get back to her barrel, Miss Temple fell asleep.
SHE OPENED her eyes in a dim light that peeped cautiously through the very few gaps and knotholes in the freight car wall. The train had stopped. Outside she heard footsteps on the gravel. They passed by, followed by an exchange of shouts. Then with a slow, grinding rhythm the train pulled back into life.
Miss Temple realized with a shock that her hand was cupping the Contessa's breast, and that the woman's own hand held hers in place.
Miss Temple did not move. Had she shifted her hand to its present location or had the Contessa done it for her? Miss Temple had, with an interest at times abstract and at other times less so, of course held her own breasts, wondering at their shape and sensitivity, convinced they were both bothersome and perfectly splendid. But the Contessa's breast felt very different—being somewhat larger and connected to an altogether different body—and it was all she could do not to gently squeeze her fingers. Miss Temple bit her lip. At the margins of her mind she felt the seeping presence of the blue glass book, insistent and intoxicating, sparking an undeniable itch between her legs (… wrapped naked in furs in the back of an ice-sledge… a smearing of musk and blood across her lips… her own inner thighs stroked with a feather…) and she squeezed her hand, ever so softly, breath held tight, then squeezed again, her whole body warming with desire.
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