Then she sighed bitterly. If only she knew where to meet Chang or Svenson she could satisfy herself with having seen Xonck, and make her way directly to a hotel, perhaps the Beacon, or—her heart leapt just a little—Anburne House, which boasted an especially excellent tea. But she did not know.
Xonck rushed into the bright lights of the main station floor and disappeared. Miss Temple reached down for her knife and, holding the thing as discreetly as she could in her fist, dashed after him.
THE MASSIVE angel-flanked clock, hanging over Stropping terminal like an oppressive omen of guilt, set the time at just before noon. As she turned away from its unwelcome image, Miss Temple realized that something in the station had changed. The teeming crowds coursed between the high staircases and the ticket counters and the different platforms, with eddies and pools around the various shops and kiosks scattered across the floor… but their formerly free movement was now directed by an army of brown-coated railway con stables. What had happened? She saw travelers driven in harried groups, resentful sheep under the rule of nipping hounds. She saw uncooperative individuals pulled aside and escorted brusquely away— respectably dressed people given over to the custody of soldiers! Had there been some rail crash or catastrophe? Had there been another riot at a mill? At the kiosks and shops, each purchase was observed by constables— even small groups standing in conversation were ordered to move along. Across the station Miss Temple saw bright knots of scarlet— dragoons in uniform, each group accompanied by figures in crisp city black. They peered down the track lines as different trains pulled in and out of Stropping, obviously engaged in a massive search—and a preponderance were gathered near her own quadrant of the station's platforms, where trains arrived from the north.
Francis Xonck thrust himself past two quarreling constables into the crush of waiting travelers, crouching low. Miss Temple threw herself into his wake, into the bags and elbows, the jabbing umbrellas and ankle-catching canes, finally stumbling to a halt against an elderly gentleman's back. She looked up to apologize and saw his face was wrinkled with nausea. With a hop she glimpsed Xoncks black hood. He had changed direction.
Thinking quickly, Miss Temple joined a group of schoolchildren led by hectoring tutors, for whom the constables made way—and when one of the children turned curiously back to her she hissed, “Face front!” with such authority that the young thing instantly complied. Suddenly Xonck was almost directly before her… waiting for an opening between the patrols of soldiers. From behind she could see how tall Xonck truly was, as she could too easily recall his deadly movements…the man was actually quite a bit like Chang. Of course, Xonck was a preening dandy, a wicked vampire of a man, while Chang… well, one had to admit the red coat was ostentatious, and Chang's character was wicked. He had abandoned them all, hadn't he?
Xonck dashed forward. At either side of the platform's edge stood black-coated men and dragoons, but Xonck slipped skillfully past them all, down a graveled alleyway beside a waiting, steaming train. She leapt after him—Xonck did not look back, racing straight to the farthest car. He craned his head ahead to the coal wagon, first looking for any trainsmen—warning Miss Temple, who threw herself down— then glancing behind him. When she peeked again he had climbed to an odd-shaped window at the car's front, perhaps to a lavatory. Miss Temple crept closer. The window would not open, and Xonck shoved again, striking the sash with the heel of his fist. He shifted his grip to push with both hands, but lost his balance and dropped to the ground with a snort of disgust. Xonck flipped his cloak over his shoulder to reveal a heavy canvas bag looped around his right hand—which Miss Temple now saw was wrapped with plaster. Setting the sack on the rocks, he rescaled the car, now clubbing at the window latch with the cast and pushing at the sash with his more nimble left hand.
Miss Temple advanced across the rocks, quiet as a trotting cat. Xonck did not see her. Without hesitation she snatched up the sack and ran.
THE SACK was heavy and bounced against her thigh. She'd not gone five yards before she heard Xonck roar. A rush of delirious fear rose to the very roots of her hair. Xonck's bootsteps pounded behind her. At the platform stood a man in a black coat, with three soldiers at his side, not a single one of them looking her way. Miss Temple screamed, high-pitched and helpless. She darted to the side and heard Xonck— so very close behind her—stumble to change direction. She screamed again and the idiots on the platform at last turned their faces. The man gaped at her, then finally called to his men. The dragoons drew their sabers and followed. Miss Temple screamed a third time and cannoned into the official's arms, knocking him back a full two steps as the soldiers charged by. She turned, chest heaving, to see the path behind her utterly empty. Francis Xonck was gone.
A SOLDIER STALKED along each flanking train, peering beneath every car. The third remained on guard, his saber drawn. The man in the black coat studied her with concern, a thin-faced fellow with a waxed black moustache and side whiskers a touch more full than his jaw could attractively bear.
“He was chasing me,” she gasped.
“Who was chasing you, child? Who was it?”
“I do not know!” cried Miss Temple. “He was quite wicked-looking and smelled foul!”
“She says there's a smell!” he called out to the dragoons. As if this was not at all strange, both searching soldiers bent forward to sniff.
“Yes, sir!” one called back. “Cordite and corruption—just like we were told!”
The man in the black coat raised Miss Temple's chin in a way she did not appreciate. “What is your name?”
“I am Miss Isobel Hastings.”
“And what are you doing running about between trains at Stropping Station, Miss Hastings?”
“I did not intend to be between trains at all, I promise you. I was chased. Of course, I am so grateful for my rescue.”
“What is in your parcel?”
“Only my supper. I was to travel on to Cap Rouge, you see, to meet my aunt.”
“All the way to Cap Rouge?”
“Indeed,” she said, hefting the sack, “and so I have packed enough for two meals. A pork pie and a wedge of yellow cheese and a jar of pickled beetroot—”
“Cap Rouge is to the south,” said the man, condescendingly. “These trains ride to the east.”
“Do they?” asked Miss Temple, curious why Francis Xonck had not simply fled into the city.
The man spoke to the soldier near him.
“Call them back. I must make my report.” He took hold of Miss Temple's shoulder. “Miss Hastings, I shall require a bit more of your time.”
SHE WAS escorted to a larger group of soldiers, with two Ministry officials instead of her one, who she overheard addressed as Mr. Soames. When Soames returned, his face was grave and he again took firm hold of her arm, pulling her toward the large staircase. Miss Temple was about to inform Mr. Soames that she was perfectly able to accompany him without physical contact—in fact, to wrench her arm away—but in that moment they passed a shop stall selling hats and scarves to forgetful travelers, which was to say she passed a stall that housed a mirror. With a shock, she first realized the standing rectangle was a mirror, and to her full mortification Miss Temple realized that she had seen herself without any recognition whatsoever. Every part of her body belonged to a different person: her splendid hair was tangled and lank; her dress was out-of-date, dirty, and plain; her boots, cracked and scuffed, her skin, streaked with grime where it was not marked with a cut or bruise—even the sack in her hand spoke to poverty and weakness. For the first time in her life Miss Temple was without control of her own character. In the eyes of the world she had been transformed to a completely and commonly known type of woman—unvalued, poor, untrustworthy—which left her at the unquestioned mercy of a man like Mr. Soames.
They reached the stairway, the soldiers falling in line behind, and began to climb. Had she eluded her enemies only to face the disinterested cruelty of the law? In vain she looked below her, the milling snakes
of the ticket lines, the crowds at each platform, the tangle of bodies below the clock… the clock… Miss Temple's heart fell in an instant to her feet. The Lord's Time! Below the angel-flanked clock stood a tall, lean figure in red, motionless amidst the swirling crowd. It was Cardinal Chang. She had missed him completely. Soames pulled her arm and she stumbled. They had reached the top of the stairway. She looked back again but the soldiers blocked any sight of the terminal floor. Chang was gone.
ONLY SOAMES joined her in the coach, rapping his knuckle imperiously on the roof to start it forward.
“Where are we going?” asked Miss Temple, the canvas sack held tightly on her lap. At least Mr. Soames was crisp in his appearance, his hat set on the seat beside him, his dark hair parted in the middle, not over-oiled, and his coat well cut and clean.
“Do you know the man who chased you?”
“Not at all—he quite surprised me, and as I told you, smelled terrible—”
“Between the tracks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Between the tracks,” repeated Soames. “It is not an especially safe place, nor where one might expect to find a lady.”
“I have told you. He chased me there.”
Soames raised one warning eyebrow at her tone.
“The man in question is sought by the highest levels of government,” he announced. “He is a dangerous traitor.”
“What Ministry do you work for?”
“Excuse me?”
“I am acquainted with many men at the Foreign Ministry—”
“A word of advice, Miss Hastings. It is the wise trollop who holds her tongue and survives.”
Miss Temple was stunned. Soames studied her closely, as if weighing a decision, and then leaned back and glanced too casually at the window, as if none of what he had said was of the slightest importance.
“I have been recently promoted,” sniffed Soames. “I have been seconded to the Privy Council.”
Would he proposition her then and there in the coach? Soames took off his gloves one finger at a time, as if the task was serious business, and then slapped them together on his knee.
“It is a very different matter than what you are used to.” He smiled tolerantly. “Very easy for a girl to get in over her head—to quite lose herself, without an ally—”
He was interrupted by a cry from outside. The coach lurched and came to a sudden stop. Before Soames could call to the driver they heard the driver calling himself, a torrent of abuse immediately echoed by a swell of shouting from the street.
“What is going on?” asked Miss Temple.
“It is nothing—agitators, malcontents—”
“Where are we?”
Soames did not answer, for the harsh voice of the dragoon sitting next to the driver now threatened whoever blocked the coach. Soames waited—the voices in the street remained defiant—but then the coach moved again. Soames sank back in his seat with a frustrated sigh, snapping closed the curtain on the small window as they passed the still-shouting crowd apparently lining both sides of the street.
“Do not be concerned,” he muttered. “All this rabble will soon be settled.”
“As all rabble ought to be,” said Miss Temple, and then she smiled. “Privy Council! My goodness—then perhaps you can tell me if the Duke of Stäelmaere is still alive?”
Soames sputtered, then shot an arm out to the door to steady himself as the coach went round a turn too fast. “Of course he is alive!”
“Are you sure?”
“He rules the Privy Council!”
“And Colonel Aspiche?” asked Miss Temple.
“Colonel Aspiche?” cried Soames. “By God, someone has schooled you in any number of topics you have no business knowing!”
He leaned forward and Miss Temple feared he might strike her, or worse. She looked up at Mr. Soames and batted her eyes hopefully.
“I should be more than happy to answer your questions, Mr. Soames, but you can see for yourself that I am tired and—well, indeed—disheveled. I have an excellent proposal that will help us both. If you would let me off near the Circus Garden I should be most grateful, and we can speak tomorrow when I will be rested and not so unpleasantly insolent. The fright of my escape, you understand, has rattled my nerves—”
“I cannot oblige you.” There was a distinct note of pleasure in his voice. “Any person having contact with traitors must be transported directly for questioning.”
“Traitors?” asked Miss Temple. “You only mentioned the one.”
“It is hardly your concern.”
“It becomes mine when you detain me.”
“What do you expect?” replied Soames. “You obviously know more than you will say!”
“Say? You have barely asked a thing!”
“I will ask however it pleases me!”
“What apparently pleases you most is to waste my time,” muttered Miss Temple.
THE COACH pulled up, forestalling Soames' defiant reply. Miss Temple pulled aside the curtain, but saw nothing through the little window save a waist-high wall of white brick. Beyond it rose a very musty old hedge, blocking the sky. Soames reached for the door handle.
“You had your chance. Now we shall see how you answer your betters.”
But instead of opening the door, Soames exhaled with a strange rattle. Both eyelids fluttered, the eyes themselves rolled back in his head. Then the fluttering stopped and he very slowly turned toward her, his jaw slack. Miss Temple retreated to the far corner of her seat.
“Mr. Soames?” she whispered.
He did not seem to hear. The coach rocked as the soldier climbed down. Miss Temple heard bootsteps on the cobbles. Then, like the prick of a needle puncturing her skin, Soames' eyes snapped into focus— he saw her…
Then Soames was shaking his head and swallowing awkwardly, smacking his lips like a dog that has snapped at a bee. He pulled open the door and stepped through, turning behind to take her hand.
“This way, Miss Hastings.” He cleared his throat and then smiled heartily. “It will be for the best. Better manners always are…”
HE DID not release her hand as they made their way to a small open gate in the wall. Before they reached it, two more men emerged. They wore coats identical to Soames'.
“Mr. Phelps,” called Soames in greeting.
Phelps, whose coat hung slack over his right shoulder, ignored Soames. Instead he met Miss Temple's gaze with an expression of dismay, as if her existence was simply more evidence of a disappointing world. His hair was brushed forward in an old-fashioned manner, and strangely his right arm, like Francis Xonck's, was wrapped in plaster, from the hand up to the elbow.
“What is in that bag?” His voice was crisp and high-pitched, as if belonging to a smaller animal.
“Her supper,” answered Soames.
“Give it to me.”
Soames reached for the canvas sack. Miss Temple knew she could not maintain her grip in the face of so many, and let it go. Phelps did not look into the bag—nor did he even seem tempted, merely looped it over his plaster-wrapped hand. Without another word he led them through an ill-trimmed archway in the hedge to a little courtyard with a weed-choked pool, from which rose a nonworking fountain, a stone statue of a naked youth with broken arms, a corroded metal spout protruding from his mouth.
Across the plaza was another archway in another hedge, this time leading to a heavy wooden door set with an iron-barred window. The third man fished out an iron key and unlocked it. Miss Temple followed them into a dark, dank, stone corridor with a low ceiling. The door was locked, the dragoons remaining on the other side.
They passed through narrow pools of light let in by a series of oval barred windows, footsteps echoing off the stone. Another wooden door was opened with another key. Mr. Phelps indicated that Miss Temple should enter—a room of pale plaster walls, the floor bare, two simple wooden chairs, and a battered table of planking.
“Would you care for anything while you wait?�
� he asked. “Tea?”
“I should appreciate that very much.”
She saw Soames bite back a comment as the third man marched away at once, a small satisfaction that allowed Miss Temple to enter the room with poise. To her surprise, the door was not locked behind her.
“Go ahead and sit down.” Phelps gestured with his protruding pink fingers toward the nearest chair. Miss Temple did not move. He stepped into the room.
“I appreciate the oddness of the occasion. You have no need to be afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” replied Miss Temple.
He looked as if he expected her to say more, but being rather afraid indeed, she did not. Phelps turned to Soames. “What is your name again?”
“Soames. Joseph Soames. One of Lord Acton's special liaisons.”
“Soames.” Phelps intoned it, committing the name to memory. “Per haps you could discover what delays this woman's tea.”
SOAMES' FOOTSTEPS echoed down the corridor. Phelps reached into the pocket of his topcoat, pulling out one black leather glove. Still watching her expression—which remained willfully bland—he tugged the glove onto his non-plastered hand and then carefully opened the canvas sack. As if he were unpacking a cobra, Phelps removed a shining blue glass book. He set it down on the table and took two steps away, removing the glove.
“What was your name again?” he asked, a bit too idly. “Because I feel I have seen you before.”
“Isobel Hastings. May I ask what happened to your arm?”
“It was broken,” said Phelps.
“Did it hurt?”
“It did indeed.”
“Does it hurt still?”
“Only when I am attempting to sleep.”
“You know, I myself am fascinated by that exact sort of thing— how in the middle of a sleepless night a sore tooth can seem to have become the size of one's entire fist—so much room does it take up in one's thoughts, you see. What did you actually do to break it?”
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