He put the stone away. He had abandoned the woman without fully apprising her of the dangers he knew to exist. If he was now in a position to help, it was a matter of expiating guilt, not of reclaiming affection. Svenson forced his mind to the facts at hand—it was the only way he was going to help anyone.
What had Elöise been doing in Karthe so soon? Obviously Miss Temple had recovered—or, he realized helplessly, had died… but no, if that had been the case, Elöise would have been occupied for at least an additional day with a burial. Yet if Miss Temple had simply come to her senses, fever passed, the Doctor would have expected the women to delay another day to build up her strength. What could have driven them from the fishing village with such precipitous haste? Clearly the villagers had not loved their presence… could there have been more murders? What had they found at the Jorgens cabin?
It seemed obvious that Xonck had killed the grooms in the fishing village. If the Contessa truly lived, then she must be responsible for the fisherman—and the man in the train yard, whose face had been slashed. This placed the Contessa in the train yard at the same time as Elöise—so perhaps Xonck had mistaken her identity.
Svenson shut his eyes. What was the connection between Francis Xonck and Elöise?
He wondered again what he might say to her. Once in the city they would pursue their separate paths, and forever. But before that, he would search the train when it stopped. If he found no sign of Miss Temple, he would return to Karthe, to track the poor girl down… but perhaps once Elöise was able to speak, she might know perfectly well where Miss Temple was…perhaps the women had hatched some plan together… perhaps—the Doctor's eyes closed… perhaps he would never wake at all…
IT TOOK him a moment to remember where he was, but the instant he did the Doctor sat up straight. The train was stopped. He looked to Elöise, still asleep—and groped for the pistol, couldn't find it, then stood and snatched up the coat he had sometime in the night bundled up for a pillow. The weapon had maliciously worked its way beneath. He seized it with one hand and smeared his hair back with the other. He rushed into the corridor, only to be thrown into the far wall as the train pulled forward.
“God damn!” Doctor Svenson cried aloud, and he stumbled down the corridor in search of the hateful conductor. He'd no sense of the time—the sky remained dark and he had no watch. He had completely missed a stop! How long had he slept? The four laborers sat slumped against once another, and each of the two businessmen was stretched across three seats in their compartment. A third compartment had been occupied by an elderly woman and two heavy-lidded children. The woman looked up at Svenson as he paused by her open door.
“Have you seen the conductor?” he asked.
She nodded toward the front of the train. Taking this for an answer, Svenson continued forward, but when he reached the head of the car the conductor was not there. Svenson slid open the door and stood in the cold, rushing air. Before him lay a narrow railed platform, the greasy coupling, beyond it the blank wall of the coal wagon, and beyond that the engine. The plume from the smokestack blew over him, suffusing the air with an acrid, moist, and smoky odor. Could the conductor have been behind him, in the second car? He made his way to the rear door and wrenched it open. Barring a leap from the railed platform to the ladder on the freight car, there was no exit here.
If the train had stopped… the conductor might have walked back to the caboose, or forward to the engine. But why, especially when new passengers had been taken on? Svenson re-entered their compartment and set the pistol (had he been waving it at the old woman?) onto a seat cushion. Where was the man?
ELÖISE ABRUPTLY gasped, as if waking from an especially fearful dream, her eyes snapping open.
“Francis?”
The name was a spike of ice in Svenson's heart.
“No, my dear,” he said. “It is Doctor Svenson.”
She did not hear him, her eyes still wide. She attempted to sit up and cried out. Svenson darted across to her, sank to his knees and eased one hand behind her head, and with the other caught the hand that sought to explore her bandages.
“You must not move,” he whispered to her. “Elöise—”
“Francis—”
“You have been stabbed. You very nearly died.”
He eased her back until her head lay fully on the seat once more, and squeezed her hand.
“You were very brave, and very fortunate the blade of glass penetrated only as far as it did. The blow was meant to kill.”
For the first time her eyes found his with recognition—his face, his hands, their physical proximity. Svenson stepped away at once. He waited for her to speak.
“We are on a train?”
“We are, from Karthe to the city.”
“You were in Karthe?”
“I was—quite luckily. My own story is too long to tell, and yet…” He took a breath. “Elöise, I must apologize. The peremptory—indeed, even cowardly—manner—”
“Where is Celeste?” asked Elöise, interrupting him.
“I have been waiting for you to tell me.”
“But she will be killed!”
“How? By whom?”
In answer, Elöise only groaned, for she had tried again to rise. Svenson caught her with both hands and eased her down.
“You have been stabbed. I have done what I can and the wound has closed, but it will tear if you—”
“She was in town—with them.” Elöise stifled a bitter cry. “It was my own fault—again—I went to a house… he was killed—”
“I know, my dear,” whispered Svenson, going so far as to brush the sweat-curled hair from her brow. “The poor boy had not even ten years—”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “Franck was dead. But we smelled him—and I thought I could lead him away from Celeste, that he might follow… I went to the train, to find help. But he did not follow. I was alone. I knew I should go back, to help her, to face him—”
Svenson nodded, finally catching up to her pronouns. “Francis Xonck.”
“But instead… instead… I hid under the train. I was afraid. And then I saw her, running past, and then men were shouting, and I stepped out—right into him. He chased me—” The words choked in her throat.
“There is no shame. Francis Xonck has this last day killed far too many to add you to that number—he near as did for me as well.”
“But…but—”
“You have survived. The wound is minor, but the properties of the glass are especially disagreeable to you. The men on the train thought you were dead.” On a sudden whim he opened his palm. “They gave me this.”
Elöise was silent. Doctor Svenson pressed the purple stone back into her hand, and once more stepped away.
“But Celeste had recovered?” he asked. “She came with you to the town, but then you separated?”
Elöise nodded. Despite his own guilt, Svenson could scarcely credit the decision to leave someone so recently ill alone. Yet he also knew Miss Temple enough to wonder if it had not been entirely Elöise's doing.
“She is… at times… willful.”
“She is a girl. It was entirely my fault. I was upset, about everything. You speak of cowardice—I could no more say the truth to Celeste than you could say it to me. And now—”
“If Miss Temple is left behind in Karthe, the best we can do for her is find our enemies. Both the Contessa and Francis Xonck were at the train. In his attack he may have mistaken you for her.”
Svenson paused and met her eyes, discomfort hardening his voice. “Did he speak to you?”
“No—it was too sudden—he caught me from behind—”
“But did he see you? What I mean—of course he saw you—but did he know you?”
“Why does that matter?”
“You are acquainted with the man—from before all of this, in the Trapping household.” The name stuck in Svenson's mouth like a too-large bite of unboned fish. “I promise you I do not care—it is no matter of feeling
. The matter is Miss Temple's life… and ours.”
“I do not remember,” whispered Elöise.
“You do. You remember enough.”
“I cannot—”
“No, Elöise. You must.” His tone had grown sharp. “You took a lover—very well, we are adults, it is the world. But that man was Arthur Trapping. Or—yes, I am not a fool—that man was Francis Xonck. It is all done. What matters is your loyalty now, what we know now!”
“Loyalty? But—but they have tried to kill me—”
Svenson waved his hand angrily. “Who have they not tried to kill? How many of their own have they not sacrificed pell-mell, as if they were laying tricks at whist!”
“Abelard—”
Doctor Svenson stood. “You must hear me. I do not care for your past, save how it can help us now. As for the hole in your mind—to my mind it gives you a choice. If you were with them before—”
“I—I was not—I cannot have been—”
He overrode her words. “You have the opportunity for a clean slate. I will do all I can to help and protect you. If you will excuse me, I must locate our conductor.”
HE WHEELED from the compartment, blindly snatching up the pistol, his own idiotic words echoing in his head. He had only exposed himself as a jealous, bitter fool—and how many hours would they be on this godforsaken train together? Nor, with her injury, was there any credible way for him to once more, like a coward, leave her behind. He stepped into the next car, acutely aware of the eyes of each passenger—all seemed to have woken—sliding suspiciously over him as he passed. Still no sign of the conductor. Svenson stepped through the far door onto the platform.
The wind was freezing, and as he stood with his hands on the rail Svenson felt every bit as helpless as he was certain he appeared. He stared down at the black ties, flashing past so fast, and exhaled deeply, doing his level best to empty his heart along with his lungs. He breathed in the unmistakable odor of indigo clay.
He yanked the pistol from his belt, but all he could see was the night sky and the coal wagon. He crouched below the rail, sniffing again—faint, but any whiff of indigo clay was enough to prickle a man's throat… yet where was the source? He lifted his boots—something spilled onto the platform? No… it was from below. There were cross-braces under each car, and indigent fellows bold—or desperate— enough to travel that way… but how could he be smelling something under his own car with this wind, which ought to whisk any smell immediately behind them? Svenson screwed in his monocle, peering ahead, beneath the coal wagon. He could not see a damned thing.
Svenson returned to the car for a lantern, but the hook was empty. One of the businessmen looked out of his compartment, blanching to see Svenson advancing at such speed.
“Where is the conductor?” the Doctor called, his voice low but sharply urgent.
“I—I have not seen him this hour,” stammered the man.
But Svenson was already past, convinced the conductor had been thrown off the train or beneath its wheels after inadvertently discovering Xonck's hiding place. And if Xonck was hiding under the coal wagon, what did that mean as far as the Contessa's fate—or Miss Temple's? Had they been dispatched like so many others? Or could they be on the train? That would put Xonck in the same situation as Svenson with regard to the freight cars and the caboose… unless— and Svenson cursed himself once more—Xonck had not been asleep when they'd stopped. Of course not—Xonck would have been waiting, leaping at once from hiding and loping like a wolf down the length of the train. Perhaps even now he was warming himself at the stove in the caboose, having slaughtered every other occupant! And if Miss Temple or the Contessa had sought refuge there—was there a thing they could have done to stop him?
Svenson stalked through to the second car without finding a lantern. Upon reaching Elöise's compartment he found its door open and one of the young men traveling to the southern mills standing inside. Beyond the man, Svenson saw Elöise, the bandage in place, her hands held tightly together. The young man spun to Svenson, eyes caught by the pistol in his hand.
“I—we heard the lady cry out,” he managed. “For help.”
“Elöise?” Svenson called past the man to her, fixing the interfering fool with an openly vicious gaze.
“I was asleep… I do not know… dreaming—perhaps I did.”
“Excellent. Most kind of you to help.” Svenson stepped aside with all the crispness of a Macklenburg soldier on parade to allow the man to exit. “If you will excuse us.”
The young man did not move, his gaze still fixed on the weapon.
“Is there something wrong on the train?” he asked.
“I cannot locate the conductor,” replied Svenson, in as mild a voice as he could manage. “Perhaps he walked up to the engine when last we stopped.”
The young man nodded, waiting for Svenson to say more, and then nodded again when it became clear that Svenson had no plans to do so. He edged into the corridor and walked quickly away, looking back once, to find Doctor Svenson glaring. The man bobbed his head a third time as he left the car.
“I am sure he was only trying to help,” whispered Elöise.
“A man of his age alone with an injured woman,” observed Svenson, “is no more worthy of trust than an asp let into a child's nursery.”
She did not reply, giving him the clear impression that his entire manner only made things worse.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“I have been thinking,” she replied, not to his question at all. “You asked me of Francis Xonck. Whatever glass he used to stab me, I know it was from a book that had been imprinted. Because I felt myself— my flesh, but also my mind—being penetrated, not by a blade, but by… experiences.”
“Do you recall them?”
Elöise sighed. “Will you not put that thing away?”
Svenson looked down at the pistol. “You do not understand. The conductor is missing.”
“Yet if he has only gone to the engine—”
“Xonck is on the train—somehow—I am not certain where. The conductor may have discovered him and paid the price.”
“You should not have lied to that boy—you ought to have enlisted his help!”
“There is no time, Elöise, and too much to explain. He and everyone else on this train would think me mad—”
“It would be mad to face Francis Xonck alone when there is no need! Or are you set on some ridiculous notion of revenge?”
Svenson swallowed an angry reply. That she could so easily mock the very notion of revenge, that he might be owed anything, or that he was incapable of taking it… or even that despite everything she might be correct—he slapped the metal door frame with an open palm. The anger was pointless, and he let it go, his emotion stalling like a Sisyphean stone at the crest. She was waiting for an answer. Svenson seized on the first unkempt thought that came to mind.
“You… Yes, before—you mentioned the glass, dreaming—the fragment. Do you recall what you saw?”
“I do,” she sniffed, shuffling to a sitting position. “Though I cannot see it helps us.”
“Why?”
“Because it was broken. The thoughts inside, the sense of the memory… the content of the glass had been deranged. Like the ink running on a waterlogged page, but in one's mind… I cannot describe it.”
“It was a very small piece—”
Elöise shook her head. “The matter is not size. There was no logic—as if five memories, or five minds, were overlaid one on top of another, like patterns of paper held to a window.”
“Was there any detail to suggest who might have been the source?”
She shook her head again. “It was too full of contradiction—all tumbled into one place, which was not one place… and all the time… I had forgotten, music…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It means nothing—though I'm certain the memories themselves are true. Each portion flickered… overlapping the seams between them.”
“And none of these…
elements seemed… significant?”
“I do not believe so,” she said. “Indeed, now that I try, I can scarcely recall a thing.”
“No no, this is useful.” Svenson nodded without conviction. “A wound with the blue glass—as contact with blood creates more glass— necessitates some exclusive contact between the glass and the victim, do you see? Blood congeals against the original glass and is itself crystallized—the flesh becomes solid. But what is the nature of this newly made glass? Since it is in—is of—your body, does it contain some memory from you? How is this raw glass different from that smelted by the Comte?”
Svenson's mind genuinely raced with the consequences of Elöise's broken shard, and what this implied about the structure and workings of the glass books. A torn piece of paper would show only the fragment of type printed upon it, but a similarly sized spear from a blue glass page apparently contained an overlay of multiple memories. It meant that the books were not read (or “written”) in any linear way, but that the memories were shot through the glass like color in paint, or seasoning in soup, or even tiny capillaries in flesh. Whatever aspect of the glass normally allowed a person to experience the memories in sequence had been dislodged on the broken fragment, and the different memories it contained had been jammed into one jagged, unnatural whole.
He looked over at Elöise. “On the airship, the mere touch of a glass book on her bare skin drove the Contessa to distraction.”
“She killed the Prince and Lydia for no reason but pique—”
“Francis Xonck has used broken glass to cauterize a bullet wound, and now carries that glass within his body. He may well be insane.” Svenson winced to think of it. Given the wound, the lump of glass would be the size of a child's fist; what visions gnawed—no, tore—at Francis Xonck's mind? “He also possesses a glass book, saved in particular from the wreckage. I do not know what that book holds, I can only say that a perfectly sound man who did look into it was turned to a gibbering wreck. That Xonck has selected this of all books must mean something.”
The Dark Volume mtccads-2 Page 31
