The Dark Volume (68 page)

“Excellent.” Charlotte Trapping smiled icily. “Let us move on.”

MISS TEMPLE was forgotten. Every eye in the room was fixed on Fochtmann's meticulous efforts. Lifting the book carefully from the case, the silk pillowcases between his fingers and the glass, he eased it into the slotted brass box and then screwed a metal plate tight over the slot to seal it in. The glass began to glow. Miss Temple shut her eyes and swallowed against the rising burn in her throat, against the knowledge that the different plates of memory were being activated one after another, the electrical current weaving a lattice of force through a precise fusion of tempered metal and alchemical salts—

Hands slipped under her arms and heaved Miss Temple to her feet. She turned, to see Chang behind her, and then Svenson took gentle hold of her jaw, gazing seriously into her eyes.

“Do nothing rash,” whispered Chang. “Let them have at one another. Just stay alive.”

“Why should I care about that?” she replied.

“You are not well,” muttered the Doctor under his breath. “That book is deadly. You must prevent any further contact with it, or
her.”

“How did you simply
leave
?”

The question had flown from Miss Temple's lips before she knew it. Svenson's gaze darted up to Chang's, then back to her grey eyes. “Ah—O—no, no—it was not—truly—”

Chang tightened his grip on her arms. His whisper was curt and condescending. “They will
hear you
—”

She turned to him. “How did you leave? Are you such a coward?”

“Celeste,” the Doctor said, “I am most sorry—so many things happened…”

This annoyed Miss Temple even more. She saw Elöise Dujong over the Doctor's shoulder, watching them, and spoke bitterly. “Trust makes everyone its fool.”

Svenson followed her gaze, only to see Elöise turn away. He turned back to Miss Temple, his voice even and hard. “What they intend to do is abominable—”

“I know it very well!”

“And I know you have been most brave—”

“You are both insane,” hissed Chang, and he pushed his knee into the back of Miss Temple's, causing her to sag suddenly into Svenson, who raised both arms to catch her. Miss Temple just saw Chang's hand slip out of the Doctor's pocket, then Chang pulled her backwards, spinning her so she lurched face-first into his chest. She gasped as the Cardinal's fingers plunged directly into the bosom of her dress and felt, as his fingers just as quickly pulled away, an unfamiliar weight where they had been. Chang had deftly tucked something beneath her corset, in front of everyone.

He stepped back, straightening Miss Temple on her feet. Miss Temple looked guiltily at Mrs. Marchmoor, but the glass woman was blocked by Elöise. Miss Temple looked the other way. Xonck had his head down and was rocking back and forth on his heels, his breath whistling thickly. But the Contessa's violet eyes met Miss Temple's coldly.

“Are you back with us, Celeste?”

“She is not well,” announced Svenson. “It is the glass.”

The Doctor's gaze flicked again to Elöise, near Francesca Trapping. The little girl did not respond to her tutor in any way. Her vacant eyes stared ahead. But Miss Temple could detect a thin halo of blue around each eye. The girl's thin lips had darkened to the color of bruised plum-skin. At once Elöise raised one hand to her head and, stumbling backwards, extended the other toward Mrs. Marchmoor, as if warding off a blow.

“I'm sorry,” she cried. “I'm sorry—”

“Get away from her, Elöise!” called Mrs. Trapping. “You must stop interfering! Francesca will be perfectly safe. Come stand by me.”

“She is
not
safe, Charlotte—look at her!”

With a reflexive defensiveness, Mrs. Marchmoor's remaining hand slipped from her cloak and took tight hold of the girl's shoulder. Francesca did not react, her face slack and dull, but Mrs. Trapping's face went as suddenly sharp as an unsheathed blade.

“Alfred!”

“Company!” Mr. Leveret shouted.
“Arms!”

The soldiers shifted their carbines with a uniform precision, their aim fixed on the glass woman and her party.

Mr. Phelps stumbled forward as if he had been pushed very hard.

“Ladies, Mr. Leveret—please! There is no call for histrionics—we are nearly to the finish, I beg you—one more moment of patience! Look around you!”

Phelps sniffed loudly and dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief, careful to fold it over before anyone could detect any trace of blood, and then, back to business, gestured to Lord Vandaariff, whose scarred, livid face was wet with tears.

“In administering the
Process
, we have made proof of both Mr. Fochtmann's learning and Mr. Leveret's machines. What is more, this
proof
has rendered our subject's empty mind utterly compliant!”

Miss Temple remembered Roger Bascombe rhapsodizing about the Process—its gift of clarity, passage to essential truths—
claptrap
— but what essence did a man like Vandaariff still possess? Even without the Comte's book, she knew the main advantage of the Process for the Cabal was the insertion of a control phrase, allowing them to issue commands the subject would be forced to obey. At once she understood—a control phrase had just been implanted in Vandaariff and given to both parties.

“Charlotte, your daughter is at stake.” Elöise pointed toward Mr. Leveret. “And that man will not tell you what you need to hear.”

“And who are you?” Leveret snorted. “That child's
tutor!”

“Mrs. Trapping knows very well what I am,” answered Elöise. “And she
ought
to know what it has cost me. Charlotte, think! Once they get what they want, you will not matter!”

“But they have not
got
anything, Mrs. Dujong,” cried Leveret hotly, “nor will they!” He smugly snapped his fingers at a pair of crouching soldiers. “We stand quite completely
protected
—by a Xonck Armory 296 explosive shell!”

Leveret surveyed the silent room with satisfaction. “A 296 explosive shell, Mrs. Dujong, will shatter every piece of glass in this building. As our windows lack glazing, the glass I refer to stands
there.”
He stabbed a long, thick-knuckled finger at Mrs. Marchmoor. “And at the first sign of—of—alchemical, mind-bludgeoning, dream-sniffing, thought-eating
nonsense
, those men will push their plunger and that creature's newest allies shall be a broom and dustpan!”

“What side are you
on
, Elöise?” called Mrs. Trapping. The woman was
smiling
. Leveret broke into a confident grin, looking back at her.

“Charlotte,” Elöise pleaded, gesturing to Francesca, “it is not about mere
sides.”

“But it
is
, Mrs. Dujong,” called another voice. “And you must get out of the center… before you are killed there.”

Doctor Svenson stepped toward Elöise, his arm outstretched. His uniform was shabby and his face smeared with soot, but his blue eyes were clear. Stranded in the center of the room, Elöise looked down at his extended hand. As if his gesture was especially unbearable, she veered away with a cry, standing alone with her arms crossed and one hand covering her mouth.

“WE'LL NOT waste more time,” announced Mrs. Trapping. She turned to Fochtmann and clapped her hands together, as if she were calling a dog. “I trust you are finished?”

The tall man bowed gravely and motioned Mrs. Trapping and Mr. Leveret farther away. He had secured black hoses across Vandaariff's body, strapped the black rubber mask across his face, and swaddled the black webbed gloves around his hands and bare feet. Lord Vandaariff sat wrapped like a stuporous insect, stuffed away for future consumption in some spider's larder. Miss Temple wondered at how easily people who two weeks before would have licked this man's boot heel for the merest scrap of attention now treated him like a slave. Vandaariff's fate—pathetic, degraded—seemed only what any of them would receive, or even merit.

Fochtmann turned dramatically to face them all, pulling the brass helmet onto his head. At the wash of ash in her mouth, Miss Temple gagged.

“It will not work!” she croaked.

“Of course not!” Fochtmann barked through the helmet's voice box. “We have not restored the power.”

Fochtmann signaled the men and the line of silver machines roared back to deafening life. Then he pulled down the brass handle with the flourish of a circus showman.

Nothing happened. Fochtmann raised it up, prodded a bit of wiring, and pulled it down even harder. Nothing happened. Fochtmann waved angrily at the men, and the machines powered down. Fochtmann pulled off the helmet, his face hot and the bandage on his brow flapping loose. He strode toward Miss Temple.

“Why did you say it would fail? What do you know?”

“You lack a device… to manage the
flow.”
Miss Temple's words slurred.

“What
device?” demanded Fochtmann, taking hold of her jaw.

“She does not have it,” said Chang.

“And you do?”

“No…”

Chang turned, and every eye in the room shifted with him, toward the Contessa.

“Once again you block our way, madame!” cried Mrs. Trapping. She snapped her fingers, but before the soldiers reached the Contessa, the woman raised her hand and delved into her clutch bag.

“My goodness, Charlotte,” the Contessa replied with an icy brightness. “Allow me to help you all.”

She extracted a shining metal implement from the bag. With two tugs she doubled its size, stretching the device like a telescope until it took the shape of an old-fashioned pistol, with a ball-shaped handle on one end and a barreled tube on the other.

“The marrow sparge,” said Chang.

The Contessa spared him one glacial smile and then tossed the thing in a lazy arc to Fochtmann, who caught it with both hands.

“Now, in exchange…” the Contessa began calmly, as if her words were not an explicit plea for her life.

“O do
not!”
sneered Mrs. Trapping. “Because I have been powerless you think I have seen nothing! I see
you
now—in
tatters
, like a
gypsy!
This
business
no longer requires you, madame—nor my brother, who has been a ghost these many years. You have lost your wager!”

Mrs. Trapping's face was red and her hands were clutching her side. Mr. Leveret reached for her arm but she shook him away. The Contessa had not moved.

“As you desire, Charlotte,” she said. “Of course, there remains much that none of you know, despite your presumption—all of Macklenburg, for example, as ripe for plunder as Peru, and richer to our interests than a continent full of silver. And even more
beyond
Macklenburg— initiatives have begun in Vienna and Cadiz, in Venice—”

“What initiatives in Venice?” asked Mr. Phelps, rather quickly.

“Precisamente,”
laughed the Contessa. Then the laughter caught in her throat and the light stalled in her eyes. She clawed at the air, and gasped through her open mouth, an animal panting. The glass woman withdrew. The Contessa met their gazes, eyes fierce, her voice raw as she called to the glass woman.

“You may harvest
facts
from my brain, Margaret. But beyond fact lies an understanding you
cannot
capture—and that is my instinct.
I
outwitted Robert Vandaariff and Henry Xonck—and it
ought
to be clear to a hare-lipped infant that if you proceed without me now, it is at your peril.” She turned to Fochtmann, snorting at the metal device he held. “I watched Oskar create the marrow sparge himself. Do you even know what it
is
?”

“It connects below the skull,” hissed Mrs. Marchmoor. “There are hidden needles.”

Fochtmann snorted upon finding the needles—as, now he had the tool, how obvious was its purpose—and set at once to its installation. Mrs. Trapping watched him for a moment but then looked away, impatient and cross.

“What is a ‘sparge’?” she asked, generally.

“A medieval term,” said Doctor Svenson, after no one else replied. “For the Comte, the meaning would be alchemical—to aerate, to infuse—”

“That tells me
nothing,”
Mrs. Trapping muttered.

“Why ask a
German?”
Leveret replied with a sneer.

The Doctor cleared his throat. “With this device in place, the energy from the book will be sent directly along Lord Vandaariff's spine,
infusing
the natural fluid there. This same fluid bathes the primary mass of nerves—the spinal column as well as the brain. It is the alchemical marrow.”

“Will that work?” Mrs. Trapping asked doubtfully.

“If it does not also boil his brain like a trout.”

“We have seen it,” grunted Xonck from the depths of his distress. “At the Institute—the Comte wiped the mind of a caretaker, then infused it with the memories of an African adventurer he had harvested that week at the brothel. The old man's mind became nothing but slaughtered dervishes and impregnated tribeswomen.”

“How interesting it will be to speak to Oskar once again,” said the Contessa.

“If I remember correctly,” observed Doctor Svenson, “at the moment of his own death the Comte—beg pardon,
Oskar
—was intending to kill you.”

“O tush,” said the Contessa. “The Comte d'Orkancz is, if nothing else, sophisticated.”

“You cannot think he will be your
ally
?”

“Doctor, I will be over-joyed to see my old friend.”

“But will it
be
the Comte?” asked Chang. “That adventurer was harvested under the Comte's own care. This book was inscribed at the very worst of times—”

“Inconsequential,” rasped Xonck.

“And what of Robert Vandaariff?” asked Svenson. “Is he truly expunged? Or will a lingering remnant dangerously shatter the Comte's essence?”

“And will either of these proud men submit willingly to all of
you
?” asked Chang.

“Be
quiet
!” cried Mrs. Trapping. “They do not have to submit
willingly!
The Comte must do our bidding—is that not why he underwent that horrible Process—so we may manage him
and
Vandaariff's money? We have acquired this power, and now we will employ it! Everyone has agreed—it is very, very
simple
—and I insist that we be finally
ready
. You, there—tall fellow…”