smell of human blood. Three of the broken flasks had pooled together and in their mixture transformed—there was no other way to say it—into a shining bright arterial pool that spilled from the tray onto the floor in a quantity larger than the original fluids—as if the combination of chemicals not only made blood, but made
“What is this
All four looked up at the flatly disapproving voice that came from the doorway behind the two men, where a tall fellow with grizzled whiskers and wire spectacles stood holding in his arms an army carbine. He wore a long dark coat, whose elegance served to make his balding head appear more round and his thin-lipped mouth more cruel. The servants immediately bowed their heads and babbled explanations.
“Mr. Blenheim, Sir—these women—”
“We were—the dumbwaiter—”
“They attacked us—”
“Fugitives—”
Mr. Blenheim cut them off with the finality of a butcher’s cleaver.
“Return this tray, replace its contents, and deliver them at once. Send a maid to clean this floor. Report to my quarters when you are finished. You were told of the importance of your task. I cannot answer for your continued employment.”
Without another word the men snatched up the dripping tray and trotted past their master, hanging their heads obsequiously. Blenheim sniffed once at the smell, his eyes flitting over the bloody pool and then back to the women. His gaze paused once at the orange bottle in Miss Temple’s hand, but betrayed no feeling about it either way. He gestured with the carbine.
“You two will come with me.”
They walked in front of him, directed at each turn by blunt monosyllabic commands, until they stood at an aggressively carved wooden door. Their captor looked about him quickly and unlocked it, ushering them through. He followed them in, showing a surprising swiftness for a man of his size, and once more locked the door, tucking the key—one of many on a silver chain, Miss Temple saw—back into a waistcoat pocket.
“It will be better to speak in isolation,” he announced, looking at them with a cold gaze that in its flat and bland nature belied a capacity for pragmatic cruelty. He shifted the carbine in his hand with dangerous ease.
“You will put that bottle on the table next to you.”
“Would you like that?” asked Miss Temple, her face all blank politeness.
“You will do it at once,” he answered.
Miss Temple looked about the room. Its ceilings were high and painted with scenes of nature—jungles and waterfalls and expansively dramatic skies—that she assumed must represent someone’s idea of Africa or India or America. On each wall were display cases of weapons and artifacts and animal trophies—stuffed heads, skins, teeth, and claws. The floors were thickly carpeted and the furniture heavily upholstered in comfortable leather. The room smelled of cigars and dust, and Miss Temple saw behind Mr. Blenheim an enormous sideboard bearing more bottles than she thought were made in the civilized world, and reasoned that, given the exploratory nature of the decor, there must among them be many liquors and potions from the dark depths of primitive cultures. Mr. Blenheim cleared his throat pointedly, and with a deferent nod she placed her bottle where he had indicated. She glanced to Eloise and met the woman’s questioning expression. Miss Temple merely reached out and took hold of Eloise’s hand—the hand that held the blue glass card—effectively covering it with her own.
“So, you’re Mr. Blenheim?” she asked, not having the slightest idea what this sentence might imply.
“I am,” the man answered gravely, an unpleasant tang of self-importance clinging to his tone.
“I had wondered”—nodded Miss Temple—“having heard your name so many times.”
He did not reply, looking at her closely.
“
“I am the manager of this household. You are causing trouble in it. You were in the master’s passage just now, spying on what you shouldn’t have been like the sneaks you are—do not bother to deny it. And now I’ll wager you’ve disrupted things in the tower—as well as having made a mess of my floor!”
Unfortunately for Mr. Blenheim, his litanies—for he was clearly a man whose authority depended on the ability to catalog transgression—were only damning to those who felt any of this was a source of guilt. Miss Temple nodded to at least acknowledge the man’s concerns.
“In terms of management, I should expect a house this size is rather an involving job. Do you have a large staff? I myself have at various times given much thought to the proper size of a staff in relation to the size of a house—or the ambition of the house, as often a person’s social aim outstrips their physical resources—”
“You were
“And a wicked inner passage it is,” she replied. “If you ask me, it is your
Each of Mr. Blenheim’s questions was more vehement than the one before, and by the last his face was red, quite accentuating the amount of white hair in his grizzled whiskers, making him appear to Miss Temple even more worth mocking.
“My goodness, Sir—your complexion! Perhaps if you drank less gin?”
“We were merely lost,” Eloise intervened smoothly. “There was a fire—”
“I am aware of it!”
“You can see our faces—my dress—” and here Eloise helpfully drew his eyes to the blackened silk that fell about her shapely calves.
Blenheim licked his lips. “That means nothing,” he muttered.
But to Miss Temple it meant a great deal, for the fact that the man had not by this time delivered them to his master told her that Mr. Blenheim had ideas of his own. She indicated the animal heads and the display cases of weapons with a vague wave and a conspiratorial smile.
“What a curious room this is,” she said.
“It is not curious at all. It is the trophy room.”
“I’m sure it must be, but that is to say it is a room of men.”
“And what of that?”
“We are women.”
“Is that of consequence?”
“
“What are your names?” he asked, his mouth a tightly drawn line, his eyes flicking quickly as he stared. “What do you know?”
“That depends on who you serve.”
Miss Temple nodded sympathetically at his outburst, as if his anger were at the uncooperative weather rather than herself. “We do not want to be difficult,” she explained. “But neither do we want to offend. If you are, for example, deeply attached to Miss Lydia Vandaariff—”
Blenheim waved her past the topic with a violently brusque stab of his hand. Miss Temple nodded.
“Or you had particular allegiances with Lord Vandaariff, or the Contessa, or the Comte d’Orkancz, or Mr. Francis Xonck, or Deputy Minister Crabbe, or—”
“You will tell me what you know no matter what my allegiance.”
“Of course. But first, you must be aware that the house has been penetrated by
“The man in red—” Blenheim nodded with impatience.
“And the other,” added Eloise, “from the quarry, with the airship—”
Again Blenheim waved them to another topic. “These are in hand,” he hissed. “But why are two adherents in white gowns running through the house and defying their masters?”
“Once more, Sir, which masters do you mean?” asked Miss Temple.
“But…” he stopped, and nodded vigorously, as if his own thoughts were confirmed. “Already, then…they plot