The Dark Volume

weapon, firing faster and to terrible effect, even though they were clearly outnumbered. Miss Temple could not see anything of either combat, but she noticed when the defenders' gunfire came from within the building, as if they had fallen back. Would the dragoons storm the factory so soon—would it be that simple? From the gate came a rising cry, as the crowd charged forward.

A window above the crowd spat out a tongue of flame, and directly before it—from the thick of where she imagined the crowd of men to be—a column of black smoke bloomed up like a wicked night-flower. The screams were horrific, and the charging cry faltered at once. An identical blast crashed into the ruins, with its own echoing curtain of screams and the cracking of toppled trees. With an instant of forethought Miss Temple looked up at the windows facing the gravel road—facing her—and flung herself down. Another crash, and the earth around her kicked like a horse. She cried out but could not hear her own voice. Her body was spattered with pebbles and earth. The ground shook again and again. She could not move. The defenders had cannons facing every direction.

SMOKE DRIFTED up from the battered landscape, a scatter of riven pits. From beyond the trees rose moans and screams. The firing had ceased. Miss Temple shook the loose earth from her hair. A raw hole lay steaming in the center of the road, not ten yards away.

A sound cut through the ringing in her skull. Someone was speaking.

The voice was amplified as the Comte's had been inside the cathedral tower at Harschmort. With a slicking of bile in her throat, Miss Temple recalled the black speaking tube connected to the Comte's wicked-looking brass helmet, and how the great man's voice had then filled the massive chamber like a god's. But this voice was different— thin, and brittle, even cruel. It was a woman.

“As you have seen and felt,” cried the voice, “our artillery can be directed anywhere we choose, from our doorstep to the canal. You cannot hide, and you cannot advance. Your men will be slaughtered. Your business here has failed. Your soldiers and your rabble will withdraw. You yourself will come forward from your shadows, madame, alone. You have five minutes, or we will begin shelling the ground in every direction. Make no mistake. If you do not come forward, you will all be destroyed.”

These words were followed by a rasping pop, which told Miss Temple the speaking tube had been detached and the woman's fearful pronouncement was done. Miss Temple waited for any response— orders bawled out to the dragoons, cries of retreat from the crowd around the gate—but heard nothing. Miss Temple crept forward through a line of shell-holes and their rising smoke. Still she heard no response, neither to attack nor to flee. Surely staying where they were, vulnerable and in the open, was the poorest strategy of all—it could only provoke another barrage.

The smoke cleared enough for her to see that the gravel road ended at a low wooden wall, beyond which rose the factory. Its white surface seemed all windows and light, and the bricks the merest framework, like a flaming cage made from innumerable small bones. Shadows darted across its openings and along the edge of the rooftop, and above it the black smoke still rose in a billowing curtain.

The smoke cleared and Miss Temple finally saw the glass woman's army, for the low wooden wall was lined with crouching figures… more than a hundred Dragoons, with here and there an awkward fellow in Ministry black. Not one of them moved. Miss Temple went near—as if she were dreaming, for not a man acknowledged her approach—finally close enough to touch the soldiers on the face. Had Mrs. Marchmoor immobilized her own minions, as she had stilled Miss Temple in the coach? Had she grown so powerful—to touch so many minds in a stroke, and with such force? But why were the men not sent away? Did this not leave them even more vulnerable to cannon fire? Not to retreat was direct defiance of the amplified voice's demands, and when the minutes ticked away these men must die.

She had very little time herself. Miss Temple looked up to the windows, aware there must be all sorts of eyes upon her. But no one shouted, no one shot her down. She returned the knife to her boot and stepped to the nearest of the black-coated men. It was the odious drone from Harschmort, Mr. Harcourt, his blue eyes staring blankly like a fish looking up from the poaching pan. Cradled in his hand was a small six-shot revolver. She tugged it from his grip and measured the cold iron's weight in her little palm. It would absolutely do.

SHE DID not see Mr. Phelps, Mr. Fochtmann, or Colonel Aspiche, and assumed they had advanced with Mrs. Marchmoor, despite Mrs. Trapping's order—either willingly or dragged as automaton slaves— along with Francesca Trapping. But again, why Francesca alone? Miss Temple thought of the vials stopped up and smeared with blue. Had a sliver of glass been inserted into each little dram of blood? Or had Mrs. Marchmoor transformed the vials herself with the tip of her finger, like an indigo Medusa?

To enter the factory, Miss Temple stepped over two men in green uniforms, blood smeared from their upper lips down to their chin. Beyond these bodies, the entire ground floor of the factory was occupied by rattling, blazing machinery. Miss Temple winced. Oppressed by the din and nauseated by the reek of indigo clay, she stopped where she stood, one hand to her brow. Through the Comte's memories, every machine seemed to glow before her eyes as she sensed its purpose, its hideous capacity. Each polished carapace vibrated like an ungainly tropical beetle bellowing for its mate. Miss Temple knew there were only rods and shafts and oiled bolts beneath their metal covers— but to the man who had made them, these devices represented life, and somehow the shuddering things seemed ready to extend their awful legs and wings at any moment.

WHERE WAS everyone? She picked her way around the machines, to a nest of little rooms, past another two crumpled men in green. Why would the defenders leave their crucial machines so unprotected—were they so desperate, or so confident? Or did they know Mrs. Marchmoor required them in full operation as much as they?

Miss Temple was gratified to find a staircase—wider than normal, which she supposed actually was normal when one had to shift, well, who knew what exactly… material up and down to be worked or lathed or milled or baked—again, details escaped her. But the staircase was as dark as the rest of the factory was bright—lacking windows, lamps, lanterns, even a candle left on a plate. Miss Temple gazed up into the blackness with distaste, the mechanical roar chopping at her concentration and her nerves. Then she perceived something new in the rhythmic din, writhing through the air like a snake… an agonized scream.

The first-landing door was locked tight. The next, up a double length of stairs, was locked as well. She pressed her ear against the door. If the massive beetles below created the rumbling buzz, here was the gnashing, hammering clatter, what she took to be the turbines— the works—of a proper mill. This floor must also hold the cannons— stuffed with soldiers and locked to keep their threat sure. Miss Temple did not care for cannons. It was sixteen steps to the next landing, each one carrying her closer to the keening scream.

But this landing bore a meager light, a tiny tallow stub that allowed Miss Temple to ascend without feeling her way. She let her eyes fix first upon the little hands cupped round it, their skin glowing yellow, and then upon the ghostly small face floating above the flame. Francesca Trapping.

The girl did not speak, and so Miss Temple climbed until their heads were at the same height and did her best to smile, as if the horrid sounds around them were not there, and the simplest thing in the world would be for Miss Temple to lead the child away to safety.

“You are the lady from the house,” said Francesca. Her voice was very small, and her shoulders trembled.

“I am,” Miss Temple said, “and I have come a very long way to find you.”

“I do not like it here,” said the girl.

“Of course not, it is entirely unwholesome. Why are you on the stairs?”

“They have put me out.”

“Are they not afraid you will run? I would run.”

Miss Temple peered more closely at the girl's face, but with just the one candle it was impossible to see if she had been damaged by the glass. Francesca shook her head, her lips pressed so tight together, they nearly disappeared.

“I have been told not to,” she said.

“No sort of reason at all.” The wailing cry worked to undo Miss Temple's composure like a key. “Who is that?”

“I suppose it is him.”

“And I am certain he deserves every second of it too,” said Miss Temple. Beyond the door, the scream bubbled away… and there was nothing but the sound of machines. There was no time. She took Francesca's arm.