The Dark Volume

Comte d'Orkancz?”

No one spoke. Instead of answering, Vandaariff attempted to stand. Fochtmann caught his arm, and so steadied, Vandaariff kept his feet.

“He will not answer,” hissed Leveret. “Look at him! He does not even acknowledge the phrase!”

“That is impossible,” said Mrs. Trapping. “At least… it ought to be…”

Leveret's face darkened with rage. “Is this trickery? Does he presume to trifle?”

“For God's sake!” cried Fochtmann. “Give him another moment! He has only come back from the dead!”

Miss Temple was startled by the halting clicking steps—the glass woman was advancing with great care, the little girl in tow. Vandaariff thrust Fochtmann away from him, gripping one of the brass boxes in an effort to remain upright. A line of saliva hung from his lips. He met Mrs. Marchmoor's swirling blue eyes.

Then his mouth slackened and his eyes went under a cloud. The glass woman was quite obviously probing Robert Vandaariff's new-fashioned soul.

“What do you see?” whispered Fochtmann.

“Tell us!” hissed Mrs. Trapping.

The glass woman began to glow with the same cerulean sparks Miss Temple had seen that morning in the Duke of Staelmaere's study, and her gleaming fingers tightened around the vacant girl's arm.

“Look at this marvel!” Fochtmann whispered, eagerly staring at the glass woman. “She senses him… she sees what has been done—an accomplishment beyond anything I might have dreamed…”

Francesca's eyelids flickered like a dreaming animal's. Miss Temple looked back to Vandaariff… with alarm she realized that Francesca's face was now flinching and twitching exactly in time with his. Through the conduit of the glass woman's hand, the child was being completely exposed to Vandaariff's mind. Did no one else see?

Mrs. Marchmoor's words curled into Miss Temple's mind like a serpent encircling a sleeping bird.

“It is done. The Comte d'Orkancz has been saved.”

FRANCESCA TRAPPING suddenly coughed, choked, and then sprayed out a mouthful of blackened spit. Her mother screamed. As if realizing too late what had happened, Mrs. Marchmoor thrust the child toward Colonel Aspiche, breaking the connection. Francesca retched again, bent over double.

“Francesca!” shrieked Mrs. Trapping.

The girl looked up, eyes wide, as if she were seeing the room for the very first time. Mrs. Trapping rushed toward her, but was caught about the waist by Leveret.

“What has happened?” shrieked Charlotte Trapping. “What has she done to my child?”

“Charlotte—no, wait—”

“Do not!” cried the Colonel. He held tight to Francesca's shoulder and pointed to Mrs. Marchmoor. “Margaret—Margaret, what in heaven…”

Her remaining glass hand had been sprayed with black bile. Mrs. Marchmoor convulsively licked her lower lip as she stared down at the stain, as if she could taste the nauseating substance through her surface. The surprise in the glass woman's voice pierced Miss Temple's mind like a pin.

“He… he is… unclean…”

The bright slug of her blue tongue spurred another spasm in Miss Temple's stomach. The glass woman had never found the corruption, even when probing Vandaariff's mind outright, having wrongly assumed that with the change in bodies the Comte's prohibition no longer held force. Only when the taint had passed to the child could the glass woman sense it. Mrs. Marchmoor retreated from Vandaariff, her blue lips drawn back.

“Unclean?” Leveret shook his head angrily, still holding Mrs. Trapping. “What does that mean?”

“It means nothing!” shouted Fochtmann. “We all saw the sickness from the procedure—this is more of the same—it is natural—”

“It is not,” Aspiche shouted. “Look at the child!”

Francesca trembled, held at arm's length by the Colonel. Her lips and chin were black, and her small mouth dark as a wound.

“The child is ill,” snapped Fochtmann. “It has no bearing on our work.”

Phelps nervously addressed the glass woman. “You must explain, madame. You looked into his mind—you told us the infusion worked, that this was the Comte—”

“It is the Comte!” insisted Fochtmann, but the glass woman's continuing distress stopped his speech.

“I could not see it in him,” Mrs. Marchmoor hissed. “Only in the girl… but it is from his body…”

“What is from his body?” demanded Aspiche.

“Nothing!” Fochtmann waved his arms. “The girl must be diseased—”

“I was forbidden by him,” said Mrs. Marchmoor. “None of the Comte's servants could enter his mind—”

“We don't understand you, Margaret,” said the Contessa.

The glass woman rolled her head as if to clear it, yet her words remained too dense, as if she could not find the way to translate her present senses into language.

“I could taste that the book held him, that he had been infused with Lord Robert—but not the character of his mind… I was forbidden, and so the corruption… eluded me…” Mrs. Marchmoor thrust her bandaged stump at Miss Temple. “She knew! She knew all along!” Her dismay rose to a keening shriek.

Fochtmann wheeled toward Miss Temple, his own frustration finally finding its object.

“Did she? It seems she has known all sorts of things! She was alone with the book—and alone with the girl! I suggest she tell us all exactly what she has done to them both!”

Miss Temple took a careful step backwards.

“The truth is before you all—the decay. You have not given a man new life… you have retrieved a corpse.”

“TRUTH BE damned!” roared Xonck, and he careened toward Vandaariff, scattering everyone. Fochtmann turned in protest, but Xonck drove his plaster fist into the man's stomach, then took Vandaariff by the collar with his other hand.

“Francis!” screamed Mrs. Trapping. “Francis, we need him—step away at once! At once or you will die!”

“Company!” cried Leveret. “Arms!”

The soldiers raised their carbines. Xonck spun Vandaariff's body before him as a shield, his foul lips pressed dripping against the man's right ear. Aspiche thrust Francesca Trapping to Phelps, sweeping out his saber as Phelps caught the girl in the crook of his cast and groped in his coat for a pistol. Leveret waved to stop the soldiers from firing, visibly furious at events being so suddenly beyond his control.

But then Xonck's whispering was answered.

From inside his raw throat came a chuckle, and the man's features settled into a heavier, petulant expression Robert Vandaariff had never worn.

“Why, Francis…” he rasped. “You seem to be in… a very bad way…”

“Oskar?” whispered Xonck with fervent relief. “Is it you?”

“You hold me rather tightly,” answered Vandaariff. “I do not like it.”

“If I release you, I will be shot.”

“Why is that possibly my concern?”

“Let me enlighten you, Oskar,” Xonck snarled. “My body is poisoned by your glass. I require you to save my life—after which I am again your willing friend. I cannot speak for Rosamonde—she too is not her best—but I can say that others, who hold the power to end both your life and mine and whose place this is, have agreed to your restoration only so you can be their slave.”

“That is only to be expected.” Vandaariff shrugged, surveying the room as if his gaze were a gun site, nodding with contempt as he recognized the faces around him. He reached up to wipe his face, the surprisingly delicate movements of his large hand entirely of a piece with the Comte d'Orkancz. He frowned at the black fluid