The Dark Volume

The depths of Mrs. Marchmoor's blue eyes flickered, but she did not respond.

“Your only alternative fate is Cardinal Chang's blade. Come—together, Margaret, we will be truly unstoppable.”

“Francis Xonck tried to kill you,” said Chang.

“And I to kill him,” the Contessa replied. “What of it? This factory is reason enough to retain Xonck Armaments within the portfolio— do you think I can trust Charlotte? Besides, there is also that claim of Margaret's to settle… that Oskar is unclean. In my opinion, restoring Francis to good health is a perfectly reasonable test, demonstrating Oskar's sound mind and intact knowledge. It is entirely sensible.”

Miss Temple felt the bile at the edge of her mind, curdling her concentration like tart lemon dripped in milky tea.

“But this man is not the Comte—not the Comte you knew!”

“Be quiet, Celeste. Come, Margaret… do we have an agreement?”

“If he can restore Francis…” The glass woman's words hung hesitant and thin, broken ice stretched across the skin of a dark pool. “Perhaps the corruption… is not important…”

The Contessa turned toward Robert Vandaariff. “What do you say to that, Oskar?”

“What can I say, Rosamonde?”

“You can agree.”

“And what of this… supposed ‘taint’?”

“Do you feel unclean?”

“I feel clean as Arctic ice.”

“He is lying!” cried Miss Temple. “For pity's sake, I touched the book—I know!”

“If that is so,” the Contessa rejoined, “then we simply administer the Process once again, or find an empty book to re-vacate his mind, or wrap him in chains until the body of Robert Vandaariff is tractable once more.”

“Your sentiment is touching.” Vandaariff straightened his filthy coat with meticulous small tugs.

“Come now, Oskar, I am overjoyed at your return. Will you join us? Surely you would prefer not to be forced?”

“My goodness. How would you do that?”

The Contessa laughed. “How to decide? There is no time for seduction, and no one you care for to threaten. I could put this gun against your knee—one shot and the Doctor would no doubt be forced to amputate with a penknife!” She laughed again. “And think of all the money you would save, buying but one shoe!”

Vandaariff laughed with her. “It is a very good thing we are such friends. Of course I will join you, and join Margaret. I suppose I am even in Cardinal Chang's debt for stabbing me when he did—otherwise I should surely have twisted your lovely neck clean through.”

“Is… is Francis alive?” It was the tearful voice of Charlotte Trapping.

“O certainly,” replied Robert Vandaariff mildly. “One can see him breathe.”

He snapped his fingers at Fochtmann, who—after a wary glance back to Mrs. Marchmoor—lifted Xonck into the chair that had held Vandaariff. Under Vandaariff's instruction he reattached the nest of stinking tubes and hoses and masks to Xonck's body. As he worked, Fochtmann cut away Xonck's clothing and exposed the gleaming dark wound in his chest. It throbbed with each heavy breath, like a parasite with intentions of its own.

“What will you do?” asked Doctor Svenson. “The glass has fused to his heart and lungs. How can you hope to extract it?”

“The dilemma is indeed perplexing,” agreed Vandaariff, tapping the pulsing wound with his fingernail.

“If you cannot do it, let him die.” This was Cardinal Chang.

“O I can do it,” replied Vandaariff. Behind him Francis Xonck opened his eyes and groggily shook his head, pushing without comprehension against his bonds. Vandaariff tightened the mask with a tug. He turned and met Miss Temple's gaze. Her throat clenched hard, the arrangement of copper wires and hose around Xonck seeming to twist before her eyes into letters, nearly forming words. She was suddenly terribly afraid, but she could not quite pierce his intention… and then she burst out coughing, unable to speak. Doctor Svenson stepped to her but Miss Temple pushed him away, waving her hand at Vandaariff.

“What is wrong with her?” demanded the Contessa.

“She is ill,” replied Vandaariff. “An effect of the glass. Just like poor Francis. Can you hear me, Francis? Are you alive?”

“Can you truly heal him?” asked Mrs. Trapping.

Vandaariff tied off the end of a black hose. “Do you want me to?”

“I… I do,” she whispered.

An excitement leapt to Vandaariff's eyes.

“But your brother is a wicked thing. If anyone deserves an agonizing death it is certainly Francis. No, Mrs. Trapping, I'm sure I don't believe you.”

“I want him as he was,” she insisted.

“You must convince me…”

“I want him back,” she whimpered.

“Back?” asked Vandaariff. “I see—so you can kill him yourself?”

“No,” sniffed Mrs. Trapping, but then was overtaken by sobs. “I do not know what I want at all!”

Robert Vandaariff sniggered, arch and vile. The Contessa spoke angrily. “When you open your mouth, Charlotte, it helps you not at all!”

“As if I had a choice! In anything!”

The Contessa snorted and pointed to the deathly pale little girl, huddled in an insensible ball at the feet of Mr. Phelps. “You might have remembered your daughter.”

“I might have—I might have?”

Mrs. Trapping took three quick steps toward the Contessa, like a high-strung dog, her hands raised, then staggered from an unseen blow. She wheeled to the glass woman in a tearful fury.

“Do not touch me!” she shrieked. “I will not have your filthy mind in mine! I will break you to a thousand pieces! I do not care if my daughter dies! I do not care if I die! If you touch me again, this whole building can go to the devil's hottest furnace!” Mrs. Trapping swayed with the same crazed ferocity her brother had shown on the roof of Harschmort. “This is my factory,” she gasped, “my brother, you cannot—”

“Be quiet, Charlotte!” snapped the Contessa. “Oskar, what pleasure is there in tormenting an idiotic…”

Her words fell silent. Vandaariff's smiling lips were slick with black fluid.

“Oskar?”

“You never did credit my alchemy, Rosamonde.”

“I beg your pardon? Who was it who took your learning to Vandaariff, to Henry Xonck—men of immense power of whom you had never heard.”

Vandaariff nodded dismissively, stroking his chin as if it held the Comte's beard. “Yes, for you it was ever a means to power.”

“For all of us.”

“You lack higher goals, Rosamonde. At heart you are a dog. A pretty dog, but now look at you! You dismissed the glory of my plans for Lydia… for Margaret… even—” he giggled wickedly “—my plans for you. My goodness, yes—if you'd only dreamt what truly awaited you in Macklenburg… one limb at a time, my sweet… and your womb—O that more than anything, Rosamonde, your own sweet legacy… all given over to me.”

The Contessa stared at him.

“Oskar…you—even you—would not have dared—”

Vandaariff barked with contempt. “Would not dare? Would not dare?”

He raised his arm and Fochtmann, back at the line of machines, restored them to roaring life. The Contessa's eyes went wide. She looked with alarm at Miss Temple, still unable to speak, and shouted for him to