The Dark Volume

unaware of all those they had so recently lost. His conscience gnawed at him, but Svenson was exhausted, hungry, cold, and full of his own aches. That very night was the next train—had he missed it? Xonck would surely be on it too. Svenson told himself this was more important than speaking to widows—it was a way to make the deaths matter.

He passed by the inn with a curious frown… its door hung open. He hesitated, then forced himself to walk on—Mrs. Daube's grievances were not his concern. But then on his right came another open door… a darkened hut… he had been inside—the body of the boy's father. Was that so strange? The family was dead, and the place had not been tidy… but Svenson walked even faster, into a loping half-jog to the end of the village road, suddenly sure that he was already too late. Ahead of him in the hills, a wolf howled. Doctor Svenson reached the narrow road to the train and began to run.

THE WAY curved through a small collection of unused ore cars, and their cold emptiness struck the Doctor as another omen, like the yawning doorways, of something gone wrong. The muddy road gave out onto the graveled yard and Svenson finally saw the tracks themselves and the waiting train, its engine building up steam: two passenger cars, and all the rest either open-topped cars filled with ore, or boxed carriages to carry goods.

Before him were men with lanterns, clustered about a figure on the ground. At Svenson's call they turned— suspicion and anger on their faces. Svenson raised both hands.

“I am Doctor Svenson—I was here yesterday with Mr. Carper and Mr. Bolte. What has happened here? Who is hurt?”

Without waiting for a reply he sank to his knees, frowning professionally at the bright quantities of blood pouring from a deep gash across the fallen man's face. He snatched a rag from the hand of a trainsman and pressed it down hard on the wound.

“Who did this?” the Doctor demanded.

A half-dozen ragged voices began to answer. Svenson cut them off, realizing that the attack had already accomplished its purpose—to distract every pair of eyes around the train.

“Listen to me. There is a man—dangerous and determined to be aboard this train when it leaves. He must be found.” Svenson looked down at the injured man. “Did you see who attacked you?”

The cut across the fellow's cheek was deep and still bleeding… still bleeding—the man had not been cut with blue glass. The man tried to speak between gasps.

“Came from behind me… no idea…”

The Doctor pushed the cloth against the wound and then seized one of the other men's hands to replace his own. He stood, wiping his hands on his coat, then drew the revolver.

“Maintain this pressure for as long as you can—until the bleeding slows. It will have to be sewn—find a seamstress with a strong stomach. But we must search—a man, and also quite possibly a woman…”

The trainsmen were staring at him, almost quizzically.

“But we already found a woman,” one said.

“Where?” Svenson sputtered. “Why didn't you say so? I must speak to her!”

The man pointed to the first compartment car. But another reached out and opened his palm to Svenson. In it he held a small purple stone.

“She had this in her hand, sir. The woman's dead.”

Four. Corruption

MISS TEMPLE did not make a sound. She could not tell if the shadow in the doorway—hissing in ragged gasps—was climbing in or not. The Contessa's hand tightened hard across her mouth.

There was a shout from outside, from the trainsmen. With the barest scrape of gravel the shadowed figure was gone. Miss Temple struggled to peek but the Contessa sharply pulled her down. A moment later came the sound of more bootsteps, jostling bodies in the doorway, mutters about the godawful smell—and then, like the sudden crash of a cannon, the door to the goods car slammed shut. Another agonizing minute, for the woman was nothing if not careful, and the Contessa at last released Miss Temple's mouth.

Miss Temple spun so her back was against the barrels and raised her knife. Her heart was pounding. The car was dark as a starless night.

“Wait now,” whispered the Contessa. “Just a few moments more…”

Then the entire train car shook, jolting Miss Temple and the barrels behind her, then settled to a regular motion as it gathered speed.

The Contessa laughed out loud. Then she sighed—a pretty, sliding sound.

“You may put away your knife, Celeste.”

“I will not,” replied Miss Temple.

“I have no immediate interest in harming you—I am not hungry, nor am I especially disposed to make a pillow of your lovely hair.”

The Contessa laughed again and Miss Temple heard her rummaging in the darkness. Then the Contessa lit a match, and set it to a white wax candle she had wedged into a knothole in the car's plank floor.

“I do not like to waste them,” the Contessa said, “but a little light will aid our… negotiation. The journey will best be served by a short-term mutually beneficial agreement.”

“What sort of agreement?” hissed Miss Temple. “I cannot imagine it.”

“Simple things. An agreement whereby, for example, we trust each other enough to sleep without fear of never waking.”

“But you are a liar,” said Miss Temple.

“Am I indeed? When have I ever lied to you?”

Miss Temple thought for a moment, and then sniffed. “You are vicious and cruel.”

“But not a liar, Celeste.”

“You lied to the others—to the Comte and Francis Xonck! You lied to Roger!”

“I did not need to lie to Roger, my dear—no one ever did. As for Francis and Oskar, I will admit it. But one always lies to friends—if you had friends you would know friendship relies on that very tradition. But lying to enemies… well, it lessens one's spark.”

“I do not believe you.”

“You would be a fool to believe me. And yet, I am offering a bargain. While we share this train car, I will not harm you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not need anything from you, Celeste. What I need is sleep. And sleep in a cold train car will be more restful if we are not barricaded behind barrels of fish oil ready to kill one another. Truly, it is a civilized gesture—a logic beyond morals, if that speaks to you.”

Miss Temple shifted slightly—one of her legs was getting a cramp, and the sweat on her back had cooled. She could feel the weight of her exertions waiting to fall. If she did not sleep well she would slip back into her fever.

“Do you have any food?” she asked.

“I do. Would you like some?”

“I had a perfectly fine supper,” said Miss Temple. “But I expect I will be hungry again in the morning.”

The Contessa smirked, and for the first time Miss Temple saw the woman's sharp spike had been ready if their conversation had gone another way.

THE CONTESSA removed a small cork-stoppered bottle and a handkerchief from her bag. She tugged the cork free and tamped the cloth over the bottle, tipping it once to soak a small circle. Without a glance to Miss Temple she wiped her face and neck as deliberately and thoroughly as a cat giving itself a bath. Miss Temple watched with some fascination as the woman's face slipped through so many guileless formations—shutting her eyes as the cloth dabbed around them, stretching her lips as she swabbed around her nose and mouth, lifting her