The Dark Volume

pearling.

“This woman is alive!” he cried. “Hot water! Clean linen—whatever you have! At once!”

Svenson thrashed out of the horrible stiff coat. He snapped his fingers again at the man with the knife, and snatched it away—an old penknife, its thin blade nothing near sharp enough. He put a hand again to Eloise's throat and then her forehead, which was cold and moist, and unbuttoned the black dress to either side of the tight glass disk, which seemed fixed through to her skin. Svenson carefully plucked up the dress and sawed a quick circle around the glass. The wound was just at the lowest joint of her rib cage. Had the cartilage shattered Xonck's glass stiletto, or had the blade thrust past, penetrating her vital organs? That would be an injury he could scarcely address with a fully equipped surgical theatre.

He gently palpated the paper-white skin around the dark lozenge, seeking the submerged hardness of a deeper plume of glass. The skin was colder around the wound. Her lips had darkened in the seconds she'd been on her back. Svenson turned savagely to the men clustered at the door.

“Where is the water? She will die without it!”

A man in a blue uniform edged toward Svenson and cleared his throat. “The train, sir… the schedule—”

“I do not give a damn for your schedule!” cried Svenson.

A ring of blued flesh was spreading before his eyes across Eloise's abdomen. He could not wait for the water. He pulled the skin taut with the fingers of his left hand and edged the knife beneath the disk of glass. A sharp chop and the glass came free, leaving only a few splintered chips. Eloise gasped, but when he glanced to her face she was no closer to her senses. What was more, part of the wound had coagulated at once back into glass. The remaining hole was small, perhaps a half inch wide—but how deep did it go? How could he dig without any way to control the bleeding? Would more bleeding simply transform into more blue glass and make things worse? Svenson was sure it was the toxic quality of the glass itself, more than the puncture, that was killing her. He thought back to Chang's damaged lungs. The orange liquid—if only he had some now!—had dissolved the glass Chang had inhaled, allowing him to spit it up like the gelatinous detritus of any chest cold, removing it in a way surgery never could have. And once it was done the man had regained his strength with striking rapidity.

But Svenson had no orange liquid. There was nothing else for it. He inserted the knife blade into the wound—and then cursed out loud in German as the entire compartment lurched around him. The train was moving.

“God damn!” he cried to the men in the doorway. “What is this idiocy?”

“It is the schedule,” protested the uniformed conductor. “I have tried to explain—”

“She will die!” barked Svenson.

None of the clustered men spoke, stepping away as the conductor appeared in the doorway.

“I hope the lady will not. And I am happy to postpone any questions of payment… of your fares … until… ah… we know if there will be—that is—one or two of you.”

Svenson glared at the man, thought better of anything he could possibly say, and spun back to Eloise, painfully aware of the tiny shakes now wracking her body. He parted the wound again, his own fingers unsteady, the edge of the glass flecking new chips into the shimmering tight cavity, as it nicked her flesh. The knife would not work. He set it down and dug in his pocket for a handkerchief, and then wrapped it around his fingers. With a sharp push that sparked another gasp from Eloise, Svenson took hold of the spike and wrenched it out. He folded the handkerchief and held it over the wound—clean flowing blood staining the cloth—and eased it away. The wound was not deep. The glass was gone.

WHEN THE hot water and linen finally arrived, Svenson cleaned and dressed the wound and settled Eloise onto a row of seats. He brooded with a cigarette, watching her face for some sign he could not quite name. Perhaps he simply wanted to know she would survive, so he could leave with a clear conscience, as he had left Miss Temple…

Svenson sat bolt-upright in his seat. What had he been thinking? He was an idiot, a negligent fool—they were miles beyond Karthe with no way to return. Miss Temple must have traveled to Karthe with Eloise… was she marooned at the inn awaiting Eloise's return? Was she dead in the shadows of the train yard, another glass spike in her heart? Was Xonck even then stalking her through the streets, as he had hunted the men of the village?

Svenson stuffed the pistol into his belt, pulling his uniform tunic down to cover the butt. He strode to the front of the train and found the conductor chatting with two men of business, perhaps from the mines. Svenson cleared his throat. The conductor did not respond, but when Svenson cleared his throat more pointedly, the man looked up, wary at what the troubling foreigner might want now, as if delay, disruption, and women mysteriously reclaimed from death were not enough for an evening. With a nod to the two businessmen, he joined Svenson in the corridor.

“Something else?” he asked crisply.

“Is there is another woman on the train?”

“Who requires a rescue?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No other women at all that I am aware of.” The conductor smiled at him. “And I am quite correct in my counting.”

“I'm sure you are,” said Svenson. “Yet this woman is very small, and may be hidden.”

“To avoid paying her fare?”

Svenson shook his head. “She may have been subject to the same assailant —”

“Assailant?”

“The woman who was attacked—Mrs. Dujong—by the same man who attacked the fellow in the train yard!”

“Impossible. He was attacked by a woman.”

“What?” said Svenson. “Who says so?”

“Everyone, of course. The man himself!” The conductor glanced to the businessmen, raising his eyebrows.

“Why did no one tell me?”

“You were tending to the lady.”

Had the Contessa truly been at the train yards? Could Xonck have mistaken Eloise for her?

“There are no other female passengers?” Svenson asked. “You are certain?”

“There are not,” replied the conductor.

“But the cars for freight, from the mines…” Svenson pointed to the rear of the train.

“These hold no passengers.”

“Not normally…”

“They are full of freight.”

“Have you inspected them?” pressed Svenson. “Some must be empty, to pick up goods farther down your line.”

“Empty cars would be locked.”

“But locks can be picked. Is there no way one might examine—”

“There are no connecting doors, you see.” The two businessmen were now openly eavesdropping, and the conductor appealed to them for the obviousness of his logic.

“But it might be possible when we stop?” Svenson asked.

“We are not stopping for some time.”

“Yes, of course, but when we do…”

“I will be sure to advise you of that fact,” said the conductor. “You will excuse me…”

THE DOCTOR stalked the length of the train's two passenger cars. The conductor had told the truth. Besides the two mining men, only one other compartment in the first car was occupied—a quartet of laborers heading south to work in the mills. Might Miss Temple have found refuge in the caboose? He would have to wait until the train stopped to reach the caboose too.