The Dark Volume

“She is… at times… willful.”

“She is a girl. It was entirely my fault. I was upset, about everything. You speak of cowardice—I could no more say the truth to Celeste than you could say it to me. And now—”

“If Miss Temple is left behind in Karthe, the best we can do for her is find our enemies. Both the Contessa and Francis Xonck were at the train. In his attack he may have mistaken you for her.”

Svenson paused and met her eyes, discomfort hardening his voice. “Did he speak to you?”

“No—it was too sudden—he caught me from behind—”

“But did he see you? What I mean—of course he saw you—but did he know you?”

“Why does that matter?”

“You are acquainted with the man—from before all of this, in the Trapping household.” The name stuck in Svenson's mouth like a too-large bite of unboned fish. “I promise you I do not care—it is no matter of feeling. The matter is Miss Temple's life… and ours.”

“I do not remember,” whispered Eloise.

“You do. You remember enough.”

“I cannot—”

“No, Eloise. You must.” His tone had grown sharp. “You took a lover—very well, we are adults, it is the world. But that man was Arthur Trapping. Or—yes, I am not a fool—that man was Francis Xonck. It is all done. What matters is your loyalty now, what we know now!”

“Loyalty? But—but they have tried to kill me—”

Svenson waved his hand angrily. “Who have they not tried to kill? How many of their own have they not sacrificed pell-mell, as if they were laying tricks at whist!”

“Abelard—”

Doctor Svenson stood. “You must hear me. I do not care for your past, save how it can help us now. As for the hole in your mind—to my mind it gives you a choice. If you were with them before—”

“I—I was not—I cannot have been—”

He overrode her words. “You have the opportunity for a clean slate. I will do all I can to help and protect you. If you will excuse me, I must locate our conductor.”

HE WHEELED from the compartment, blindly snatching up the pistol, his own idiotic words echoing in his head. He had only exposed himself as a jealous, bitter fool—and how many hours would they be on this godforsaken train together? Nor, with her injury, was there any credible way for him to once more, like a coward, leave her behind. He stepped into the next car, acutely aware of the eyes of each passenger—all seemed to have woken— sliding suspiciously over him as he passed. Still no sign of the conductor. Svenson stepped through the far door onto the platform.

The wind was freezing, and as he stood with his hands on the rail Svenson felt every bit as helpless as he was certain he appeared. He stared down at the black ties, flashing past so fast, and exhaled deeply, doing his level best to empty his heart along with his lungs. He breathed in the unmistakable odor of indigo clay.

He yanked the pistol from his belt, but all he could see was the night sky and the coal wagon. He crouched below the rail, sniffing again—faint, but any whiff of indigo clay was enough to prickle a man's throat… yet where was the source? He lifted his boots—something spilled onto the platform? No… it was from below. There were cross-braces under each car, and indigent fellows bold—or desperate— enough to travel that way… but how could he be smelling something under his own car with this wind, which ought to whisk any smell immediately behind them? Svenson screwed in his monocle, peering ahead, beneath the coal wagon. He could not see a damned thing.

Svenson returned to the car for a lantern, but the hook was empty. One of the businessmen looked out of his compartment, blanching to see Svenson advancing at such speed.

“Where is the conductor?” the Doctor called, his voice low but sharply urgent.

“I—I have not seen him this hour,” stammered the man.

But Svenson was already past, convinced the conductor had been thrown off the train or beneath its wheels after inadvertently discovering Xonck's hiding place. And if Xonck was hiding under the coal wagon, what did that mean as far as the Contessa's fate—or Miss Temple's? Had they been dispatched like so many others? Or could they be on the train? That would put Xonck in the same situation as Svenson with regard to the freight cars and the caboose… unless— and Svenson cursed himself once more— Xonck had not been asleep when they'd stopped. Of course not—Xonck would have been waiting, leaping at once from hiding and loping like a wolf down the length of the train. Perhaps even now he was warming himself at the stove in the caboose, having slaughtered every other occupant! And if Miss Temple or the Contessa had sought refuge there—was there a thing they could have done to stop him?

Svenson stalked through to the second car without finding a lantern. Upon reaching Eloise's compartment he found its door open and one of the young men traveling to the southern mills standing inside. Beyond the man, Svenson saw Eloise, the bandage in place, her hands held tightly together. The young man spun to Svenson, eyes caught by the pistol in his hand.

“I—we heard the lady cry out,” he managed. “For help.”

“Eloise?” Svenson called past the man to her, fixing the interfering fool with an openly vicious gaze.

“I was asleep… I do not know… dreaming—perhaps I did.”

“Excellent. Most kind of you to help.” Svenson stepped aside with all the crispness of a Macklenburg soldier on parade to allow the man to exit. “If you will excuse us.”

The young man did not move, his gaze still fixed on the weapon.

“Is there something wrong on the train?” he asked.

“I cannot locate the conductor,” replied Svenson, in as mild a voice as he could manage. “Perhaps he walked up to the engine when last we stopped.”

The young man nodded, waiting for Svenson to say more, and then nodded again when it became clear that Svenson had no plans to do so. He edged into the corridor and walked quickly away, looking back once, to find Doctor Svenson glaring. The man bobbed his head a third time as he left the car.

“I am sure he was only trying to help,” whispered Eloise.

“A man of his age alone with an injured woman,” observed Svenson, “is no more worthy of trust than an asp let into a child's nursery.”

She did not reply, giving him the clear impression that his entire manner only made things worse.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“I have been thinking,” she replied, not to his question at all. “You asked me of Francis Xonck. Whatever glass he used to stab me, I know it was from a book that had been imprinted. Because I felt myself— my flesh, but also my mind—being penetrated, not by a blade, but by… experiences.”

“Do you recall them?”

Eloise sighed. “Will you not put that thing away?”

Svenson looked down at the pistol. “You do not understand. The conductor is missing.”

“Yet if he has only gone to the engine—”

“Xonck is on the train—somehow—I am not certain where. The conductor may have discovered him and paid the price.”

“You should not have lied to that boy—you ought to have enlisted his help!”

“There is no time, Eloise, and too much to explain. He and everyone else on this train would think me mad —”

“It would be mad to face Francis Xonck alone when there is no need! Or are you set on some ridiculous notion of revenge?”

Svenson swallowed an angry reply. That she could so easily mock the very notion of revenge, that he might be owed anything, or that he was incapable of taking it… or even that despite everything she might be correct—he slapped the metal door frame with an open palm. The anger was pointless,