The Dark Volume

RLS

The note bore no date. Some elements were obvious enough— if Eloise was “Companion” to “she,” then “she” must be Charlotte Trapping. The husband and family were the late Colonel and the three children now in the care of Captain Tackham. The Contessa's reference to “our allies” made clear that to the rest of the Cabal, Caroline was the Contessa's creature and thus needed to seemingly embark on normal business with Roger (the “invitees” being those figures from the highest levels of society they planned to assimilate into books) to conceal the Contessa's private business. And this private business had to do with Charlotte Trapping and Eloise. Had Eloise truly met with Charlotte Trapping and Caroline Stearne at the St. Royale? Surely Eloise would have said something about it to her, or to the Doctor— surely she must have recognized Caroline Stearne on the airship, or at Harschmort when she was taken prisoner!

But was that the case? When Eloise had been captured in the Comte's laboratory, Caroline had been elsewhere. They had all been on the rooftop and in the airship, but with the chaos of the battle, was it possible that Eloise and Caroline had not recognized one another? Miss Temple huffed. Anything was possible, but was it likely? Was it not more likely that Eloise remembered the meeting perfectly well, that she had merely kept the knowledge to herself? As they walked from the Jorgenses' cabin Miss Temple had spoken of Caroline Stearne, about her murder… and Eloise had not said a word.

SHE LOOKED around her at the tiny room with a colder sense of pride. Caroline Stearne, like Eloise, had been a creature in service, and indeed, the room appeared now every bit as provisional and undistinguished as a military barracks or a cramped cabin on a trading ship. And this had been the woman's final home—these were her things, still strewn about because there existed no one in the world to claim them, no one who cared to know her fate—whether she might be dancing in a Macklenburg ballroom or a frozen, crab-chewn corpse at the bottom of the sea. Miss Temple walked out, stepping over the trash in the atrium and past the debauchery, accepting the taste of death in her throat and the unfettered desire coursing through her veins. These people were nothing.

MISS TEMPLE marched through Harschmort at a rapid pace, determined to find the Trapping children and extricate them from the glass woman's clutches. She swept into a suite of offices—thick with filing cabinets and bookcases and work desks—and looked down to see her feet kicking through loose papers as if they were autumn leaves. The cabinets and desks had been pulled open and ransacked without care. Then through a large doorway she heard a crash and raised voices. Miss Temple threw back her shoulders and deliberately walked toward the noise, the knife in one hand and the case in the other.

Robert Vandaariff's private office was full of soldiers. Red-coated dragoons—with their brass helmets and clanking sabers, half like machines themselves—were tearing through every expensively appointed inch as uncaringly as a thresher pounding grain. Hovering ineffectually around them were Lord Vandaariff's own people, doing their vain best to preserve his files from destruction.

Miss Temple darted back from view.

“I do not care, sir!” bellowed a harsh voice. “We will find it! We will find him!”

“But we have told you, we have told you all, we do not—”

“Pig swill! Barrows, have a look through these, from his own desk!”

There followed a whump, as another column of paper was dropped without ceremony onto a table. The second voice yelped in protest.

“Colonel! I cannot allow you—”

“Foster!”

“Sir!”

Aspiche, for it was none other, ignored Vandaariff's secretary, barking to Foster, “Where is Phelps?”

“With Mr. Fochtmann, sir.”

“Tackham?”

“The Captain is with the… ah… children, sir.”

“What word from Lieutenant Thorpe?”

“None yet, sir. If they searched as far as the canal—”

“I am well aware of it! Carry on.”

“Sir!”

This last was echoed by a snapping click of Foster's boot heels, and the renewed protests of Vandaariff's man. Miss Temple risked another look. She caught the Colonel's receding form, tall and fierce, stalking to the far end of the wide office… Robert Vandaariff's own office, being ransacked like a Byzantine jewel house for clues as to where he had vanished. Miss Temple darted across the open doorway, paused for any corresponding cry of alarm, and then crept on to the next open door.

Before she reached it, a man stepped through, stopping abruptly at the sight of her.

“Mr. Harcourt,” she said, and bobbed her knees, for it was the same young Ministry official from the upstairs hallway. “Miss Stearne. We met with Captain Tackham.”

“I am aware of it. Why are you still at Harschmort? I am sure you have no one's permission.”

“My good friend Lydia Vandaariff—”

“Lydia Vandaariff is not here!”

Mr. Harcourt looked past her to Lord Vandaariff's office. He would call for soldiers. She would be seen by Aspiche.

“What of Lord Vandaariff?” she asked quickly.

“Lord Vandaariff is gone.”

“You do not know where he is?”

Harcourt gestured angrily toward the sound of the ransacking soldiers. “Of course not!”

“Goodness.” She smiled brightly. “Would such information be worthwhile?”

As she hoped, Harcourt hustled her back where he had emerged, the better to make her capture his own. It was another office, its furniture covered with dust cloths. His grip remained hard on the arm that held the case, and he shook her when he spoke.

“Where is he? Tell me! Lord Vandaariff has five estates within two days' travel. Soldiers have searched each one!”

Miss Temple chuckled and shook her head. “Mr. Harcourt, I am not a girl to take the efforts of the Queen's own army lightly! Believe me when I say, with sober respect—”

Harcourt shook her arm again. She looked down at his hand and her voice became cold.

“It is merely a matter of logic—”

“Logic? Are you just guessing? If you think to mock me—”

“Mr. Harcourt, contain yourself! If Lord Robert Vandaariff is not here at Harschmort, then two things have unquestionably taken place.”

“What things?”

“First, someone has lost him. And second, someone else… has taken him.”

Harcourt sputtered with exasperation. Her knife-hand was still tucked behind her back.

“You said you knew where he was!”

“I said I was looking for Captain Tackham.”

“I am right here,” called Tackham from the inner door.

Miss Temple and Mr. Harcourt both spun toward the officer. He smirked at their expressions, then pushed himself toward a tall piece of furniture from which the white cloth had been pulled, a sideboard stocked with bottles. The Captain sorted amongst the brandy as Harcourt sputtered.

“Are they finished? Why did no one call?”

“Where are the children?” asked Miss Temple.

Tackham pulled the cork from a squat square bottle and poured an inch of amber liquid into a glass. “What is she doing here?” he asked.

Harcourt's reply was stopped by a cry from the inner room, the high-pitched voice of a child. Miss Temple took a step toward the door. Tackham quite casually reached back and pulled it tight with a