The Dark Volume

“Come, come,” she said, with a brightness that would not convince a trusting dog. “You forget that I am well acquainted with the woman. Indeed, I am acquainted with her as a woman. Up you go!”

She took his arm carefully with her case-hand, guiding him from the sofa and toward the inner door.

“We cannot—”

“If I leave you here, you will simply die, like Mr. Soames.”

“And the Duke,” he sighed, as if this were a terrible admission.

“And the horrid Duke,” she agreed. “But the truth is, Andrew, the Duke of Staelmaere was killed some days ago. He was shot through the heart in the quarry at Tarr Manor, and by the lover of a Macklenburg spy at that.”

Rawsbarthe wobbled as Miss Temple reached for the doorknob.

“I had no idea.”

“It is a world of secrets.”

THEY PASSED through another shuttered parlor and another after that, Miss Temple closing each door behind with a flick of her boot.

“I have always found you beautiful,” wheezed Rawsbarthe.

“Well, that is most kind of you, I'm sure.”

“What you said to me earlier—about my being ushered into a room, and not remembering…”

“The truth is better for us all, Mr. Rawsbarthe.”

“That is a terrible lie! The truth is a plague!”

“Mr. Rawsbarthe—”

“Andrew!”

She felt the clawlike grip of his fingers on her arm as she opened the next door. Beyond lay a table spread with white cloth, dotted with small reddish stains.

“Can you smell her?” she asked.

“I cannot smell myself,” he whimpered. “Though any mirror says I ought to.”

“She has left with Captain Tackham and the children.”

“What does she look like exactly?”

“You have seen her yourself, Mr. Rawsbarthe.”

“Andrew,” he whined.

“Andrew—you have seen her. She has seen you. Have you no memory of it at all?”

He shook his head dumbly. “I saw your man,” he said.

“What man?” Miss Temple had grown impatient and pulled him round the table to the door. “Roger?”

“Roger is dead. And I have been thinking, since we spoke—you will wonder that I have come back to find you—but all of what you said has been gnawing at my mind, and—I will say it—at my body. I can imagine where you have been, what you have done, what experiences you have cast yourself open to, what wanton impulses —”

“Mr. Rawsbarthe—”

“Do not deny it! I am speaking of your criminal!”

Miss Temple's hand was on the knob, but stopped mid-turn.

“You saw Cardinal Chang? At the station?”

“Of course not. At the Trappings'.”

“When was that? What were you doing? What was Chang doing?”

“Looking for her.”

“Mrs. Trapping?”

“Why should you care for him?” Rawsbarthe whined. “He is a brute! Your curls are so beautiful—”

Rawsbarthe erupted in a coughing fit. His face was bright with fever. Clumps of hair fringed his lapels. His eyes had acquired a slick cerulean oil, and she doubted he could see a thing. Miss Temple pulled free. He sank against the table. She retreated to the far door.

“Where are you going?” he rasped, his voice shrill with concern.

“I must find Captain Tackham. I will return, I promise!”

“You will not!” Rawsbarthe moaned, then toppled. He scrabbled to steady himself but found only the tablecloth, balling it up in his hands. He collapsed to the floor with a shriek, pulling the white sheet on top of him. Miss Temple plunged into the darkness of another room.

RAWSBARTHE'S PLAINTIVE cries (“Celeste! Celeste!”) penetrated the door to Miss Temple's back, but she did not pause. She followed Mrs. Marchmoor's path, the smell growing more bitter and the stains more bright until she finally emerged in a far part of the garden, lined with hedges. Crushed on the threshold was a broken chocolate biscuit.

The glass woman's journey to Harschmort had yielded nothing. In the absence of the book, and the Comte's machines, and Vandaariff, was Mrs. Marchmoor in flight? Or did she follow some desperate strategy? One thing was sure: since the children had been taken out this way, not back through the house, Mrs. Marchmoor did not intend a return via carriage or train…

So much pointed to Charlotte Trapping. Yet if the children were only hostages to their mother's cooperation, what could one make of the vials and bloodstained cotton wool? With a grimace Miss Temple opened her mind to the memories of the Comte d'Orkancz—the three children, their mother, the vials—but was rewarded only with bitter retching and tears in her eyes. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She must rely on her own wits. The children had been brought here… and now they were being taken away. Why?

WHEN SHE ran out of lawn—the house now a darkening shadow behind her—Miss Temple tumbled into the beach grass without a break in stride. Another two minutes of running, her pace now spurred by fear, and she dropped into a sudden crouch. Ahead stood a silhouetted man smoking a cigar, its tip winking red. It was Captain Tackham. Miss Temple flung herself down.

Tackham stood scanning the high grass, turning his head stiffly like a marionette, his face emptied of all expression and intelligence. She held her breath. Another ten seconds and Tackham erupted into a fit of coughing. He raised both hands to his head, gagging like a man given poison.

From behind him came a call.

“Captain Tackham!”

Tackham wiped his mouth with dismay. “In a moment!”

He threw his shoulders back and staggered from Miss Temple's view. Quietly, she slipped after him. She could hear bootsteps on planking and creaking ropes… another few yards and she could see the canal itself. To either side of a long barge scurried shadowed figures—soldiers on deck and others, actual bargemen, readying sails and coiling the ropes that bound the craft to the canal side. Miss Temple saw nothing of the Trapping children, nor of Mrs. Marchmoor, but the glass woman had just inhabited Tackham in order to search the dunes. She must be in a cabin belowdeck. Tackham strode up the gangway to a knot of men. She recognized Mr. Phelps, Colonel Aspiche, and—his forehead wrapped with gauze—the ambitious engineer, Mr. Fochtmann.

Captain Tackham saluted the Colonel, gave some minimal report, and then stood back from the others, who talked on. Tackham's gaze was restless, studying the sailors, sweeping the dock, then returning to the grassy dunes. He raised a hand and the other men at once followed his gaze. Miss Temple plunged her head down to the sand, too terrified to move.

“Where have you been?” Mr. Phelps called directly toward her. “We have been waiting!”

Miss Temple pressed her body closer to the ground, hoping it was all a mistake, fighting the urge to leap up and run.

“Did you find Rawsbarthe?” called Phelps again.

“I did,” gasped a voice right behind her. Miss Temple nearly yelped with surprise. Not inches away, his feet kicking grass into her face, appeared the young Ministry man, Mr. Harcourt.

“My apologies to you all!” Harcourt was out of breath as he stumbled down to them. Phelps turned to the others.