Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

FOUR Boniface

Naturally enough, Miss Temple’s first reaction was one of annoyance. She had abandoned her rooms to avoid the mute searching gaze of her maids, silently following her about like a pair of cats, and the far more insistent presence of her Aunt Agathe. She had slept nearly all of the previous day, and when she finally opened her eyes the sky was once again dark. She had bathed and eaten in silence, then slept again. When she woke for the second time in the early morning her aunt had installed herself at the foot of the bed in an armchair dragged by the maids from another room. It had been made clear to Miss Temple the distress she had caused, starting with her unforeseen absence at afternoon tea, and then at dinner, and finally her (characteristically stubborn and reckless) refusal to appear throughout the whole of the evening, to the point that the hotel staff had been alerted—a point of no return, to put it bluntly. This notoriety within the Boniface could only have been inflamed by Miss Temple’s own bloody unexplained arrival (only minutes, Agathe insisted, after she herself had fallen asleep from the exhaustion of worry and waiting).

Agathe was the older sister of Miss Temple’s father, and had lived in the city all of her life. She had been married once to a man who died young and without money, and Agathe had spent her extended widowhood drawing meagerly upon the fortune of a distant grudging sibling. Her hair was grey and at all times tightly kept beneath a hat or wrap or kerchief, as if exposure to the air might breed disease. Her teeth were whole but discolored where her gums had pulled away, which made them appear rather long and giving the rare smiles she was able to bestow onto her niece an unwholesome predatory aspect.

Miss Temple accepted there had been cause for worry and so she had done all she could to allay the aged woman’s fear, even going so far as to answer aloud the delicately pressing question that obviously loomed unvoiced behind her aunt’s every euphemistic query—did her niece still possess her virtue? She had assured her aunt that indeed, she had returned intact, and all the more determined to remain so. She did not, however, go into any great detail about where she had been or what she had endured.

The bloody silk underthings and the filthy topcoat had been burnt in the room’s coal heater while she’d been asleep—the maids hesitantly bringing them to her aunt’s attention when they’d found them littering the floor. Miss Temple herself had refused any suggestion that she see a doctor, a refusal Aunt Agathe had accepted without protest. This acquiescence had surprised Miss Temple, but then she realized her aunt believed that the smaller the circle of knowledge, the smaller the prospect for scandal. They had managed to find a potent salve for the still-raw scoring above her left ear. She would retain a scar, but her hair, once washed and re-curled, hung down to cover it perfectly well, save for a small cherry-red flick the size of a baby’s thumbnail that extended, glistening with salve, onto the unblemished skin of her cheekbone. However, as Miss Temple sat in bed eating her breakfast, she found her aunt’s investiture in the armchair increasingly odious, watching her every bite like an animal hoping for scraps—in this case hoping for some further explanation, some crumb of surety that her position and pension were not to be obliterated by the foolish, wanton urges of a naïve girl thrown over by her ambitious cad of a sweetheart. The problem was that Agathe said nothing. Not once did she challenge Miss Temple’s actions, not once did she trumpet the young lady’s reckless irresponsibility or upbraid her for an unlikely escape, which was surely the result of some undeserved divine intervention. All of this Miss Temple could have dealt with, but the silence—the somehow puling silence—vexed her extremely. Once the tray had been removed she announced in a voice of unquestionable clarity that, while she again regretted any inconvenience caused, she had become involved in an adventure, she was unharmed and, far from being finished with the matter, had every intention to pursue it most keenly. Her aunt did not answer, but merely cast her disapproving gaze away from Miss Temple and toward the tidy work desk, upon which the large oiled revolver lay like some kind of loathsome stuffed reptile, a gift brought from some strange uncle’s journey to Venezuela. Her aunt looked back at Miss Temple. Miss Temple announced that she would also be needing a box of the appropriate cartridges.

Her aunt did not respond. Miss Temple took this as an opportunity to end the discussion—or non-discussion—and left the bed for her dressing room, locking the door behind her. With a sigh of frustration she balled her nightdress over her waist and squatted on the chamber pot. It was still early morning, but there was light enough to see her green boots on the floor where the maids had placed them. She winced with discomfort as she wiped herself and stood, replacing the lid. When she had taken her bath it had been dark, mere candle light. She walked to the mirror and understood why the others had stared so. On her throat, above the collar of her nightdress, were bruises—the exact purpled impressions of fingertips and a thumb. She leaned her face closer to the glass and touched them gingerly: it was a ghost of Spragg’s hand. She took a step back and pulled the nightdress over her head. She felt her breath catch, fear dancing along the length of her spine, for it was as if she looked at a different body than her own. There were so many bruises and scratches, the narrow margin of her survival was abruptly, horribly vivid. She ran her fingers over each point of discolored, tender flesh, finally cupping herself where his fingers had most cruelly marked her.

She shut her eyes and sighed heavily, unable to quite expel her unease along with her breath. It was not a feeling Miss Temple could easily tolerate. She reminded herself sternly that she had escaped. The men were dead.

Miss Temple emerged some minutes later in her dressing gown, calling for the maids, and sat at her desk. She pushed up her sleeves—making a firm point not to glance at her aunt, who was staring at her—and picked up the revolver with as much confidence as she could muster. It took her longer than she would have liked—long enough that both maids were now watching as well—but finally she was able to open the cylinder and empty the remaining shells onto the blotter. This done, she quickly wrote a list—again, in the writing taking more time than she would have liked, simply because with each item details emerged that she must make plain. When she was finished she blew on the paper to dry the ink, and turned to the maids. They were two country girls, near enough to her own age that the gaps in respective experience and education became so obvious as to be unbridgeable. To the older, who could read, she handed the folded piece of paper.

“Marie, this is a list of items I will require both from the hotel management and from shops in the city. You will present the management with items one, two, and three, and then from them receive directions as to the shops best suited to satisfy items four and five. I will give you money”—and here Miss Temple reached into the desk drawer and removed a leather notebook with a small pile of crisp banknotes tucked into it. She deliberately peeled off two—then three—notes and handed them to Marie, who bobbed her head as she took them—“and you will make the purchases. Do not forget receipts, so I will know exactly how much money has been spent.”

Marie nodded gravely, and with some reason, for Miss Temple was habitually watchful with her money and did not allow odd small sums to disappear where others might, or at least not without due acknowledgment of her generosity.

“The first item is a collection of newspapers, the World, the Courier, the Herald, for today, for yesterday, and for the day before. The second item is a map of the local railway lines. The third item is a geographical map, specifically as it relates to the coastal fen country. The fourth item, which you must find, is a box of these.” Here she handed Marie one of the bullets from the revolver. “The fifth item, which will most likely take the longest, for you must be extremely exacting, are three sets of undergarments—you know my sizes—in the finest silk: one in white, one in green, and one…in black.”

With the other maid, Marthe, she retreated into her dressing room to finish her hair, tighten her corset, and apply layers of powder and cream over the bruises on her throat. She emerged, in another green dress, this with a subtle sort of Italian stitchwork across the bodice, and her ankle boots, which Marthe had duly polished, just as a knock on the door brought the first wave of newspapers and maps. The room clerk explained that they had been forced to send out for some of the previous days’ editions, but that these should arrive shortly. Miss Temple gave him a coin, and as soon as he was gone placed the pile on the main dining table and began to sort through it. She did not exactly know what she was looking for, only that she was finished with the frustration of not knowing what she had stepped into. She compared the rail map with the topographical atlas, and began to meticulously plot the route from Stropping Station to Orange Canal. Her finger had progressed as far as De Conque when she became particularly aware of Marthe and Agathe staring at her. She briskly asked Marthe to make tea, and merely gazed steadily at her aunt. Far from taking the hint, Aunt Agathe installed herself in another chair and muttered that a cup of tea would suit her very well.

Miss Temple shifted in her chair, blocking her aunt’s view with her shoulder, and continued to trace the line to Orange Locks, and from there to the Orange Canal itself. She took a particular pleasure in plotting the progress from station to station, having a visual reference for each one in her memory. The rail map had no further detail about roads or villages, much less particularly great houses, so she pulled the atlas toward her and found the page with the greatest detail of the area. She marveled at the distance she had traveled, and suppressed another shiver at how isolated and in peril she had actually been. The country between the final two stations seemed uninhabited—there were no villages on the map that she could find. She knew the great house had been near the sea, for she remembered the smell of salt in the air, though she well knew that the sea breeze travels far over land as flat as the fen country, so it could have been farther than it seemed. She tried to work out a reasonable radius of possibility, given the time the coach took to reach the house from the station, and looked for any landmark whatsoever on the map. She saw an odd symbol near the canals themselves, which a quick check with the map’s legend told her signified “ruin”. How old was the map—could a house that size be so new? Miss Temple looked up at her aunt.

“What is ‘Harschmort’?”

Aunt Agathe took in a sharp breath, but said nothing. Miss Temple narrowed her eyes. Neither spoke (for in some ways at least the older lady partook of a familial stubbornness) and after a full silent minute Miss Temple slammed the atlas shut and, brusquely rising from the table, strode to her inner room. She returned, to her aunt’s great alarm, with the open revolver, reloading the bullets as she went, and making a great effort at slamming the cylinder home. Miss Temple looked up to see the two women gaping at her and sneered—did they think she was going to shoot them?—snatching up a clutch handbag and dropping the revolver into it. She wound the strap around her wrist and then proceeded to gather her pile of papers with both arms. She snapped at Marthe without the least veil over her irritation. “The door, Marthe.” The servant girl darted to the front door and pulled it open so Miss Temple, her arms full, was free to sail through. “I will be working where I can find peace, if not cooperation.”

Walking down the thickly carpeted corridor, and then down to the lobby, Miss Temple felt as if she were re-entering the world, and more importantly that she was confronting the events that had overtaken her. As she walked past various maids and porters, she knew that—because it was the morning shift—these were the same that had seen her blood-soaked arrival. Of course they had all spoken of it, and of course they all cast inquiring glances her way as she walked by. Miss Temple’s resolve was firm, however, and she knew if anything had changed, it was only that she needed to be even more self-reliant. She knew how fortunate she was to have her independence, and to have a disposition that cared so little for the opinions of others. Let them talk, she thought, as long as they also saw her holding her head high, and as long as she possessed the whip-hand of wealth. At the main desk she nodded at the clerk, Mr. Spanning—the very man who had opened the door upon her bloody return. Society manners were not so different than those among her father’s livestock, she knew, or his pack of hounds—and so Miss Temple held Spanning’s gaze longer than normal, until he obsequiously returned her nod.

She had installed herself on one of the wide plush settees in the empty lobby, a quick, hard glare alerting the staff that she required no assistance, spreading the papers into organized stacks. She began by going back to “Harschmort”, jotting down her observations—its status as a ruin, its location. She then turned first to the Courier, whose pages would be more likely to follow social affairs. She was determined to learn all she could about the gala evening—first as it was understood by the populace at large, and then, by way of any comments she might find about murdered men in the road or missing women, about its true insidious nature. She read through headlines without any immediate idea of what might be most important: scanning the large black type announcing colonial skirmishes, cunning inventions, international ballooning, society balls, works of charity, scientific expeditions, reforms in the navy, infighting amongst the Ministries—it was clear that she was going to have to delve. It had not been ten minutes before she sensed the shadow falling over her work and then heard—had someone come in the main doors?—the vaguely insistent clearing of a throat. She looked up, fully ready to audibly snarl if her Aunt Agathe or Marthe had presumed to follow, but Miss Temple’s eyes saw someone quite different.

He was a strange sort of man, tall, crisply rumpled in the way only a neat-minded person can be, wearing a blue greatcoat with pale epaulettes and silver buttons and scuffed black boots. His hair was almost white, parted in the center of his head and plastered back, though his exertions had caused some of it to break free and fall over his eyes, one of which held a monocle on a chain. He had not shaved, and it seemed to her that he was not especially well. She could not tell his age, partly because of his obvious fatigue, but also because of the way his hair, which was long on the top of his head, had been shaved on the back and sides, almost like some medieval lord—though perhaps he was merely German. He was staring at her, his gaze moving from her face down to her boots. She looked down at them, then up at his face. He was having difficulty with his words. There was a sparsity about the fellow she found nearly touching.

“Excuse me,” he began. His voice was accented, which caused his phrasing to seem more formal than it actually was. “I—I apologize—I have seen you—I did not realize—but now—somehow—through the window—” He stopped, took a breath, swallowed, and opened his mouth to start again and then snapped it shut. She realized that he was staring at her head—the wound above her cheekbone—and then, with rising discomfort, that his eyes had dropped lower, over her neck. He looked up at her, speaking with surprise.

“You have been injured!”

Miss Temple did not reply. While she had not truly expected her cosmetics could hide the bruises for long, she was not prepared to be so soon discovered, much less confront the spectacle of her mauling, reflected in the man’s expression of concern. And yet, who was this man? Could agents of the woman in red have found her so soon? As slowly as she could make her hand do it, she reached for the clutch bag. He saw the movement and put up his hand.

“Please—no—of course. You do not know who I am. I am Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson, of the Macklenburg Navy, in diplomatic service to his majesty Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck, who at this very moment is missing. I am your ally. It is of the utmost importance that we speak.”

As he spoke Miss Temple slowly completed her reach for the bag, bringing it back to her lap. He watched in silence as she inserted her hand, clearly understanding that she took hold of a weapon.

“You said you had…seen me?”

“Indeed,” he said, and then smiled, chuckling strangely. “I cannot even explain it—for truly, we have never to my knowledge been in each other’s presence!”

He glanced behind her, and took a step back—obviously the staff at the desk had taken notice. For Miss Temple this was too much, too quickly—she did not trust it. Her thoughts were spinning back to the terrible evening—Spragg and Farquhar—and who knew how many other minions in service to the woman in red.

“I do not know what you mean,” she said, “or indeed, what you think you mean, seeing that by your accent you are a foreigner. I assure you that we have never met.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again.

“That may be true. Yet, I have seen you—and I am sure you can assist me.”

“Why would you possibly think that?”

He leaned toward her and whispered. “Your shoes.”

To this, Miss Temple had no answer. He smiled and swallowed, glancing back out to the street. “Is there perhaps another place where we might discuss—”

“There is not,” she said.

“I am not mad—”

“You do look it, I assure you.”

“I have not slept. I have been hunted through the streets—I offer no danger—”

“Prove it,” said Miss Temple.

She realized that with her sharp tone there was a part of her that was trying to drive him away. At the same time, another part of her realized that, far from wading through maps and newspapers, she had in his person been presented with the exact advantage she would have wished for in her investigation. She balked because the circumstance was so real, so immediate, and because the man was so obviously stricken with fatigue and distress—qualities from which Miss Temple instinctively withdrew. By continuing these inquiries, what might she herself endure in the future—or endure again? No matter how much she might steel herself to it in the abstract, the corporeal evidence shook Miss Temple’s resolve.

She looked up at him and spoke quietly. “I should appreciate it if you could…in some fashion…please.”

He nodded, gravely. “Then—permit me.” He sat on the end of the settee and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out two gleaming blue cards, quickly glanced at each and then returned one to the pocket. The other, he held out to her.

“I do not understand what this is. I only know what it shows me. As I say, there is a great deal to talk about and, if my fears are correct, very little time. I have been awake all night—I apologize for my desperate appearance. Please, look into this card—as if you were looking into a pool—take it with both hands or you will surely drop it. I will stand apart. Perhaps it will tell you more than it has told me.”

He gave her the card and stepped away from the settee. With shaking hands he took a dark foul-looking cigarette from a silver case and lit it. Miss Temple studied the card. It was heavy, made of a kind of glass she had never seen, brilliant blue that shifted in hue—from indigo to cobalt to even bright aqua—depending on the light passing through. She glanced once more at the strange doctor—he was a German, by his accent—and then she looked into the card.

Without his warning she would have certainly dropped it. As it was, she was happy to be sitting down. She had never experienced the like, it was as if she were swimming, so immersive were the sensations, so tactile the images. She saw herself—herself—in the parlor of the Bascombe house, and knew that her hands were clutching the upholstery because, out of his mother’s sight, Roger had just leaned forward to blow softly across her nape. The experience was not unlike seeing herself in the mirror wearing the white mask, for here she somehow appeared through the eyes of another—lustful eyes that viewed her calves and bare arms with hunger, almost as if they were rightful possessions. Then the entire location shifted, somehow seamlessly, as if in a dream…she did not recognize the pit or the quarry, but then gasped to see the country house of Roger’s uncle, Lord Tarr. Next was the coach and the Deputy Minister—“your decision?”—and finally the eerie curving hallway, the banded metal door, and the terrifying chamber. She looked up and found herself once again in the lobby of the Boniface. She was panting for breath. It was Roger. She knew that all of this had been the experience—in the mind—of Roger Bascombe. Her heart leapt in her chest, surging with anguish that was swiftly followed by rage. Decision? Could that mean what she thought? If it did—and of course it must—it must!—Harald Crabbé became in that instant Miss Temple’s particular, unpardonable enemy. She turned her flashing eyes to Svenson, who stepped back to the settee.

“How—how does this work?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“Because…well…because it is very queer.”

“Indeed, it is most disquieting—an—ah—unnatural immediacy.”

“Yes! It is—it is…” She could not find the words, and then stopped trying and merely blurted, “…unnatural.”

“Did you recognize anything?” he asked.

She ignored him. “Where did you get this?”

“If I tell you—will you assist me?”

“Possibly.”

He studied her face with an expression of concern that Miss Temple had seen in her life before. Her features were pretty enough, her hair fine and her figure, if she were permitted to have an opinion, reasonably appealing, but Miss Temple knew by now and was no longer disquieted by the knowledge that she was only truly remarkable in the way an animal is remarkable, in the way an animal so fully and purely inhabits its self without qualm. Doctor Svenson, when faced with her strangely elemental presence, swallowed, then sighed.

“I found it sewn into the jacket of a dead man,” he said.

“Not”—she held up the card, her voice suddenly brittle, feeling completely caught out—“not this man?”

She was unprepared for the possibility that anything so serious could have happened to Roger. Before she could say more, Svenson was shaking his head.

“I do not know who this man is, the—the point of vantage, so to speak—”

“It is Roger Bascombe,” she said. “He is at the Foreign Ministry.”

The Doctor clucked his tongue, clearly annoyed at himself. “Of course—”

“Do you know him?” she inquired tentatively.

“Not as such, but I have seen—or heard—him this very morning. Do you know Francis Xonck?”

“O! He is a terrible rake!” said Miss Temple, feeling foolishly prim as soon as she said it, having so thoughtlessly parroted the gossip of women she despised.

“No doubt,” agreed Doctor Svenson. “Yet Francis Xonck and this man—Bascombe—between them were disposing of a body—”

She indicated the card. “The man who had this?”

“No, no, someone else—though they are related, for this man’s arms—the blue glass—excuse me, I am getting ahead of myself—”

“How many bodies are involved—to your own knowledge?” she asked, and then, before he could answer, added, “And if you might—if it were possible to—generally—describe them?”

“Describe them?”

“I am not merely morbid, I assure you.”

“No…no, indeed—perhaps you too have merely witnessed—yet I can only hope you have not—in any event, yes—I myself have seen two bodies—there may be others—others in peril, and others I myself may have slain, I do not know. One, as I say, was a man I did not know, an older man, connected to the Royal Institute of Science and Exploration—a fellow I am led to believe of some great learning. The other was a military officer—his disappearance was in the newspaper—Colonel Arthur Trapping. I believe he was poisoned. How the first man—well, the officer was actually the first to die—but how the other man, from the Institute, was killed, I cannot begin to understand, but it is part of the mystery of this blue glass—”

“Only those?” asked Miss Temple. “I see.”

“Do you know of others?” asked Doctor Svenson.

She decided to confide in him.

“Two men,” Miss Temple said. “Two horrible men.”

She could not for the moment say more. On impulse she removed a handkerchief from her bag, moistened a corner and leaned forward to dab at a thin line of blood etched across the Doctor’s face. He muttered apologies and took the cloth from her, stepping away, and stabbed vigorously at his face. After a moment, he pulled it away and folded it over, offering it back. She motioned for him to keep it, smiling grimly and offhandedly wiping her eye.

“Let me see the other card,” said Miss Temple. “You have another in your pocket.”

Svenson blanched. “I—I do not think, the time—”

“I do insist.” She was determined to learn more about Roger’s inner life—who he had seen, the bargains with Crabbé, his true feelings for her. Svenson was blathering excuses—did he want some kind of exchange?

“I cannot allow—a lady—please—”

Miss Temple handed him the first card. “The country house belongs to Roger’s uncle, Lord Tarr.”

“Lord Tarr is his uncle?”

“Of course Lord Tarr is his uncle.”

Svenson did not speak. Miss Temple pointedly raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“But Lord Tarr has been murdered,” said Svenson.

Miss Temple gasped.

“Francis Xonck spoke of this Bascombe’s inheritance,” said Svenson, “that he would soon be important and powerful—my thought—when Crabbé says ‘decision’—”

“I’m afraid that is quite impossible,” snapped Miss Temple.

But even as she spoke, her mind raced. Roger had not been his uncle’s heir. While Lord Tarr (a gouty difficult man) had no sons, he did have daughters with male children of their own—it had been quite clearly and bitterly explained to her by Roger’s mother. Moreover, as if to confirm Roger’s peripheral status, on their sole visit to Tarr Manor, its ever-ailing Lord proved disinclined to see Roger, much less make the acquaintance of Roger’s provincial fiancée. And now Lord Tarr had been murdered, and Roger somehow acclaimed as his heir to lands and title? She could not trust it for a minute—but what other inheritance could Roger have? She did not think Roger Bascombe a murderer—all the more since having herself recently met several of the species—but she knew he was weak and tractable, despite his broad shoulders and his poise, and she suddenly felt cold…the people he had fallen in with, the demonstration he had willingly witnessed in the operating theatre…within her vow to ruin him, her utter and complete disdain for all things Bascombe, it was with a tinge of sorrow that Miss Temple felt oddly certain that he was lost. Just as she had wondered, in the operating theatre at Harschmort, if Roger had truly understood with whom or what he had become entangled—and in that wondering felt a pang at being unable to protect him from his own blindness when it came to the powerful and rich—so Miss Temple felt suddenly sure that, one way or another and without it being his intention, these events would be his doom.

She looked up at Svenson. “Give me the other card. Either I am your ally or I am not.”

“You have not even told me your name.”

“Haven’t I?”

“No, you have not,” said the Doctor.

Miss Temple pursed her lips, then smiled at him graciously and offered her hand, along with her standard explanation.

“I am Miss Temple, Celestial Temple. My father enjoyed astronomy—I am fortunate not to be named for one of Jupiter’s moons.” She hesitated, then exhaled. “Though if we are to be true allies, then—yes—you must call me Celeste. Of course you must—though I am quite unable to call you, what is it—Abelard? You are older, foreign, and it would in any case be ridiculous.” She smiled. “There. I am so very pleased to have made your acquaintance. I am sure I have never before met an officer of the Macklenburg Navy, nor a captain-surgeon of any kind.”

Doctor Svenson took her hand awkwardly. He bent over to kiss it. She pulled it away, not unkindly.

“You needn’t do that. It is not Germany.”

“Of course…as you say.” Miss Temple saw with some small satisfaction that Doctor Svenson was blushing.

She smiled at him, her gaze pointedly drifting to the pocket that held the second card. He noted this and hesitated, quite awkwardly. She did not see the difficulty—she had already seen the other—she would not be disoriented a second time.

“Perhaps you would prefer to view it in a more private room—”

“I would not.”

Svenson sighed and fished out the card. He handed it to her with an evident wave of trepidation. “The man—it is not Bascombe—is my Prince—also a rake. It is the St. Royale Hotel. Perhaps you will know the woman—I know her as Mrs. Marchmoor…or the…ah…spectators. In this glass card—the, ah, vantage of experience—lies with the lady.” He stood and turned away from her, making a fuss of finding and lighting another cigarette, refusing to meet her eye. She glanced at the desk clerks, who were still watching with interest, despite being unable to hear the intense conversation, then to Svenson, who she saw had discreetly stepped away and turned to study the leaves of a large potted plant. Her curiosity was thoroughly piqued. She looked into the card.

When she lowered the card some minutes later, Miss Temple’s face was flushed and her breathing rapid. She looked nervously around her, met the idly curious eye of the desk clerk and immediately turned away. She was relieved and somewhat touched to see that Doctor Svenson still had his back to her—for he clearly knew what she had been experiencing, if only by virtue of another woman’s body. She could not believe what had just happened—what had not happened, despite the intimacy, the utterly persuasive intimacy of the equally disquieting and delicious sensations. She had just—she could not believe—in public, for the first time, without warning!—and felt ashamed that she had so insisted, that she had not taken the Doctor’s strong hint to withdraw—and so had been—a man she did not know, nor had feelings for—though she had sensed the lady’s feelings for him, or for the experience—could those be separated? She shifted in her seat and straightened her dress, feeling to her dismay an undeniable, insistent itching tickle between her legs. If her aunt had at that moment asked again about her virtue, how should she answer? Miss Temple looked down at the glass rectangle in her hands, and marveled at the vast and thoroughly disquieting possibilities residing in such a creation.

She cleared her throat. Doctor Svenson turned at once, his gaze flickering across her, refusing for a moment to meet her eyes. He stepped closer to the settee. She handed him the glass card and smiled up at him quite shyly.

“My goodness…”

He returned it to his pocket, touchingly mortified. “I am desperately sorry—I’m afraid I did not make clear—”

“Do not trouble yourself—please, it is I who should apologize—though in truth I should prefer not to speak of it further.”

“Of course—forgive me—it is vulgar of me to go on so.”

She did not answer—for she could not answer without prolonging what she herself had just expressed a desire to curtail. There followed a pause. The Doctor looked at her with an uncomfortable expression. He had no idea what to say next. Miss Temple sighed.

“The lady, whose—as you say, whose vantage is conveyed—do you know her?”

“No, no—but did you…perhaps…recognize anyone?”

“I could not be sure—they were all masked, but I think the lady—”

“Mrs. Marchmoor.”

“Yes. I believe I have seen her before. I do not know her name, nor even her face, for I have only seen her so masked.”

She saw Doctor Svenson’s eyes widen. “At the engagement party?” He paused. “At—at Lord Vandaariff’s!”

Miss Temple did not answer at once, for she was thinking. “Indeed, at…ah—what is the name of his house?”

“Harschmort.”

“That’s right—it was once some kind of ruin?”

“So I am told,” said Svenson, “a coastal fortification—Norman, perhaps—and then after that, with some expansion—”

Miss Temple recalled the plain, thick, forbidding walls and risked a guess. “A prison?”

“Exactly so—and then Lord Vandaariff’s own home, purchased from the Crown and completely re-made at some great expense.”

“And the night before last—”

“The engagement party, for the Prince and Miss Vandaariff! But—but—you were there?”

“I confess…I was.”

He was looking at her with intense curiosity—and she knew that she herself was keenly hungry for more information, particularly after the revelations about Roger and his uncle—and even now, the prospect of another person’s narrative of the masked ball was desperately appealing. But Miss Temple also saw the extreme fatigue in the face and frame of her newfound ally, and—especially as he persisted in glancing suspiciously out of the window to the street—thought it by far the wiser course to procure for him a place to rest and recover, so that once they had agreed on a course of action, he would be capable of following it. Also, she had to admit, she wanted more time to go through the newspapers—now she had a better sense of what to look for—so that, once they did fully hash through each other’s stories, she could present herself as less a foolish girl. She felt that her own experiences ought not to be undermined by the absence of a handful of place names and perfectly obvious—once one thought of them—hypotheses. She stood up. In an instant, his automatic politeness somehow dog-like, Svenson was on his feet.

“Come with me,” she said, rapidly collecting her papers and books. “I have been shamefully negligent.” She marched across toward the hotel desk, her arms full, looking back at Doctor Svenson, who followed a step behind her, vague protests hovering about his mouth. “Or are you hungry?” she asked.

“No, no,” he sputtered, “I—moments ago—in the street—coffee—”

“Excellent. Mr. Spanning?” This was to the sleek man behind the desk, who at once gave Miss Temple his every attention. “This is Doctor Svenson. He will need a room—he has no servants—a sleeping room and a sitting room should suffice. He will want food—some sort of broth, I expect—he is not completely well. And someone to clean his coat and boots. Thank you so much. Charge my account.” She turned to face Svenson and spoke over his incoherent protest. “Do not be a fool, Doctor. You need help—there is an end to it. I am sure you will help me in your turn. Ah, Mr. Spanning, thank you so much. Doctor Svenson has no baggage—he will take the key himself.”

Mr. Spanning held out the key to Svenson, who took it without a word. Miss Temple heaved her papers onto the counter, quickly signed the chit the clerk had placed in front of her, and then re-gathered her load. With a last crisp smile at Spanning—openly daring the man to find anything in the transaction to assail propriety or sully her reputation in the slightest—she led the way up the main curving flight of stairs, a small industrious figure, with the lanky Doctor bobbing uncertainly in her wake. They reached the second floor and Miss Temple turned to the right, down a wide, red-carpeted corridor.

“Miss Temple!” whispered Svenson. “Please, this is too much—I cannot accept such charity—we have much to discuss—I am content to find a less expensive room in an unobtrusive lodging house—”

“That would be most inconvenient,” answered Miss Temple. “I am certainly not inclined to seek you out in such a place, nor—if your furtive looks are anything to judge—ought you to be wandering the streets until we fully understand our danger, and you have had some sleep. Really, Doctor, it is quite sensible.”

Miss Temple was proud of herself. After so many experiences that seemed almost designed to demonstrate the profound degree of Miss Temple’s ignorance and incapacity, the exercise of such decisive action was highly satisfying. She was also—though she had only known him for a matter of minutes—pleased with herself for making the choice to accept Doctor Svenson, and to extend what aid she could. It was as if the more she was able to do, the farther she removed herself from the painful isolation of her time at Harschmort.

“Ah,” she said, “number 27.” She stopped to the side of the door, allowing Svenson to open it. He did so and peered inside, then indicated that she should enter before him. She shook her head. “No, Doctor. You must sleep. I will return to my own rooms, and when you have restored yourself, alert Mr. Spanning and he will send word, and the two of us can properly confer. I assure you I am looking toward that time with great impatience, but until you are fully rested—”

She was interrupted by the sound of a door opening farther down the corridor. Out of habit she glanced toward the sound and then returned her gaze to Svenson…and then—her eyes widening in surprise, the words dying on her lips—turned back to the guest who had just stepped into the hallway from his room. The man stood watching her, his eyes shifting quickly between her and Svenson. Miss Temple saw the Doctor’s own expression was one of shock, even as she felt him groping in the pocket of his greatcoat. The man in the corridor walked slowly toward them, his footsteps absorbed by the thick carpet. He was tall, his hair black, his deep red coat reaching nearly down to the floor. He wore the same round dark glasses she had seen on the train. His movements were gracefully muscular, like a cat’s, exuding ease and menace equally. She knew she should be reaching in her bag for the revolver, but instead calmly placed her hand over the Doctor’s, stilling his movement. The man in red stopped perhaps a yard or two away. He looked at her—she could not see his eyes—then looked at the Doctor, and then at the open door between them.

He whispered, conspiratorially. “No blood. No princes. Shall we send for tea?”

The man in red shut the door behind him, his masked, depthless eyes fixed on Miss Temple and the Doctor as they stood in the small sitting room. Each had managed to secure a firm grip on their respective weapons. For a long moment, all three glanced back and forth between each other in silence. Finally, Miss Temple spoke to Doctor Svenson.

“I take it you know this man?”

“We have not spoken…perhaps it is better to say that we overlapped. His name—correct me if I am wrong, Sir—is Chang.”

The man in red nodded in acknowledgment. “I do not know your name, though the lady…it’s a pleasure to formally meet the famous Isobel Hastings.”

Miss Temple did not answer. Beside her, she could feel Svenson sputtering. He pulled away from her, his eyes goggling.

“Isobel Hastings? But you—you were with Bascombe!”

“I was,” said Miss Temple.

“But…how did they not know you? I am sure he is looking for you as well!”

“She looks very different in the…daylight.” Chang chuckled.

Svenson stared at her, taking in the bruises, the red line traced by the bullet.

“I’m a fool….” he whispered. “But…how—I beg your pardon—”

“He was on the train,” she said to Svenson, her gaze fixed on Chang. “On my return from Harschmort. We did not speak.”

“Did we not?” asked Chang. He looked to Svenson. “Did we not speak? You and I? I think we did. A man like me. A woman covered in blood—did she tell you that? A man brazening his way into and then away from a pack of enemies with a pistol. I think there was, in each instance…recognition.”

No one spoke for a moment. Miss Temple took a seat on the small sofa. She looked up at the Doctor and indicated the armchair. He wavered, but then sat in it. They both looked at Chang, who drifted to the remaining chair, across from them both. It was only then that Miss Temple realized that something bright was tucked within his hand—his razor. From the way he moved, she had no doubt that he was far more dangerous with the razor than the two of them with their pistols put together—and if that was the case, then something entirely else was called for. She cleared her throat and very deliberately brought her hand out of her green clutch bag. She then took the bag from her lap and placed it to the side on the sofa. A moment later, Chang abruptly shoved the razor into his pocket. After another few seconds, Svenson removed his hand from his coat pocket.

“Were you in earnest about the tea?” Miss Temple asked. “I should like some very much. It is always best when discussing serious matters to do so around a teapot. Doctor—you are nearest—if you would be so kind as to ring the bell.”

They did not speak in the minutes it took for the tea to be ordered and then arrive, nor again in the time spent pouring, aside from monosyllabic inquiries about lemon, milk, or sugar. Miss Temple took a sip from her cup, one hand on the saucer beneath—it was excellent—and so fortified decided that someone had better take charge—for the Doctor seemed in danger of falling asleep and the other man—Chang—was positively wolfish.

“Mr. Chang, you are clearly reticent—I am sure I do not misspeak when I say we all have good reason to be suspicious—and yet you are here. I will tell you that Doctor Svenson and I have been acquainted not above this hour, and that through a chance meeting in the lobby of this hotel, exactly as we have met you in its hallway. I can see that you are a dangerous man—I neither compliment nor criticize, it is merely plain enough—and so understand that if the three of us do come to some profound disagreement, there may be a violent outcome which will leave at least one faction, well, probably dead. Would you agree?”

Chang nodded, a smile playing about his lips.

“Excellent. Given this, I see no reason not to be candid—if any tales are told, it will not disturb the dead, and if we are to join forces, then we will be stronger for sharing our knowledge. Yes?”

Chang nodded again, and sipped his tea.

“You are very agreeable. I propose then—since I have already spoken to Doctor Svenson—this is Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson of the Macklenburg Navy”—here the men exchanged an archly formal nod—“I will briefly narrate my part in this affair. As the Doctor and I had not reached this level of frankness, I hope it will be of some interest to him as well. The Doctor has been awake all night, apparently the object of violent pursuit, and has lost his Prince—as you so astutely noted in the hall.” She smiled. “If Doctor Svenson is able to continue…”

“By all means,” Svenson muttered. “The tea has revived me powerfully.”

“Mr. Chang?”

“I don’t mean to be impertinent,” observed Svenson, “but when I overheard men speaking of you—they called you ‘Cardinal’.”

“It is what some call me,” said Chang. “It derives from the coat.”

“And do you know,” said Miss Temple, “that Doctor Svenson recognized me by the color of my boots? Already we have so many interests in common.”

Chang smiled at her, cocking his head, trying to gauge whether she was serious. Miss Temple chuckled aloud, satisfied to have pushed the razor so far from his thoughts. She took another sip of tea and began.

“My name is not Isobel Hastings, it is Celestial Temple. But no one calls me that—they call me Miss Temple, or—in particularly rare circumstances—they call me Celeste. At this moment, in this city, having met the Doctor and extended to him that privilege, the number has risen to two—the other being my aunt. Some time after my arrival here, from well across the sea, I became engaged to marry Roger Bascombe, a Deputy Under-Secretary in the Foreign Ministry, working primarily for Harald Crabbé.” She felt Svenson’s reaction to this news, but did not look at him, for it was so much easier to speak of anything delicate or painful to someone she knew not at all—still more to a man like Chang whose eyes she could not see. “Some days ago, after perhaps a week where I did not see him for various but perfectly believable reasons, I received a letter from Roger severing our engagement. I wish to make very plain to you both that I harbor no further feelings—save those of disdain—for Roger Bascombe. However, his brusque and cruel manner prompted me to discover the true cause of his act, for he tendered no explanation. Two days ago I followed him to Harschmort. I disguised myself and saw many things and many people, none of which I was intended to see. I was captured and questioned and—I will be frank—given over to two men, to be first ravished and then killed. Instead, it was I who killed them—thus, Doctor, my question about bodies. On the return journey I made the acquaintance—the nodding acquaintance—of Cardinal Chang. It was during my interrogation that I gave the name Isobel Hastings…which seems to have followed me.”

The two men were silent. Miss Temple poured more tea for herself, and then for the others, each man leaning forward with his cup.

“I’m sure there are many questions—the details of what and who I saw—but perhaps it would be better if we continued in the broadest vein of disclosure? Doctor?”

Svenson nodded, drank the whole of his cup and leaned forward to pour another. He took a sip of this, the fresh cup steaming around his mouth, and sat back.

“Would either of you object if I smoked?”

“Not at all,” said Miss Temple. “I’m sure it will sharpen your mind.”

“I am much obliged,” said Svenson, and he took a moment to extract a dark cigarette and set it alight. He exhaled. Miss Temple found herself studying the visible structure of the man’s jaw and skull, wondering if he ever ate at all.

“I will be brief. I am part of the diplomatic party of my country’s heir, Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck, who will marry Lydia Vandaariff. It is a match of international significance, and I am attached to the party in a medical capacity only for the sake of appearance. My prime aim is to protect the Prince—from his own foolishness, and from those around him seeking to take advantage of it—figures of which there has never been short supply. The diplomatic Envoy and the military attaché have both, I believe, betrayed their duty and given the Prince over to a cabal of private interest. I have rescued the Prince from their hands once—after he had been subject, perhaps willingly, to what they called ‘the Process’—which leaves a perhaps temporary facial scarring, a burn—”

Miss Temple sat up to speak, and saw Chang do the same. Svenson held up his hand. “I am sure we have all seen evidence of it. My first instance was at the ball at Harschmort, when I briefly viewed the body of Arthur Trapping, but there have since been many others—the Prince, a woman named Mrs. Marchmoor—”

“Margaret Hooke,” said Chang.

“Beg pardon?”

“Her true name is Margaret Hooke. She is a whore of the highest echelon.”

“Ah,” said Doctor Svenson, wincing with discomfort at the word being spoken in Miss Temple’s hearing. While she was touched by his care, she found the impulse tiresome. If one was engaged in an adventure, an investigation, such delicacy was ridiculous. She smiled at Chang.

“There will be more about her later, for she figures elsewhere in our evidence,” Miss Temple told him. “Is this not progress? Doctor, please go on.”

“I say the scars may be temporary,” continued Svenson, “because this very night I overheard Francis Xonck query Roger Bascombe about his own experience of this ‘Process’—though I saw Bascombe’s face myself when I was at the Institute—I am getting ahead of myself—and there was no such scarring.”

Miss Temple felt a distant pang. “It was before he sent his letter,” she said. “The days he claimed to be at work with the Deputy Minister…it was happening even then.”

“Of course it was,” said Chang, not unkindly.

“Of course it was,” whispered Miss Temple.

“Harald Crabbé.” Svenson nodded. “He is near the heart of it, but there are others with him, a cabal from the Ministry, the military, the Institute, other individuals of power—as I say, the Xonck family, the Comte d’Orkancz, the Contessa Lacquer-Sforza, even perhaps Robert Vandaariff—and somehow my country of Macklenburg is a part of their plan. In the face of indifference from my colleagues, I rescued the Prince from their twisted science at the Institute. It was there I saw Cardinal Chang. At our compound I was forced to attend to several of our soldiers—also, I believe, a result of Cardinal Chang”—again he held up his hand—“I make no judgments, they have since tried to kill me. In that time, the Prince was taken in secret from his room, I do not know how—from above. I set out alone to find him. In Harald Crabbé’s house I heard Francis Xonck and Roger Bascombe discuss philosophy over the strangely disfigured body of an Institute savant—quantities of his blood had been turned to blue glass. They were joined by my own military attaché, Major Blach, who is part of their plans—the only bit of news being Blach’s assumption that the cabal had taken the Prince, and Xonck’s assurance that they had not. In any case, I escaped, and attempted to find Madame Lacquer-Sforza, but was taken by the Comte d’Orkancz—dragooned to consult on another medical matter, another of their experiments that had gone wrong—and then—it is a long story—given over to be killed, sent to the river bottom with the corpses of this dead scientist and Arthur Trapping. I escaped. I again tried to find Madame Lacquer-Sforza, only to see her with Xonck and d’Orkancz—she is one of them. In my flight from her hotel, I saw Miss Temple through the window—recognizing her from the card—I have not mentioned the cards—” He fumbled the cards onto the small table that held the tea tray. “One from the Prince, one from Trapping. As Miss Temple points out—they are valuable, if mysterious, evidence.”

“You did not say where you heard the name Isobel Hastings,” observed Chang.

“Didn’t I? I’m sorry, from Madame Lacquer-Sforza. She asked that I help her find one Isobel Hastings in exchange for telling me where the Prince was—at the Institute. That was the curious thing, for she told me where he was, allowing me to take him away quite against the wishes of Crabbé and d’Orkancz. This was why I had thought to find her again—for while someone took the Prince from our rooftop tonight, at least some of these conspirators—Xonck and Crabbé—seemed ignorant of his whereabouts. I had hoped she might know.”

Miss Temple felt the back of her neck tingle. “Perhaps it would help, Doctor, if you could describe the woman.”

“Of course,” he began. “A tall woman, black hair, curled about her face and gathered in the back, pale skin, exquisite clothing, elegant to an almost vicious degree, gracious, intelligent, wry, dangerous, and I should say wholly remarkable. She gave her name as Madame Lacquer-Sforza—one of the hotel staff referred to her as Contessa—”

“The St. Royale Hotel?” asked Chang.

“The same.”

“Do you know her?” asked Miss Temple.

“Merely as ‘Rosamonde’…she hired me—that is what people do, hire me to do things. She hired me to find Isobel Hastings.”

Miss Temple did not speak.

“I assume you know the woman,” said Chang.

Miss Temple nodded, her earlier poise slightly shaken; as much as she tried to deny it, the Doctor’s description had conjured the woman, and the dread she inspired, freshly into her thoughts.

“I do not know her names,” said Miss Temple. “I met her at Harschmort. She was masked. At first she assumed I was one of a party with Mrs. Marchmoor and others—as you say, a group of whores—but then it was she who questioned me…and it was she who gave me over to die.” As she finished speaking, her voice seemed painfully small. The men were silent.

“What is amusing—genuinely amusing,” said Chang, “is that for all they are hunting us, we are not at all what they assume. My own portion of this tale is simple. I am a man for hire. I also followed a man to Harschmort—the man you saw dead, Doctor—Colonel Arthur Trapping. I had been hired to kill him.”

He took a sip of tea and watched their reactions over the rim of his cup. Miss Temple did her level best to nod with the same degree of polite detachment as when someone mentioned a secret keenness for growing begonias. She glanced at Svenson, whose face was blank, as if this new fact merely confirmed what he’d already known. Chang smiled, somewhat bitterly, she thought.

“I did not kill him. He was killed by someone else—though I did see the scars you mentioned, Doctor. Trapping was a tool of the Xonck family—I do not understand who killed him.”

“Did he betray them?” asked Svenson. “Francis Xonck sunk his body in the river.”

“Does that mean Xonck killed him, or that he didn’t want the body found—that he could not allow it to be found with the facial scars? Or something else? You mentioned the woman—why would she betray the others and allow you to rescue your Prince? I have no idea.”

“I was able to examine the Colonel’s body briefly, and believe he was poisoned—an injection of some kind, in his finger.”

“Could it have been an accident?” asked Chang.

“It could have been anything,” answered the Doctor. “I was about to be murdered at the time, and had no mind to reason clearly.”

“May I ask who hired you to kill him?” asked Miss Temple.

Chang thought for a moment before answering.

“Obviously it is a professional secret,” Miss Temple said. “Yet if you do not wholly trust that person, perhaps—”

“Trapping’s adjutant, Colonel Aspiche.”

Svenson laughed aloud. “I met him yesterday in the presence of Madame Lacquer-Sforza at the St. Royale Hotel. By the end of the visit, Mrs. Marchmoor—” He glanced awkwardly at Miss Temple. “Let us say he is their creature.”

Chang nodded and sighed. “The entire situation was wrong. The next day there was no body, no news, and Aspiche was useless and withdrawn, because—as you confirm—he was in the midst of being seduced. In short order, it was I who met seduction, in the form of this woman, who hired me to find one Isobel Hastings—a prostitute who had murdered her very dear friend.”

Miss Temple snorted. They looked at her. She waved Chang on.

“With this description, I searched several brothels—never, for reasons that are now obvious, finding Isobel Hastings, but soon learning that two others—Mrs. Marchmoor and Major Black—”

“Blach, actually,” said Svenson, providing the proper pronunciation.

“Blach, then,” muttered Chang. “They were both searching for her as well, and in the Major’s case at least, also searching for me. At Harschmort, I had been seen—and I am a figure some people know. When I returned to my own lodgings one of the Major’s men tried to kill me. A trip to a third brothel led me to follow a small party—your Prince, Bascombe, Francis Xonck, a large fellow in a fur—”

“The Comte d’Orkancz,” said Svenson.

“O!” said Miss Temple. “I have seen him as well!”

“He had taken Margaret Hooke from this same brothel, and was now taking another woman—I followed them to the Institute—saw you enter, Doctor, and followed you down. They are doing strange experiments with great amounts of heat and blue glass…” Chang picked up one of the blue cards from the tray. “It is the same glass, but instead of these small cards, here—and with great effort, with vast machinery—they had made a blue glass book—unfortunately the man making it was startled—by me—and dropped it. I am sure he is the man you saw on the Deputy Minister’s table. In the confusion I escaped, only to meet your Major and his men. I escaped from them as well, and found my way here…quite entirely by chance.”

He leaned forward and took up the pot, pouring another round of tea. Miss Temple cradled her fresh cup and allowed it to warm her hands.

“What did you mean when you said we are not what our enemies assume?” she asked Chang.

“I mean,” Chang said, “that they believe that we are agents of a larger power—a cabal opposing their interests that has hitherto existed without their knowledge. They are so arrogant as to think that such a body—a mighty union of insidious talents like themselves!—is all that could possibly threaten them. The idea that they have been attacked by the haphazard actions of three isolated individuals—for whom they have contempt? It is the last thing they could believe.”

“Only because it does not flatter them,” Miss Temple sniffed.

Doctor Svenson was in the other room, asleep. His coat and boots were being cleaned. For a time Miss Temple and Chang had spoken about his experience of the hotel, and the coincidence that had brought all three of them together, but the conversation had fallen into silence. Miss Temple studied the man across from her, trying to make palpable sense of the knowledge that he was a criminal, a killer. What she saw was a certain kind of animal elegance—or, if not elegance, efficiency—and a manner that seemed both brazen and restrained. She knew this was the embodiment of experience, and she found it an attractive quality—wanting it for herself—even as she found the man daunting and disquieting. His features were sharp and his voice was flat and raw, and direct to a point just before insolence. She was intensely curious to know what he thought of her—what he had thought when he saw her on the train, and what he thought now, seeing her normal self—but could not ask him any of these things. She felt he must somehow despise her—despise the hotel room, the tea, the entirety of her life—for if she herself were not born to privilege, she was sure she would carry with her a general hatred for it every day of her life.

Cardinal Chang watched her from his chair. She smiled at him, and reached into her green bag.

“Perhaps you will help me, for I am only now tackling the matter…” She pulled out the revolver and placed it on the table between them. “I have sent out for more ammunition, but have little sense of the weapon itself. If you are knowledgeable about it, I would appreciate any advice you can give me.”

Chang leaned forward and took the revolver in his hand, cocking it, and then slowly easing the hammer down. “I am not one for firearms,” he said, “but I know enough to load and fire and keep a weapon clean.” She nodded with anticipation. He shrugged. “We will need a cloth…”

Over the next half an hour he showed her how to reload, to aim, to break the gun apart, to clean it, to put it back together. When she had done this for herself, to her own satisfaction, she put the pistol back on the table and looked up at him, finally broaching the question she had withheld all that time.

“And what about killing?” she asked.

Chang did not immediately respond.

“I would appreciate your advice,” she prompted.

“I thought you were already a killer,” observed Chang. He was not smiling at her, which she appreciated.

“Not with this,” she said, indicating the revolver.

She realized that he was still trying to decide if she was serious. She waited, a firm expression in her eyes. When Chang spoke, he was watching her very closely.

“Get as close as you can—grind the barrel into the body—there’s no reason to shoot unless you mean to kill.”

Miss Temple nodded.

“And stay calm. Breathe. You will kill better—and you’ll die better too, if it comes to that.” She saw that he was smiling. She looked into his black lenses.

“You live with that possibility, don’t you?”

“Don’t we all?”

She took a deep breath, for all of this was going a bit too quickly. She put the revolver back into her bag. Chang watched her stow it away.

“If you didn’t kill them with that, how did you kill them? The two men.”

She found she could not easily answer him.

“I—well, one of them—I—it was very dark—I…”

“You do not need to tell me,” he said quietly.

She took another heavy breath and let it out slowly.

It was after another minute that Miss Temple was able to ask Chang what his plans for the day had been, before seeing them in the corridor. She indicated the papers and maps and explained her own intentions, and then noted that she ought to return to her rooms, if only to allay the worries of her aunt. She also remembered the two glass cards that Doctor Svenson had placed on the table.

“You really should look at them, particularly as you have seen some of their strange glasswork for yourself. The experience is unlike anything else I have known—it is both powerful and diabolical. You’ll think I am foolish, but I promise you I know enough to see that in these cards is another kind of opium, and in the books you describe—an entire book—well, I cannot imagine it is anything but a splendid—or indeed, horrid—prison.”

Chang leaned forward to pick up one of the cards, turning it over in his hand.

“One of them shows the experience—I cannot explain it—of Roger Bascombe. I myself make an appearance. Believe me, it is most disquieting. The other shows the experience of Mrs. Marchmoor—your Margaret Hooke—and is even more disquieting. I will say no more, only that it were better to view it in discreet solitude. Of course, to view either, you will really have to remove your spectacles.”

Chang looked up at her. He pulled the glasses from his face and folded them into his pocket. She did not react. She had seen similar faces on her plantation, though never sitting across the tea table. She smiled at him politely, then nodded to the card in his hand.

“They really are the most lovely color blue.”

Miss Temple left Cardinal Chang with the instruction that he should call for whatever meal the Doctor required upon waking, for which she would sign upon her return. She had her arms full of newspapers and books as she reached her own rooms, and kicked on the door three times instead of shifting her burdens to find her key. After a moment of rustling footsteps, the door was opened by Marthe. Miss Temple entered and dropped the pile of papers on the main table. Her aunt sat where she had left her, sipping a cup of tea. Before she could voice a reproof, Miss Temple spoke to her.

“I must ask you several questions, Aunt Agathe, and I will require your honest replies. You may be able to help me, and I will be very grateful for the assistance.” She fixed her aunt with a firm look at the word “grateful” and then turned back to Marthe, to ask for Marie. Marthe pointed to Miss Temple’s dressing room. Miss Temple entered to see Marie quickly folding and arranging a row of silk underthings on top of the ironing table. She stepped back as Miss Temple swept in and was silent as her mistress examined her purchases.

Miss Temple was extremely pleased, going even so far as to give Marie a congratulatory smile. Marie then pointed out the box of cartridges that sat by the mirror, and gave Miss Temple the receipts and leftover money. Miss Temple quickly scrutinized the figures and, satisfied, gave Marie an extra two coins for her efforts. Marie bobbed in surprise at the coins and again as Miss Temple motioned her out of the room. The door shut behind her, Miss Temple smiled again and turned to her purchases. The silk felt delicious between her fingers. She was happy to see that Marie had been smart enough to select a green that matched the dress she was wearing, and her boots. In the mirror, Miss Temple saw her own beaming face and blushed, looking away. She composed herself, cleared her throat, and called for her maids.

After the two young women had taken apart her dress and corset, helped her into the green silk undergarments, and then restored her outer layers, Miss Temple—her entire body tickling with enjoyment—carried the box of cartridges to the main table. With all the casual efficiency she could muster, recalling each step of Chang’s instruction, she struck up a conversation with her aunt, and as she spoke, spun the cylinder, snapped it open, and smoothly loaded each empty chamber with a shell.

“I have been reading the newspapers, Aunt,” she began.

“It seems you have enough of them.”

“And do you know what I have learned? I saw the most astonishing announcement about Roger Bascombe’s uncle, Lord Tarr.”

Aunt Agathe pursed her lips. “You should not be bothering with—”

“Did you see the announcement?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“There is so much that I do not remember, my dear—”

“That he has been murdered, Aunt.”

Her aunt did not reply at once. When she did, it was merely to say, “Ah.”

“Ah,” echoed Miss Temple.

“He was quite gouty,” observed her aunt, “something dire was bound to happen. I understand it was wolves.”

“Apparently not. Apparently the wound was altered to implicate wolves.”

“People will do anything,” muttered Agathe.

She reached to pour more tea. Miss Temple slapped the cylinder back into position and spun it. At the noise, her aunt froze in position, eyes wide in alarm. Miss Temple leaned forward and spoke as deliberately and patiently as she could.

“My dear Aunt, you must accept that the money you need is in my possession, and thus, despite our difference in age, that I am your mistress. These are facts. Your position will not be helped by frustrating me. On the contrary, the more we work in concert, the more I promise your situation will improve. I have no wish to be your enemy, but you must see that your previous sense of what was best—my marriage to Roger Bascombe—is no longer appropriate.”

“If you were not so difficult—” her aunt burst out, stopping herself just as quickly.

Miss Temple glared at her with unmitigated rage. Aunt Agathe recoiled as if from a snake.

“I am sorry, my dear,” whispered the frightened woman, “I merely—”

“I do not care. I do not care! I am not asking about Lord Tarr because I care! I am asking because—though you do not know it—others have been murdered as well, and Roger Bascombe is in the thick of it—and now he will be the next Lord Tarr! I do not know how Roger Bascombe has become his uncle’s heir. But you do, I am sure—and you are going to tell me this minute.”

Miss Temple stalked down the corridor toward the stairwell, the clutch bag around her wrist, heavy with the revolver and an extra handful of cartridges. She snorted with annoyance and tossed her head—difficult—and cursed her aunt for a small-minded old fool. All the woman thought of was her pension and her propriety, and the number of parties she might be invited to as the relation of a rising Ministry official like Roger. Miss Temple wondered why she should even be surprised—her aunt had only known her for three months, but had been acquainted with the Bascombes for years. How long she must have planned, and how sharp had been her disappointment, Miss Temple sneered. But that her aunt held her at fault stung to the quick.

Yet under pressure she had answered her niece’s questions, though her answers just added to the mystery. Roger’s cousins—the over-fed Pamela and the younger but no less porcine Berenice—both had infant sons of their own, each of whom should have assumed Lord Tarr’s title and lands before Roger. Yet both had signed a paper to waive their children’s claims, to abdicate, and clear the way for Roger’s inheritance and ennoblement. Miss Temple did not understand how Roger had managed this, for he was not especially wealthy, and she knew each woman well enough to be sure that no small sum would have satisfied either. The cash had been supplied by others, by Crabbé or his cohorts, that was obvious enough. But what was so important about Roger, and how did his advancement possibly relate to the various other plots and murders she had stumbled into? Further—though she told herself the question was merely academic—as Roger took up the rightful property of his cousins, what was he giving up of himself, and for what grand purpose?

In short order she had also learned—for her aunt followed the city’s gossip with an evangelical fervor—the owner of Harschmort, the occasion of the masked ball, the reputations of Prince Karl-Horst and his bride (wretched and unsullied, respectively), and what she could about the various other names she had heard: Xonck, Lacquer-Sforza, d’Orkancz, Crabbé, Trapping, and Aspiche. The latter two her aunt did not know—though she was acquainted with the tragedy of Trapping’s disappearance. Crabbé she knew by way of the Bascombes, but even that family concentrated their attention on the Chief Minister, and not his respected deputy—he was a figure in the government, but hardly public. As the Xonck family’s fame was by way of business, it was significantly less interesting to her aunt—though she had heard of them—who was generally attracted to titles (indeed, Robert Vandaariff’s elevation within Agathe’s mind to the rank of a Man who Mattered had only occurred upon his becoming a Lord, though Miss Temple understood that at a certain point such a man must be made a Lord, lest the government appear peripheral to him). Francis Xonck was of course a figure of scandal, though no one knew exactly why—there were whispers about deviant tastes from abroad newly appeared—but his elder siblings were merely substantial. The Comte d’Orkancz her aunt only knew as a patron of the opera—apparently he was born in some dire Balkan enclave, raised in Paris, and inherited family titles and wealth after a particularly devastating series of house fires cleared the way. Beyond this, Agathe could merely say he was a man of serious refinement, learned and severe, who could have been at a university if those university people were not so very dreadful. The final name, which Miss Temple had put to her aunt with a quaver in her otherwise sure interrogation, met with a hapless shrug. The Contessa Lacquer-Sforza was of course known, but nothing seemed to be known about her. She had arrived in the city the previous autumn—Agathe smiled, and observed that it must have been very near to when Miss Temple herself had arrived. Agathe had never seen the lady, but she was said to rival Princess Clarissa or Lydia Vandaariff for beauty. She smiled and sweetly asked her niece if she had seen the Contessa, and if that were indeed the case. Miss Temple merely snapped that of course not, she had seen none of these people—she saw no one in society unless during her excursions with Roger—and certainly none of these figures from the very cream of the continent. She snorted that the Roger Bascombe she had known was hardly the type to mix with such company. Her aunt, with a rueful shake of her head, admitted this was true.

Miss Temple stopped on the landing between the third and second floors and, after looking around to see that she was not observed, sat on the stairs. She felt the need to order her thoughts before rejoining her new comrades—she needed to order her thoughts about her new comrades—and before advancing further into her adventure. The sticking point, to her great dismay, remained Roger, neck deep in whatever was taking place. The man was a fool, she knew that now without question—but she felt she was constantly brought up against her former feelings as she strove to move forward without them. Why could she not simply carve them from her thoughts, from her heart? For moments she was sure she had, and that the ache she felt, the pressure in her chest and at the catch of her throat, was not love for Roger, but in fact its absence, as the removal of anything substantial must leave behind it open space—a hole in her heart, so to speak, around which her thoughts were, temporarily at least, forced to navigate. But then without warning she would find herself worrying at how Roger had placed his entire life so thoughtlessly at risk, and craving just one minute of sharp speech to wake him to his folly. Miss Temple sighed heavily and had for some reason a vivid memory of the plantation’s sugar works, the great copper pots and the spiraled coils that converted the raw cane into rum. She knew that Roger had allied himself with people who sanctioned murder—her own murder—and she feared, as cane was by rough science and fire reduced to rum, that this must inevitably lead to a mortal confrontation between Roger and herself. She felt the weight of the revolver in her clutch bag. She thought of Chang and Svenson—did they have any similar torment of feeling? They both seemed so sure—especially Chang, who was a type of man she had never before known. Then she realized that this was not true, that she had known other men with such open capacity for brutal action—in fact, her father was just such a man—but there the brutality had always been clothed in the guise of business and of ownership. With Chang, the truth of the work was worn openly. She struggled to find this refreshing—she told herself it was exactly that—but could not repress a shudder. Doctor Svenson seemed to her less formidable and more stricken by common fears and hesitancies, but then, so was she—and Miss Temple knew no one in her world would have granted her the capacity to survive what she already had. She trusted in the Doctor’s resilience then, as she trusted in her own. Besides, she smiled to think it, many otherwise capable men were not at their best around a fetching woman.

She was at least confident that armed with her aunt’s gossip she would be able to follow the conversation. So much of her comrades’ accounts referred to a city she did not know—to brothels and institutes and diplomatic compounds—a mix of lower depths and exclusive heights quite apart from her middling experience. She wanted to feel that she brought to their partnership an equal third, and wanted that third to be something other than money to provide a room or a meal. If they were to continue in league against this—what was the Doctor’s word?—cabal, then she must continue to expand her capacities. What she had done so far seemed a mix of actual investigation and mere tagging along, where even the killing of Spragg and Farquhar struck her as unlikely happenstance. The figures arrayed against her were beyond imagination, her few allies equally so—what did she possess besides her change purse? It was a moment when she could easily spiral into self-doubt and fear, assurance melting like a carnival ice. She imagined herself alone in a train compartment with a man like the Comte d’Orkancz—what could she possibly do? Miss Temple looked around her at the Boniface’s stairwell wallpaper, painted with an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves, and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. She wiped her eyes and sniffed. What she would do is to press the barrel of her revolver against his body and pull the trigger as many times as it took to bring his foul carcass to the floor. And then she would find the Contessa Lacquer-Sforza and thrash the woman until her arm was too tired to hold a whip. And then…Roger. She sighed. From Roger Bascombe she would merely walk away.

She stood and made her way down to the second floor, but paused at the final step, hearing voices in the corridor. She peered around the corner to see three men in black uniforms and another man in a dark brown cloak standing directly outside the door to room 27. The men muttered to each other (Miss Temple was a foe of muttering in general and always resented not hearing what other people said, even if it was not strictly her business) and then as a group marched away from her, to the main stairs at the far end of the hall. She crept into the corridor, moving as quickly as she could to the door. She gasped to see it was ajar—the men must have been inside—and with great trepidation pushed the door open. The sitting room was empty. What papers she had left behind had been scattered across the room, but she saw no token of Chang or Svenson, nor of any particular struggle. She crossed quickly to the bedchamber, but it too was empty. The bedclothes were pulled apart, and the window was open, but she saw no sign of either man. Miss Temple peered out of the window. The room was directly above the rear alley, with a sheer drop of some thirty feet to the paving. She tightened her grip on the clutch bag and made her way back to the corridor. Both Chang and Svenson had been chased by soldiers—but which had drawn them here? She frowned with thought—it could not have been Chang, for as far as anyone knew, Chang was not in room 27. She raced to the door she had seen him leave—number 34—to find it also open. The room was empty. The window was locked. She returned to the hall, more agitated—somehow the soldiers had known of Svenson’s room and of Chang’s. With a sudden bolt of horror she thought of her own, and her aunt.

Miss Temple charged up the stairs, feverishly digging the revolver from her bag. She rounded the landing, cocking the pistol and taking a breath. She strode into the corridor and saw no one. Were they already inside? Or about to arrive any moment? This door was shut. Miss Temple banged on it with the heel of her fist. There was no sound from beyond the door. She knocked again. Still there was no answer, and her mind was assailed by images of her aunt and her maids slaughtered, the room running with blood. Miss Temple dug her key from her bag and, using her left hand, which made it awkward, unlocked the door. She shoved it open and threw herself to the side. Silence. She peeked around the corner. The entryway was empty. She held the revolver with both hands and walked slowly through the doorway. The outer parlor was empty as well, with no signs of disturbance. She turned to the inner parlor door, which was closed. It was never closed. She crept toward it, looked about her and reached her left hand toward the knob. She slowly turned it and, hearing the click of the bolt, thrust it open. She shrieked—a small shriek, she later hoped—for before her, his revolver extended to Miss Temple’s face, stood Doctor Svenson in his stockinged feet. Sitting next to him, trembling and white with terror, was her aunt. Behind them sat the two maids, frozen with fright. A sudden prickling caused Miss Temple to wheel. Behind her, a long double-edged knife in his hand, stood Cardinal Chang, having just stepped out from the maids’ room. He smiled at her grimly.

“Very good, Miss Temple. Would you have shot me before I’d cut your throat? I do not know, which is the profoundest of compliments.”

She swallowed, unable quite yet to lower the pistol.

“The front door, I’d suggest,” called Doctor Svenson from behind her.

Chang nodded. “Indeed.” He turned and walked to the door, glancing quickly into the hall before stepping back and closing it, turning the lock. “And perhaps a chair…” he said to no one in particular, and selected one of the inner parlor chairs to wedge beneath the knob. This done, he turned to them and smiled coolly. “We have made the acquaintance of your aunt.”

“We were extremely worried when you were not here,” said Svenson. He had pocketed his pistol, and was looking uncomfortable to be standing among the openly terrified women.

“I used the other stairs,” said Miss Temple. She saw both men were watching her closely and followed their gaze to her hands. She forced herself to slowly release the hammer of the revolver, and to exhale. “There are soldiers—”

“Yes,” said Chang. “We were able to escape.”

“But how—they were on one staircase and you did not pass me on the other. And how did you know which room was mine?”

“The chit you signed for the tea,” said Svenson. “It noted your room—we did not leave it for them to find, do not worry. As for the escape—”

“Doctor Svenson is a sailor.” Chang smiled. “He can climb.”

“I can climb when I am pushed,” said Svenson, shaking his head.

“But—I looked out the window,” cried Miss Temple, “there was nothing to climb but brick!”

“There was a metal pipe,” said Svenson.

“But that was tiny!”

She saw that the Doctor’s face had paled as they spoke. He swallowed awkwardly and wiped his brow.

“Exactly.” Chang smiled. “He is a clambering marvel.”

Miss Temple caught the gaze of her aunt, still trembling in her chair, and she was flooded with guilt for so endangering the woman. She looked up at the others, her voice sharp with urgency.

“It does not matter. They will know from the desk—from that vile Mr. Spanning, whose pomaded hair I shall set aflame. The Doctor’s room is paid for by me. They will be here any moment.”

“How many men did you see?” asked Chang.

“Four. Three soldiers and another, in a brown cloak.”

“The Comte’s man,” said Svenson.

“We are three,” said Chang. “They’ll want to take us quietly, not force a pitched battle.”

“There may be others in the lobby,” warned Svenson.

“Even if there are, we can beat them.”

“At what cost?” asked the Doctor.

Chang shrugged.

Miss Temple looked around her, at the comfort and security that had been her life at the Hotel Boniface, and knew that it was over. She turned to her maids. “Marthe, you will prepare a traveling bag—light enough for me to carry, with the barest essentials—the flowered carpet bag will do.” The girl did not move. Miss Temple shouted at her. “At once! Do you think this is any time to shirk? Marie, you will prepare traveling bags for my aunt and for the two of you. You will be spending time at the seaside. Go!”

The maids leapt to their work. Her aunt looked up at her.

“Celeste—my dear—the seaside?”

“You must move to safety—and I apologize, I am so very, very sorry to have placed you in such danger.” Miss Temple sniffed and gestured toward her own room. “I will see what ready money I have, of course you will have enough for travel, and a note to draw upon—you must take both maids—”

Agathe’s gaze went, rather wide-eyed, from Miss Temple over to the figures of Chang and Svenson, neither of whom seemed anywhere near respectable enough for her niece to be alone with. “But—you cannot—you are a well-bred young lady—the scandal—you must come with me!”

“It is impossible—”

“You will not have a maid—that is impossible!” The aged lady huffed at the men, chiding them. “And the seaside will be so cold—”

“That is the exact point, my Aunt. You must go to a place no one would expect. You must tell no one—you must tell no one.”

Her aunt was silent as the maids bustled around them, studying her niece with dismay—though whether at the present predicament or at what her niece had become, Miss Temple was not sure. She was particularly aware that Svenson and Chang were watching the entire exchange.

“And what of you?” whispered her aunt.

“I cannot say,” she answered. “I do not know.”

At least twenty minutes had passed, and Miss Temple—idly tracing her fingers back and forth across one of the Doctor’s blue glass cards—saw Chang at the main door, peering out into the hall. He stepped back, caught her eye, and shrugged. Marthe had brought the carpet bag for her to inspect. Miss Temple sent her to help Marie, tucked the blue card into her own clutch bag—without looking at the Doctor, who having given it to her again to examine had not perhaps agreed it was hers to keep—and carried the carpet bag over to an armchair, where she sat. Her attention elsewhere, she glanced through what the maid had chosen and tied the bag shut without finishing. Miss Temple sighed. Her aunt sat at the table, watching her. Chang stood by the door. Svenson leaned against the table near her aunt, his attempts to help pack having been rebuffed by the maids.

“If these men have not come,” said her aunt, “then perhaps they are not coming at all. Perhaps there is no need to go anywhere. If they do not know Celeste—”

“Whether they know your niece is not the issue,” said Svenson gently. “They know who I am, at least, and also Chang. As they know we have been here, they will be watching the hotel. It will be a mere matter of time before they connect your niece to us—”

“They already have,” said Chang, from the doorway.

“Then once they act on it,” continued Svenson, “as your niece has said—you yourself are in danger.”

“But,” her aunt persisted, “if they are not here yet—”

“It is a blessing,” said Miss Temple. “It means we may all get away unseen.”

“That will be difficult,” said Chang.

Miss Temple sighed. It would be very difficult. Each entrance would be watched from the street. The only question, and their only hope, was in what those men were watching for—and surely it was not two maids and an old woman.

“You had best accomplish it, Sir—and neatly!” sniffed Aunt Agathe, as if Chang were a workman whose expression of doubt was a prelude to an increase in his fee.

Miss Temple exhaled and stood.

“We must assume that the clerk who pointed the way to the Doctor’s room has been paid to inform on us further. We must distract him while my aunt and the maids depart. The men in the street will not be looking for them, or at least not without some signal. Once you do leave,” she said to her aunt, “you must go directly in a coach to the railway station, and from there to the shore, the southern shore—to Cape Rouge, there must be many inns—and I will send a letter to you, to the post office, once we are secure.”

“What of yourself?” asked Agathe.

“Oh, we shall shift ourselves easily enough,” she said, forcing a smile. “And this business will soon be over.” She looked over to Svenson and Chang for confirmation, but neither man’s expression would have convinced a credulous child. She called sharply for the maids to finish and gather their coats.

Miss Temple knew that she herself must go to Mr. Spanning, for the others would more profitably assist with the luggage—as well as best remaining concealed. She looked back to see them making their way to the rear stairs, Chang and Svenson each with an end of her aunt’s clothes trunk, the maids on either side of Agathe, one hand on their own small bags, the other steadying the aged lady. Miss Temple herself made for the main staircase carrying a large satchel and the green purse, wearing as carefree an expression as she could produce and nodding cheerfully at the other guests she passed. At the second floor her path opened onto a large gallery above the splendid lobby and then to the great curve of the main stairs. She glanced over the railing and saw no black-coated soldiery, but directly outside the doors were two men in brown cloaks. She continued down the wide steps and saw Mr. Spanning behind his counter, his gaze snapping up to hers as she descended into view. She smiled brilliantly at him. Spanning’s eyes darted about the lobby as she neared, and so before he could make any signal she gaily called to him.

“Mr. Spanning!”

“Miss Temple?” he answered warily, his normally sleek manner caught between distrust and pride in his own cunning.

She crossed to the desk—from the corners of her eyes seeing that no one lurked under the stairs—while watching the front door in the mirror behind Spanning’s desk. The cloaked men had seen her, but were not coming in. Quite apart from her habit, Miss Temple stood on her toes and leaned her elbows playfully on the counter.

“I’m sure you know why I have come.” She smiled.

“Do I?” replied Spanning, forcing an obsequious grin that did not suit him.

“O yes.” She batted her eyes.

“I’m sure I do not…”

“Perhaps you have been so set upon by business that it has slipped your mind…” She looked around the vacant lobby. “Though it does not appear so. Tell me, Mr. Spanning, have you been so set upon with pressing duties?” She was still smiling, but a hint of steel had crept into her otherwise honeyed tone.

“As you know, Miss Temple, my normal duties are very—”

“Yes, yes, but you haven’t had to bother with anyone else?”

Spanning cleared his throat with suspicion. “May I ask—”

“Do you know,” continued Miss Temple, “I have always meant to inquire as to your brand of pomade, for I have always found your hair to be so very…managed. And slick—managed and slick. I have wanted to impart such grooming to any number of other men in the city, but have not known what to recommend—and always forget to ask!”

“It is Bronson’s, Miss.”

“Bronson’s. Excellent.” She leaned in with a suddenly serious expression. “Do you never worry about fire?”

“Fire?”

“Leaning too close to a candle? I should think—you know—whoosh!” She chuckled. “Ah, it is so pleasant to laugh. But I am in earnest, Mr. Spanning. And I do require an answer—no matter how you strive to charm me!”

“I assure you, Miss Temple—”

“Of what, Mr. Spanning? Of what do you—this day—assure me?”

She was no longer smiling, but looking directly into the man’s eyes. He did not reply. She brought the green bag onto the counter top, allowing its weight to land with a thump. Its contents were not usual for a lady’s purse. Spanning saw her deftly angle the bag in his direction and take hold of it through the fabric—her manner still casual but unaccountably menacing.

“How precisely may I help you?” he asked meekly.

“I will be traveling,” she said. “As will my aunt, but to another destination. I wish to retain my rooms. I assume my note of credit will answer any worries?”

“Of course. You will be returning…”

“At some point.”

“I see.”

“Good. Do you know, earlier, that this hotel seemed absolutely full of foreign soldiers?”

“Did it?”

“Apparently they were directed to the second floor.” She looked around them and then dropped her voice to a whisper. Despite himself Spanning leaned closer to hear. “Do you know, Mr. Spanning,…do you know the sound a person makes…when they’re thrashed…to such an extreme…they can no longer even cry out…with pain?”

Mr. Spanning flinched, blinking his eyes. Miss Temple leaned even closer and whispered, “Because I do.”

Spanning swallowed. Miss Temple stood up straight and smiled.

“I believe you have the Doctor’s boots and his coat?”

She climbed back up the main staircase to the second floor and then dashed down the hallway to the rear stairs, her green bag in one hand, the boots in the other, and the Doctor’s coat over her left arm. The satchel, thickly packed with unnecessary clothing, had been left in Spanning’s care with the request for him to hold it until she was ready to leave, which she announced would most likely be after luncheon—thus making a point to inform Spanning (and the soldiers) that she (and by extension, via the boots, Svenson and Chang) could be found in her rooms for the next few hours. Once out of sight from the lobby, Miss Temple picked up her dress as best she could and briskly climbed. With luck the others had used her distraction to get her aunt and the maids out the service entrance. The porters would take the luggage and find a coach, allowing Svenson and Chang to remain hidden indoors. But were the soldiers marching into the lobby even then, men who moved much faster than she? She reached the fourth floor and stopped to listen. She heard no bootsteps and resumed her trotting pace upwards. At the eighth floor she stopped again, flushed with exertion and panting. She had never been to this topmost floor and had no idea where to find what Chang assured her was there. She walked along the corridor, past what looked like doors to normal rooms, until she rounded a corner and faced the end of the hall. She looked back the other way and saw an identical dead end. Hot and out of breath from her climb, Miss Temple worried about what next might follow her up the stairs. She whispered—or rather hissed—to the air around her with frustration. “Psssssst!”

She wheeled abruptly at a wooden squeak. A section of the red-flocked wallpaper swung forward on hinges she had not seen, revealing Doctor Svenson, and behind him, on a narrow staircase steep enough to be more like a ladder, Chang, silhouetted in an open doorway to the roof. Despite the distress of a moment before, she could not suppress her admiration at the cunningly concealed doorway.

“My goodness,” she exclaimed, “whoever made that is as clever as five monkeys put together!”

“Your aunt is safely away,” said Svenson, stepping into the hall to collect his things.

“I am relieved to hear it,” replied Miss Temple. The Doctor struggled into his coat, which—after being brushed and steamed—did restore some of his military crispness. “I could not see this door at all,” she continued, admiring the inset hinges. “I don’t know how anyone should find it—”

“Are they following?” hissed Chang from inside the passage.

“Not that I have seen,” Miss Temple whispered in return. “I could not see them in the lobby—O!” She turned sharply at Doctor Svenson’s hand clutching her shoulder.

“I beg your pardon!” he said, bracing himself as he tried to put on his right boot. He could not do it with one hand and was reduced to trying with two while awkwardly hopping.

“We should hurry,” called Chang.

“Half a moment,” whispered Svenson—the first boot was nearly on. Miss Temple waited. His task remained difficult. She tried to find encouraging conversation.

“I have never been on a rooftop before, or not one so high. I’m sure we’ll have quite a view—up with the birds!”

Somehow it seemed the wrong thing to say. Svenson looked up at her, his face more pale, and started in on the second boot.

“Are you perfectly well, Doctor? I know you did not find but a few hours’ rest—”

“Go on ahead,” he said, essaying a casual tone that did not persuade. The second boot was on half-way. He stumbled, stepping upon it, the excess flopping around like an odd fish attached to the base of his leg. “I shall follow—I assure you—”

“Doctor!” hissed Chang. “It will be fine. The roof is wide, and the climb will be nothing like the pipe!”

“The pipe?” asked Miss Temple.

“Ah—well—that—” said Doctor Svenson.

“I thought you managed it splendidly.”

From the passage Chang scoffed.

“I have a difficulty with height. An excruciating difficulty—”

“I have the same with root vegetables.” Miss Temple smiled. “We shall help one another—come!” She anxiously looked past his shoulder down the hallway, relieved to see it still empty, and took his arm. He thrust his foot down into the boot—fully in but for a last uncooperative inch. They stepped through the door.

“Pull it tight,” whispered Chang, who had continued on above them. “It is better they not notice we have forced the lock.”

The sky above was grey and so low as to seem palpably near, the sun well behind a thick bank of winter cloud. The air was cool and moist, and if there were only more wind Miss Temple might have told herself she was on the sea. She inhaled with pleasure. She looked down to see with a certain small wonder that under her feet was a crusty layer of tarred paper and copper sheathing—so this was walking on a roof! Behind her Doctor Svenson had knelt, concentrating closely on his left boot, eyes fixed to the ground. Chang secured the door with bits of broken wood, wedging them into the frame to prevent it from opening easily. He stepped away and wiped his hand on his coat. She saw that his other hand held her carpet bag—she had completely forgotten it, and reached to take it from him. He shook his head and nodded toward a nearby building.

“I believe we can go this way—north,” he said.

“If we must,” muttered Svenson. He stood, still keeping his eyes low. Miss Temple saw it was time for her to act.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but before we travel further together, I believe—I am convinced—that we need to speak.”

Chang frowned at her. “They may be coming—”

“Yes, though I do not think they are. I think they are waiting for us in the street, or waiting for Mr. Spanning to make sure the guests in the rooms near to mine will not be disturbed by any screams. I am confident we have at least some few minutes.”

The two men looked at each other. She could sense the doubt in the glance that went between them. She pointedly cleared her throat, bringing their eyes back to her.

“To the great distress of my only available relative, I have been thrust into the company of two men at the very border—if that—of respectability. This morning we were strangers. In this instant all three of us are without sanctuary. What I want—in fact demand—is that we make quite clear what we each hope to achieve in this matter, what masters we serve—in short, what is our agreement.”

She waited for their reaction. The two men were silent.

“I do not find the request excessive,” said Miss Temple.

Svenson nodded at her, looked to Chang and muttered, groping in his pocket. “Excuse me—a cigarette—it will distract from the altitude, this sea of vacant space—” He looked back at Miss Temple. “You are correct. It is most sensible. We do not know each other—chance has thrown us together.”

“Can we not do this later?” asked Chang, his tone clinging to the merest edge of civility.

“When would that be?” answered Miss Temple. “Do we even know where we are going next? Have we decided how best to act? Who to pursue? Of course we haven’t, because we have each made assumptions from our very different experiences.”

Chang exhaled, vexed. After a moment, he nodded sharply, as if to invite her to begin. Miss Temple did so.

“I have been attacked and now uprooted. I have been misled, threatened, and lied to. I wish for justice…which means the thorough settling of each person involved.” She took a breath. “Doctor?”

Svenson took the moment to actually light his cigarette, return the case to his coat pocket, and exhale. He nodded to her.

“I must recover my Prince—no matter this conspiracy, it remains my duty to disentangle him. I have no doubt that this entails a kind of war—but I have little choice. Cardinal?”

Chang paused, as if he found this a pointless, formal exercise, but then spoke quietly and quickly. “If this business is not answered I have no work, no place to live, and no good reputation. For these all being set at hazard, I will have revenge—I must, as I say, to preserve my name. Does that satisfy you?”

“It does.”

“These figures are intertwined, and deadly,” said Chang. “Are we to follow them all—to an end?”

“I would insist upon it, actually,” said Miss Temple.

Doctor Svenson spoke. “I too. No matter what happens with Karl-Horst, the work must be finished. This conspiracy—this cabal—I cannot say what drives its members, but I know together they are like rot around a wound, like a cancer. If not removed in its entirety, what remains will only grow back, more virulent and vicious than ever. Not one of us or any that we care for shall be safe.”

“Then it’s agreed,” said Chang.

He smiled wryly and put his hand out. Doctor Svenson stuck his cigarette into his mouth and, his hand free, took hold of Chang’s. Miss Temple placed her small hand over theirs. She had no idea what this would portend—it was intrigue after all—but she did not think she had ever been happier in her life. As she had agreed to something exceedingly serious, she did her best not to giggle, but she could not prevent herself from beaming.

“Excellent!” announced Miss Temple. “I am happy to have it so directly spoken. And now, the other question—as I have said—is how to proceed. Do we find another place of refuge? Do we go on the attack—and if so, where? The St. Royale? The Ministry? Harschmort?”

“My first thought would be to move from the rooftop,” said Chang.

“Yes, yes, but we can talk while we go—no one will overhear us.”

“Then this way—stay with us, Doctor—to the north. The hotel is connected to the next building—I believe there is no gap at all.”

“Gap?” asked Svenson.

“To jump across,” said Chang.

Svenson did not reply.

“Surely,” said Miss Temple, “we should look down to the street—to see the men arrayed around the Boniface.”

Chang sighed, acquiescing, and looked to Svenson, who waved them toward the edge of the building. “I shall proceed to the next roof—so as not to detain you…” He walked slowly in that direction, looking down at his boots. Miss Temple marched to the edge and carefully looked down. The view was exquisite. Below her the avenue was laid out like a doll’s house full of tiny creatures. She looked over to see Chang had joined her, kneeling in the cover of the copper moldings. “Do you see anyone?” she whispered. He pointed to the end of the street: behind a grocer’s cart were two men in black, quite out of sight from the Boniface but able to view its entrance with ease. With growing excitement Miss Temple looked the other way and smiled, tugging Chang’s coat. “The iron fence—at the corner!” Another two figures lurked behind it, just visible to them above but concealed from the street by the fence’s veil of ivy.

“They are watching at each corner,” Chang said. “Four men in uniform—already more than you saw in the hotel. Now they think we are trapped, they may bring every man at their command. They will be in your rooms even now. We must go.”

They found Svenson advanced across the rooftops of two very fine town houses, connected to each other and the Boniface. He gestured vaguely to the far edge. “The drop is significant,” he said, “and the distance across farther than any of us can leap. To the front of the building is the avenue, which is even wider, and to the rear is an alley, narrower, but still more than we can manage.”

“I should quite like to see in any case,” said Miss Temple, and walked smilingly to the rear edge. The town house roof was at least two stories taller than the building across the street, whatever it was—she could not tell, its few windows small and blackened by smoke. She looked down and felt a giddy pleasure. The Doctor was right, she could not imagine any person breasting it. She saw Chang crouched at the far edge looking down—more soldier-counting, she assumed.

Miss Temple returned to the Doctor, who she saw was having a hard time of it. In truth this was a comfort, for compared to the menacing capacity of Chang, her own feelings of ignorance and weakness were lessened by Svenson’s obvious distress.

“We saw several pairs of soldiers watching the front of the hotel,” she said to him. “More than were inside—Chang thinks they are gathering.”

Svenson nodded. He was digging out another cigarette.

“You consume those at quite a rate, don’t you?” she said affably. “We shall have to find you more.”

“That will be difficult,” he said, smiling. “They are from Riga, from a man I know in a Macklenburg shop—I cannot get them otherwise there, and doubt anyone could find them here. I have a cedar box of them in my room at the compound—for all the good it does me.”

Miss Temple narrowed her eyes. “Without them…will you become peevish and ill?”

“I will not,” said Svenson. “What is more, the effects of tobacco are entirely beneficial to me—a restorative that both soothes and awakens.”

“It is the chewing and spitting of tobacco I dislike,” said Miss Temple. “Such usage is common where I come from, and fully abhorrent. Besides, tobacco of any kind stains the teeth most awfully.” She noticed the Doctor’s teeth were stained the color of new-cut oak.

“Where are you from?” asked Svenson, pressing his lips together self-consciously.

“An island,” Miss Temple answered simply. “Where it is warmer, and one may eat fresh fruit on a regular basis. Ah, here is Chang.”

“I can see soldiers in the main streets,” he said, walking up to them, “but not at the alley. There is a chance we can go through this rooftop”—here he pointed to an undoubtedly locked door that led into the town house—“and out to the alley. I do not, however, see how we can hope to leave the alley itself, for each end of it will lead us to them.”

“Then we are trapped,” said Svenson.

“We can hide downstairs,” said Chang.

They turned to Miss Temple for her opinion—which in itself was gratifying—but before she could answer, there was the sound of trumpets, echoing to the rooftops.

She turned to the sound, its clear call seemingly answered by a crisp low rumbling. “Horses,” she said, “a great many of them!” All three, Miss Temple steadying the Doctor’s arm, crept carefully to look over the main avenue. Below them, filling the street, was a parade of mounted soldiers in bright red tunics and shining brass helmets, each draped with a black horse’s tail.

“Are they coming for us?” she cried.

“I do not know,” said Chang. She saw him share a look with Svenson, and wished they would not do this so often, or at least so openly.

“The 4th Dragoons,” said the Doctor, and he pointed to an important-looking figure whose epaulettes dripped with gold fringe. “Colonel Aspiche.”

Miss Temple watched the man ride by, officers to either side, lines of troopers in front and behind—a stern figure, gaze unwavering, his finely groomed horse immaculately controlled. She tried to count his men but they moved too quickly—at least a hundred, perhaps more than twice that. Then there was a gap between the lines of horsemen, and Miss Temple squeezed Doctor Svenson’s arm. “Carts!”

It was a train of some ten carts each driven by uniformed soldiers.

“The carts are empty,” said Svenson.

Chang nodded toward the Boniface. “They are going past the hotel. This has nothing to do with us.”

It was true. Miss Temple saw the red mass of uniforms continuing past the hotel and then winding toward Grossmaere.

“What is in that direction?” she asked. “The St. Royale is the other way.”

Doctor Svenson leaned forward. “It is the Institute. They are going to the Institute with empty carts—the glass machinery—the—the—what did you say, both of you—the boxes—”

“Boxes in carts were delivered to Harschmort,” said Chang. “Boxes were all over their Institute laboratory.”

“The boxes at Harschmort were lined with orange felt, and had numbers painted on them,” said Miss Temple.

“At the Institute…the linings were not orange,” said Chang. “They were blue.”

“I would bet my eyes they are collecting more,” said Svenson. “Or relocating their workplace, after the death at the Institute.”

Below them the trumpets sounded again—Colonel Aspiche was not one for a demure passage. Svenson tried to speak over them but the words were lost to Miss Temple. He tried again, leaning closer to them, pointing down. “Major Blach’s men have entered the hotel.” Miss Temple saw that he was right—a stream of black figures, just visible along the edges of the red horsemen, scurrying toward the Boniface like rats for an open culvert. “If I might suggest,” the Doctor said, “it seems an excellent time to attempt to leave through the alley.”

As they made their way down a luxuriously carpeted stairway, Miss Temple wondered that anyone thought themselves immune to housebreaking or burglary at all. It had taken Chang but a moment to effect their entry into a dwelling whose owners she was sure prided themselves on inviolable security. They were fortunate not to find anyone at home on the upper stories (for the servants who lived in those rooms were at work), and were able to creep quietly past the floors where they heard footsteps or clinking crockery or even in one case an especially repellent huffing. Miss Temple knew that the ground floor and the rear entrance itself would be the most likely places for a confrontation—these would be occupied by servants, if no one else—and so as they stepped free of the staircase she made a point to thrust herself in front of Chang and Svenson despite their looks of surprise. She knew full well that she could offer an appearance that was unthreatening but nevertheless imperious, where each of them would invite the outrage sparked by any interloping man. From the corner of her eye she saw a young housemaid stacking jars who out of instinct bobbed into a curtsey at her passing. Miss Temple acknowledged the girl with a nod and strode on into the kitchen, which held at least three servants hard at work. She smiled at them crisply. “Good afternoon. My name is Miss Hastings—I require your rear door.” She did not pause for their reply. “I expect it is this way? I am obliged to you. What a well-kept room—the teapots are especially fine—” Within moments she was beyond them and down a short flight of stairs to the door itself. She stepped aside for Chang to open it, for behind him and over the Doctor’s shoulder she saw the crowd of curious faces that had followed. “Have you seen the parade of cavalry?” she called. “It is the Prince’s Own 4th Dragoons—my goodness, they are splendid! Such trumpets, and so many fine animals—remarkable. Good day!” She followed the Doctor through the door and exhaled with relief as Chang closed it behind them.

The sound of hoofbeats was fainter—the parade was already passing by. As they ran toward the alley’s end, Miss Temple noted with alarm that Chang had drawn his long double-edged knife and Svenson his revolver. Miss Temple groped at her green bag, but needed one hand to hold up her dress to run and could not successfully open it with the other. If she was a cursing sort of girl she would have been cursing then, for the obvious urgency with which her companions treated the situation had caught her unawares. They were at the street. Svenson took hold of her arm as they walked rapidly away from the Boniface. Chang loped a pace or two behind, his eyes searching for enemies. There were no cries, no shots. They reached the next street and Svenson wheeled her around the corner. They pressed themselves against the wall and waited for Chang to follow a moment later. He shrugged, and the three of them continued away as quickly as they could. It seemed incredible to be free so easily, and Miss Temple could not help but smile at their success.

Before either of the men could set a path, Miss Temple picked up her pace so that they would be forced to follow her. They rounded the corner into the next broad avenue—Regent’s Gate—where ahead of them, Miss Temple spotted a familiar awning. She steered them toward it. She’d had an idea.

“Where are you going?” asked Chang, brusquely.

“We must strategize,” answered Miss Temple. “We cannot do it in the street. We cannot do it in a café—the three of us would be much talked of—”

“Perhaps a private room—” suggested Svenson.

“Then we would be even more talked of,” interrupted Miss Temple. “But there is a place where no one will comment on our strange little band.”

“What place?” asked Chang with suspicion.

She smiled at her cleverness. “It is an art gallery.”

The artist presently exhibited was a Mr. Veilandt—a painter from somewhere near Vienna—whose work Roger had taken her to see as a way of showing favor to a visiting group of Austrian bankers. Miss Temple had been alone among the party to pay the art itself any attention—in her case, a negative interest, for she found the paintings unsettling and presumptuous. Everyone else had ignored them in favor of drinking schnapps and discussing markets and tariffs, as Roger had assured her they would. Reasoning that the gallery would not mind another such visit of ill-attention, she pulled Svenson and Chang into the outer lobby to speak to the attending gallery agent. She explained in a low tone that she had been part of the Austrian party and here brought a representative of the Macklenburg court, in search of wedding presents for his Prince—a figure of taste—surely the man had heard of the impending match? He nodded importantly that he had. The man’s gaze drifted to Chang and Miss Temple noted with some tact that her second companion was also an artist, much impressed with Mr. Veilandt’s reputation as a provocateur. The agent nodded in sympathy and ushered them into the main viewing room, delicately slipping a brochure with printed prices and titles into the hands of Doctor Svenson.

The paintings were as she remembered them: large, lurid oils depicting in an almost obscenely deliberate manner incidents of doubt and temptation from the lives of saints, each chosen for its thoroughly unwholesome spectacle. Indeed, without the establishing context within each composition of the single figure with a halo, the collection of canvases created a pure pageant of decadence. While Miss Temple perceived how the artist used the veil of the sacred to indulge his taste for the depraved, she was not sure whether, on a level deeper than cynical cleverness, the paintings were not more truthful than was ever intended. Indeed, when she had first seen them, among the throng of self-important financiers, her dismay had been not with the profligate and blasphemous carnality but, on the contrary, the precarious isolation, the barely persuasive presence, of virtue. Miss Temple led her companions down the length of the gallery, away from the agent.

“Good Lord,” whispered Doctor Svenson. He peered at the small card to the side of a largely orange canvas whose figures seemed to slither from the surface fully fleshed into the air around them. “St. Rowena and the Viking Raiders,” he read, and turned up to the face that could perhaps charitably be said to be glowing with religious fervor. “Good Lord.”

Chang was silent, but equally transfixed, his expression unreadable behind the smoked-glass lenses. Miss Temple spoke in a low tone, so as not to attract the agent.

“So…now that we may speak without concern…”

“The Blissful Fortitude of St. Jasper,” read the Doctor, glancing up at a canvas on the other wall. “Are those pig snouts?”

She cleared her throat. They turned to her, slightly abashed.

“Good Lord, Miss Temple,” said Svenson, “these paintings do not take you aback?”

“In fact they do, yet I have already seen them. I had thought, since we have already shared the blue cards, we could weather their challenge.”

“Yes—yes, I see,” said Svenson, at once even more obviously awkward. “The gallery is certainly empty. And convenient.”

Chang did not offer any opinion on the place or the paintings of Mr. Veilandt, but merely smiled—once more rather wolfishly, it seemed.

“My own idea…,” began Miss Temple. “You did look at the glass cards, Cardinal?”

“I did.” The man was positively leering.

“Well, in the one with Roger Bascombe—and myself—” She stopped and frowned, gathering her thoughts—there were too many at wing inside her brain. “What I am trying to decide is where we ought to next direct our efforts, and most importantly whether it is best for us to remain together or if the work is more effectively accomplished in different directions.”

“You mentioned the card?” prompted Chang.

“Because it showed the country house of Roger’s uncle, Lord Tarr, and some kind of quarry—”

“Wait, wait,” Svenson broke in. “Francis Xonck, speaking of Bascombe’s inheritance…he referred to a substance called ‘indigo clay’—have you heard of it?”

She shook her head. Chang shrugged.

“Neither had I,” continued Svenson. “But he suggested that Bascombe would soon be the owner of a large deposit of the same. It has to be the quarry, which has to be on his uncle’s land.”

“His land,” corrected Chang.

Svenson nodded. “And my thought is that it may be vital to making their glass!”

“Thus why Tarr was killed,” said Chang. “And why Bascombe was chosen. They seduce him to their cause, and then this indigo clay is under their control.”

Miss Temple saw the ease of it—a few words from Crabbé about the usefulness of a title to an ambitious man, the flattering company of a woman like the Contessa or even—she sighed with disappointment—Mrs. Marchmoor and cigars and brandy with a flattering rake like Francis Xonck. She wondered if Roger had any real idea of the value of this indigo clay, or if his allegiance was being purchased as cheaply as that of an Indian savage, with these people’s equivalent of beads and feathers. Then she remembered that he too had borne the purple scars. Did he even retain his own unfettered mind, or had this Process transmuted him into their slave?

“He is a pawn after all…,” she whispered.

“I’d wager every preening member of this cabal sees every other as a pawn.” Chang chuckled. “I would not single out poor Bascombe.”

“No,” said Miss Temple. “I’m sure you’re correct. I’m sure he’s only like them all.”

She shrugged away the glimmer of sympathy. “But the question remains—should we direct our efforts to Tarr Manor?”

“There is another possibility,” said Doctor Svenson. “I’ve been distracted. Not three minutes from here is the walled garden where the Comte d’Orkancz brought me to look at the injured woman—it was my destination when I saw you in the window.”

“What woman?” asked Chang.

Svenson exhaled heavily and shook his head. “Another unfortunate caught up in the Comte’s experiments, and another mystery. She bore all the features of drowning in frozen water, though the damage had apparently been inflicted by some machine—I assume it has to do with the glass, or the boxes—I could not say if she survived the night. But the location—a greenhouse, to keep her warm—must be a stronghold of the Comte, and it is very near. He sought me to treat her—”

“Sought you?” asked Miss Temple.

“He claimed to have seen a pamphlet I wrote, years ago, on the afflictions of Baltic seamen—”

“He is indeed widely read.”

“It is ridiculous, I agree—”

“I do not doubt it, but why?” Miss Temple frowned, her thoughts quickening. “But wait…if the pamphlet is so old, then it means the Comte must have had cause, even then, to be mindful of such injuries!”

Svenson nodded. “Yes! Would this mean the Comte is the chief architect of these experiments?”

“At Harschmort it was quite clearly he who managed the boxes and the strange mechanical masks. It only follows he is master of the science itself…” She shivered at the memory of the large man’s callous manipulation of the somnolent women.

“What did the woman look like?” interrupted Chang. “At this greenhouse?”

“Look like?” said Svenson, his train of thought jarred. “Ah—well—there were disfiguring marks across her body—she was young, beautiful—yes, and perhaps Asiatic. Do you know who she is?”

“Of course not,” said Chang.

“We can see if she is still there—”

“So that is another possibility,” said Miss Temple, attempting to keep the conversation clear. “I can also think of several destinations in search of particular people—back to Harschmort, to the St. Royale for the Contessa—”

“Crabbé’s house on Hadrian Square,” said Svenson.

They turned to Chang. He was silent, lost in thought. Abruptly he looked up, and shook his head. “Following an individual merely gives us a prisoner—at best, that is. It means interrogation, threats—it is awkward. True, we may find the Prince—we may find anything—but most likely we will catch Harald Crabbé at dinner with his wife and end up having to cut both their throats.”

“I have not made Mrs. Crabbé’s acquaintance,” said Miss Temple. “I should prefer any mayhem be directly applied to those who we know have harmed us.” She knew that Chang had raised the idea of murdering the woman just to frighten them, and she was frightened—a test, as she realized the paintings were a way for her to test the two of them. As they stood speaking, she saw that placing herself with two men amidst a room full of undulating flesh was actually a declaration of a certain capacity and knowledge that she did not in fact possess. It had not been her initial intention, but it made her feel more their equal.

“So you are not content to simply kill everyone.” Chang smiled.

“I am not,” replied Miss Temple. “In all this I have wanted to know why—from the first moment I decided to follow Roger.”

“Do you suppose we should separate?” asked Svenson. “Some to visit the greenhouse—which may involve the throat-cutting you describe, if it is full of the Comte’s men—and one to visit Tarr Manor?”

“What of your Prince?” asked Miss Temple.

Svenson rubbed his eyes. “I do not know. Even they did not know.”

“Who did not?” asked Chang. “Specifically.”

“Xonck, Bascombe, Major Blach, the Comte…”

“Did they rule out the Contessa?”

“No. Nor Lord Vandaariff. So…perhaps the Prince is in a room at the St. Royale, or at Harschmort—perhaps, if we were able to find him, it would accentuate the divisions between them, and who can say—thus provoke some rash action or at least reveal more of their true aims.”

Chang nodded. He turned to Miss Temple and spoke quite seriously. “What is your opinion about dividing our efforts? About pursuing one of these choices alone?”

Before she could answer—as she knew she must answer—Miss Temple felt the whole of her mind relocated to the jolting coach with Spragg, the hot smell of his sweating, bristled neck, the suffocating weight of his body, the imperious force of his hands, the crush of fear that had taken such implacable hold over her body. She blinked the thought away and found herself again facing the woman in red, her piercing violet eyes sharper than any knife, her dismissive, lordly insolence of expression, her dark chuckling laugh that seemed to flay the nerves from Miss Temple’s spine. She blinked again. She looked around her at the paintings, and at the two men who had become her allies—because she had chosen them, as she had chosen to place her very self at hazard. She knew they would do whatever she said.

“I do not mind at all.” Miss Temple smiled. “If I should have the chance to shoot one of these fellows by myself, then all the better, I say.”

“Just a moment…,” said Doctor Svenson. He was looking past her at the far wall and walked over to it, wiping his monocle on the lapel of his greatcoat. He stood in front of a small canvas—perhaps the smallest on display—and peered at the identifying card, then back at the painting with close attention. “Both of you need to come here.”

Miss Temple crossed to the painting and abruptly gasped with surprise. How could she have not remembered this from before? The canvas—clearly cut from a larger work—showed an ethereal woman reclining on what one first assumed to be a sofa or divan, but which on further study was clearly an angled table—there even seemed to be straps (or was this merely the artist’s conception of a Biblical garment?) securing her arms. Above the woman’s head floated a golden halo, but on her face, around her eyes, were the same purpled looping scars they had all witnessed in the flesh.

Svenson consulted his brochure. “Annunciation Fragment…it is…a moment—” He flipped the page. “The painting is five years old. And it is the newest piece in the collection. Excuse me.”

He left them and approached the agent, who sat making notes in a ledger at his desk. Miss Temple returned to the painting. She could not deny that it was unsettlingly lovely, and she noticed with horror that the woman’s pale robe was bordered at the neck with a line of green circles. “The robes in Harschmort,” she whispered to Chang, “the women under the Comte’s power—they wore the same!”

The Doctor returned, shaking his head. “It’s most bizarre,” he hissed. “The artist—Mr. Oskar Veilandt—was apparently a mystic, deranged, a dabbler in alchemy and dark science.”

“Excellent,” said Chang. “Perhaps he’s the one to tie these threads together—”

“He can lead us to the others!” Miss Temple whispered excitedly.

“My exact thought.” The Doctor nodded. “But I am told that Mr. Veilandt has been dead for these five years.”

All three were silent. Five years? How could that be possible? What did it mean?

“The lines on her face,” said Chang. “They are definitely the same…”

“Yes,” agreed Svenson, “which only tells us that the plot itself—the Process—is at least that old as well. We will need to know more—where the artist lived, where he died, who holds custody of his work—indeed, who has sponsored this very exhibition—”

Miss Temple extended her finger to point at the small card with the work’s title, for next to it was a small blot of red ink. “Even more, Doctor, we will need to know who has bought this painting!”

The gallery agent, a Mr. Shanck, was happy to oblige them with information (after the Doctor had thoroughly inquired as to prices and delivery procedures for several of the larger paintings, in between mutters about wall space in the Macklenburg Palace), but unfortunately what Mr. Shanck knew was little: Veilandt himself was a mystery, school in Vienna, sojourns in Italy and Constantinople, atelier in Montmartre. The paintings had come from a dealer in Paris, where he understood Veilandt had died. He glanced toward the opulent compositions and tendered that he did not doubt it was due to consumption or absinthe or some other such destructive mania. The present owner wished to remain anonymous—in Mr. Shanck’s view because of the oeuvre’s scandalous nature—and Shanck’s only dealings were with his opposite number at a gallery in the Boulevard St. Germain. Mr. Shanck clearly relished the patina of intrigue around the collection, as he relished sharing his privileged information with those he deemed discerning. His expression faltered into suspicion however when Miss Temple, in a fully casual manner, wondered who had purchased the “odd little painting”, and if he might have any others like it for purchase. She quite fancied it, and would love another for her home. In fact, he outright blanched.

“I…I assumed—you mentioned the wedding—the Prince—”

Miss Temple nodded in agreement, dispelling none of the man’s sudden fear.

“Exactly. Thus my interest in buying one for myself.”

“But none are available for purchase at all! They never were!”

“That seems no way to run a gallery,” she said, “and besides, one has been sold—”

“Why—why else would you come?” he said, more to himself than to her, his voice fading as he spoke.

“To see the paintings, Mr. Shanck—as I told you—”

“It was not even bought,” he sputtered, waving at the small canvas. “It was given, for the wedding. It is a gift for Lydia Vandaariff. The entire exhibition has been arranged for no other reason than to reunite each canvas with the others in a single collection! Anyone acquainted with the gallery—anyone suitable to be informed—surely, the union of the artist’s themes…religion…morality…appetite…mysticism…you must be aware…the forces at work—the dangerous…”

Mr. Shanck looked at them and swallowed nervously. “If you did not know that—how did you—who did you—”

Miss Temple saw the man’s rising distress and found she was instinctively smiling at him, shaking her head—it was all a misunderstanding—but before she could actually speak, Chang stepped forward, immediately menacing and sharp, and took up a fistful of Mr. Shanck’s cravat, pulling him awkwardly over his desk. Shanck bleated in futile protest.

“I know nothing,” he cried. “People use the gallery to meet—I am paid to allow it—I say nothing—I will say nothing about any of you—I swear it—”

“Mr. Shanck—” began Miss Temple, but Chang cut her off, tightening his grip on the man with a snarl.

“The paintings have been gathered together you say—by whom?”

Shanck sputtered, utterly outraged and afraid—though not, it seemed to her, of them. “By—ah!—by her father!”

Once released, the man broke away and fled across the gallery into a room Miss Temple believed actually held brooms. She sighed with frustration. Still, it gave them a moment to speak.

“We must leave at once,” she said. There were noises from beyond the distant doorway. She reached out an arm and prevented Chang from investigating. “We did not yet decide—”

Chang cut her off. “This greenhouse. It may be dangerous enough that numbers will help our entry. It is also nearby.”

Miss Temple bristled with irritation at Chang’s peremptory manner, but then perceived a flicker of emotion cross his face. Though she could not, with his eyes so hidden, guess what feelings were at work, the very fact of their presence piqued her interest. Chang seemed to her then like a kind of finely bred horse whose strengths were at the mercy of any number of infinitesimal tempests at work in the blood—a character that required a very particular sort of managing.

“I agree,” replied Svenson.

“Excellent,” said Miss Temple. She noted with alarm a growing clamor from amongst the brooms. “But I suggest we leave.”

“Wait…,” called Doctor Svenson, and he dashed away from them toward Veilandt’s Annunciation. With a quick glance after Mr. Shanck’s closet, the Doctor snatched it from the wall.

“He’s not going to steal it?” whispered Miss Temple.

He was not. Instead, the Doctor flipped the picture over to look at the back side of the canvas, the deliberate nodding of his face confirming that he’d found something there to see. A moment later the painting was returned to the wall and the Doctor running toward them.

“What was it?” asked Chang.

“Writing,” exclaimed Svenson, ushering them toward the street. “I wondered if there might be any indication of the larger work, or—seeing as the man was an alchemist—some kind of mystical formula.”

“And was there?” asked Miss Temple.

He nodded, groping for a scrap of paper and a pencil stub from his coat pocket. “Indeed—I will note them down, though the symbols mean nothing to me—but also, I cannot say what they portend, but there were words, in large block letters—”

“What words?” asked Chang.

“‘And so they shall be consumed’,” Svenson replied.

Miss Temple said nothing, recalling vividly the blackboard at Harschmort, for there was no time. They were on the avenue, the Doctor taking her arm as he led the way toward the greenhouse.

“In blood?” asked Chang.

“No,” answered Doctor Svenson. “In blue.”

“The entrance to the lane that I know is directly opposite the Boniface,” said Svenson, speaking low as they walked. “To reach the garden gate safely, we will have to walk some distance around the hotel and come at it from the opposite side.”

“And even then,” observed Chang, “you say it may be guarded.”

“It was before. But of course, the Comte was there—without him, the guards may be gone. The problem is, I entered through the garden, that is, the back way—and it was dark and foggy, and I have no real idea whether there is a house connected to it—still less if the house is presently occupied.”

Chang sighed. “If we must circle around it will be longer to walk, yet—”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Temple. The men looked at her. She really would need to take a firmer hand. “We will hire a coach,” she explained, and realized that neither of her companions even thought of hiring a coach as a normal part of their day. It was obvious that between the three of them were different sorts of strength, and different brands of fragility. As a woman, Miss Temple perceived how each of her companions felt sure about where she might fail, but lacked a similar sense of their own vulnerabilities. It was, she accepted, her own responsibility, and so she directed their attention down the avenue.

“There is one now—if one of you would wave to the man?”

Thus conveyed, each one pressing themselves into their seat and away from the windows, they were on the other side of the lane within minutes. Chang gave Miss Temple a nod to indicate he saw no soldiers. They climbed out and she sent the coach on its way. The trio entered the empty, narrow, cobbled lane, which Miss Temple saw was called Plum Court. The gate stood in the middle of the lane—as they neared it the sounds of the adjoining avenues faded before the deepening shadow, for the buildings around them blocked out whatever light did not fall from directly above, which from this clouded sky was very feeble. Miss Temple wondered how any kind of garden could thrive in such a dull and airless place. The entrance was a strange church-like arch set into the wall around a thick wooden door. The arch itself was decorated with subtle figures carved into the wood, a strange pattern of sea monsters, mermaids, and shipwrecked sailors who were smiling even as they drowned.

Miss Temple turned her gaze to the end of the lane and saw, in the brighter light of the avenue, as if it were a framed colored picture, the front of the Boniface. Standing at the door was Mr. Spanning, with a soldier to either side. Miss Temple tapped Chang on the shoulder and pointed. He stepped quickly to the doorway, set down Miss Temple’s flowered bag and dug in his pocket for a heavy ring of many keys. He rapidly sorted through them, and muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Let me know if they see us…and you might step closer to the wall.”

Miss Temple and the Doctor did press themselves against the wall, each of them readying their pistols. Miss Temple felt more than a little anxious—she had never fired any weapon in her life, and here she was, playing the highwayman. Chang inserted a key and turned. It did not work. He tried another, and another, and another, each time patiently flipping through the ring for a new one.

“If there is anyone on the other side of the door,” whispered Svenson, “they will hear!”

“They already have,” Chang whispered in reply, and Miss Temple noticed that he had casually insinuated himself—and they behind him—to the side of the door, clear of any shots that might be fired through it. He tried another key, and another, and another. He stood back and sighed, then looked up at the wall. It was perhaps ten feet tall, but the sheer face was broken around the door by the ornamental arch. Chang pocketed his keys and turned to Svenson.

“Doctor, your hands please…”

Miss Temple watched with some alarm and a certain animal appreciation as Chang placed his boot in the knitted hands of Doctor Svenson, and then launched himself at the overhanging archway. With the barest grip he slithered up to where he could wedge his knee onto the shingles, shift his weight, and then reach as high as the edge of the wall itself. Within moments, and by what Miss Temple felt to be a striking display of physical capacity, Chang had swung a leg over the wall. He looked down with what seemed to be a professional lack of expression, and dropped from her sight. There was silence. Svenson readied his revolver. Then the lock was turning, the door open, and Chang beckoning them to enter.

“We have been anticipated,” he said, and reached out to take the bag from her.

Under its pall of shadow, the garden was a dreary place, the beds withered, the patches of lawn brown, the limbs of the delicate ornamental trees hanging limp and bare. Miss Temple walked between stone urns taller than her head, their edges draped with the dead fallen stalks of last summer’s flowers. The garden bordered the rear of a large house that had once, she saw, been painted white, though it was now nearly black from a layered patina of soot. Its windows and rear door had been nailed shut with planks, effectively sealing it off from the garden. Before her, Miss Temple saw the greenhouse, a once-splendid dome of grey-green glass, streaked with moss and grime. The door hung open, dark as the gap of a missing tooth. As they walked toward it, she saw that Doctor Svenson was studying the garden beds and muttering under his breath.

“What do you see, Doctor?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon—I was simply noting the Comte’s choice of plants. It is the garden of a dark-hearted herbalist.” He pointed to various withered stalks that to Miss Temple looked all the same. “Here is black hellebore, here is belladonna…foxglove…mandrake…castor beans…bloodroot…”

“My goodness,” said Miss Temple, not knowing the plants Svenson was listing, but willing to approve of his recitation. “One would think the Comte was an apothecary!”

“To be sure, Miss Temple, these are all, in their way, poisons.” Svenson looked up and drew her eye to the door, where Chang had entered without them. “But perhaps there is time to study the flower beds later…”

The light in the greenhouse bore a greenish cast, as if one were entering an aquarium. Miss Temple walked across thick Turkish carpets to where Chang stood next to a large canopied bed. The curtains had been pulled from the posts and the bedding stripped away. She looked down at the mattress with rising revulsion. The thick padding was stained with the deep ruddy color of dried blood, but also, near the head, marked with strange vivid spatters of both deep indigo blue and an acid-tinged orange. Taking her rather aback, Doctor Svenson climbed onto the bed and bent over the different stains, sniffing. For Miss Temple, such intimacy with another person’s bodily discharges—a person she did not even know—extended well beyond her present sphere of duty. She turned away and allowed her eyes to roam elsewhere in the room.

While it seemed like the Comte had vacated the greenhouse and taken with him anything that might have explained his use of it, Miss Temple could still see how the circular room had held different areas of activity. At the door was a small work table. Nearby were basins and pipes where water was pumped in, and next to the basins a squat coal stove topped by a wide flat iron plate for cooking either food or, more probably, alchemical compounds and elixirs. Past these was a long wooden table, nailed to the floor and fitted, she noted with a fearful shiver, with leather straps. She glanced back at the bed. Doctor Svenson was still bent over the mattress, and Chang was looking underneath it. She walked to the table. The surface was scored with burns and stains, as was—she noted when her foot snagged in an open tear—the carpet. In fact, the carpet was absolutely ruined with burns and stains along a small pathway running from the stove to the table, and then again from the stove to the basins, and then, finishing the triangle, from the basins to the table directly. She stepped to the stove, which was cold. Out of curiosity, she knelt in front of it and pried open the hatch. It was full of ash. She looked about her for some tongs, found them, and reached in, her tongue poking from her mouth in concentration as she sifted through the ashes. After a moment she stood up, wiped her hands, and turned quite happily to her companions, holding out a scrap of midnight blue fabric.

“Something here, gentlemen. Unless I am mistaken it is shantung silk—is it possible this was the woman’s dress?”

Chang crossed to her and took the piece of burnt cloth. He studied it a moment without speaking and handed it back. He called to Svenson, his voice a trifle brusque.

“What can you tell us, Doctor?”

Miss Temple did not think the Doctor noticed Chang’s tone, nor the distressed tapping of his fingertips against his thigh, for Svenson’s reply was unhurried, as if his mind was still occupied with solving this newest puzzle. “It is unclear to me…for, you see, the bloodstains here…which do, to my experience with the varied colors of drying blood, seem to be relatively recent…”

He pointed to the center of the mattress, and Miss Temple found herself prodding Chang to join her nearer to the bed.

“It seems a lot of blood, Doctor,” she said. “Does it not?”

“Perhaps, but not if—if you will permit the indelicacy—if the blood is the result of a natural—ah, monthly—process. You will see the stain is in the center of the bed—where one would expect the pelvis—”

“What about childbirth?” she asked. “Was the woman pregnant?”

“She was not. There are of course other explanations—it could be another injury, there could be violence, or even some kind of poison—”

“Could she have been raped?” asked Chang.

Svenson did not immediately reply, his eyes flitting to Miss Temple. She bore no expression, and merely raised her eyebrows in encouragement of his answer. He turned back to Chang.

“Obviously, yes—but the quantity of blood is prodigious. Such an assault would have had to be especially catastrophic, possibly mortal. I cannot say more. When I examined the woman, she was not so injured. Of course, that is no guarantee—”

“What of the other stains? The blue and the orange?” asked Miss Temple, still aware of Chang’s restless tapping.

“I cannot say. The blue…well, firstly, the smell is consistent with a strange odor I have smelt both in the Institute and on the body in Crabbé’s kitchen—mechanical, chemical. I can only hazard it is part of their glass-making. Perhaps it is a narcotic, or perhaps…I do not know, a preservative, a fixative—as it fixes memories into glass, perhaps there is some way in which d’Orkancz hoped to fix the woman into life. I am certain he sought to preserve her,” he added, looking up into Chang’s stern face. “As for the orange, well, it’s very queer. Orange—or an essence of orange peel—is sometimes used as an insecticide—there is an acidity that destroys the carapace. Such is the smell of this stain—a bitter concentrate derived by steam.”

“But, Doctor,” asked Miss Temple, “do not the stains themselves suggest that the fluid has come—been expelled—from the woman? They are sprayed—spattered—”

“Yes, they are—very astute!”

“Do you suggest she was infested?”

“No, I suggest nothing—but I do wonder about the effects of such a solvent with regard to the possible properties of the blue fluid, the glass, within the human body. Perhaps it was the Comte’s idea of a remedy.”

“If it melts an insect’s shell, it might melt the glass in her lungs?”

“Exactly—though, of course, we are ignorant of the exact ingredients of the glass, so I cannot say if it might have proven effective.”

They said nothing for a moment, staring at the bed and the traces of the body that had lain there.

“If it worked,” said Miss Temple, “I do not know why he has burnt her dress.”

“No.” Svenson nodded, sadly.

“No,” snapped Chang. He turned from them and walked out to the garden.

Miss Temple looked to Doctor Svenson, who was still on the bed, his expression one of concern and confusion, as if they both knew something was not right. He began to climb off—awkwardly, his coat and boots cumbersome and his lank hair falling over his face. Miss Temple was quicker to the door, snatching up her flowered bag where Chang had left it—it was shockingly heavy, Marthe was an idiot to think she could carry the thing for any distance—and lurching into the garden. Chang stood in the middle of the lifeless lawn, staring up at the boarded windows of the house—windows that in their willful impenetrability struck Miss Temple as a mirror of Chang’s glasses. She flung down the bag and approached him. He did not turn. She stopped, perhaps a yard from his side. She glanced back to see Doctor Svenson standing in the greenhouse doorway, watching.

“Cardinal Chang?” she asked. He did not answer. Miss Temple did not know if there was anything so tiresome as a person ignoring a perfectly polite, indeed sympathetic, question. She took a breath, exhaled slowly, and gently spoke again. “Do you know the woman?”

Chang turned to her, his voice quite cold. “Her name is Angelique. You would not know her. She is—she was—a whore.”

“I see,” said Miss Temple.

“Do you?” snapped Chang.

Miss Temple ignored the challenge and again held up the scrap of burnt silk. “And you recognize this as hers?”

“She wore such a dress yesterday evening, in the company of the Comte—he took her to the Institute.” Chang turned to call over her shoulder to Svenson. “She was with him there, with his machines—she is obviously the woman you saw—and she is obviously dead.”

“Is she?” asked Miss Temple.

Chang snorted. “You said it yourself—he has burnt the dress—”

“I did,” she agreed, “but it really makes little sense. I do not see any freshly turned earth here in this garden, do you?”

Chang looked at her suspiciously, and then glanced around him. Before he could answer her, Svenson called out from the doorway, “I don’t.”

“Nor did—forgive the indelicacy—I find any bones in the stove. And I do believe that if one were to burn such a thing as a body—for I have seen the bodies of animals in such a fire—that at least some bones would remain. Doctor?”

“I would expect so, yes—the femur alone—”

“So my question, Cardinal Chang,” continued Miss Temple, “is why—if she is dead and he is abandoning this garden—does he not bury or burn her remains right here? It truly is the sensible thing—and yet I do not see that he’s done it.”

“Then why burn the dress?” asked Chang.

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps because it was ruined—the bloodstains the Doctor described. Perhaps it was contaminated.” She turned to Svenson. “Was she wearing the dress when you saw her, Doctor?”

Svenson cleared his throat. “I saw no such dress,” he said.

“So we do not know,” announced Miss Temple, returning to Chang. “You may hate the Comte d’Orkancz, but you may also yet hope to find this woman alive—and who can say, even recovered.”

Chang did not reply, but she sensed something change in his body, a palpable shifting in his bones to accommodate some small admission of hope. Miss Temple allowed herself a moment of satisfaction, but instead of that pleasure she found herself quite unexpectedly beset by a painful welling of sadness, of isolation, as if she had taken for granted a certain solidarity with Chang, that they were alike in being alone, only to learn that this was not true. The fact of his feelings—that he had feelings, much less that they were of such fervor, and for this particular sort of woman—threw her into distress. She did not desire to be the object of such a man’s emotions—of course she didn’t—but she was nevertheless unprepared to face the depth of her loneliness so abruptly—nor by way of consoling someone else—which seemed especially unjust and was hardly Miss Temple’s forte to begin with. She could not help it. She was pierced by solitude, and found herself suddenly sniffing. Mortified, she forced her eyes brightly open and tried to smile, making her voice as brisk and amiable as she could.

“It seems that we have each lost someone. You this woman, Angelique, the Doctor his Prince, and my own…my cruel and foolish Roger. While there is the difference that the two of you have some hope—and indeed the desire—to recover the one you have lost…for me I am content to assist how I can, and to achieve my share of understanding…and revenge.”

Her voice broke, and she sniffed, angry with her weakness but powerless to fight it. Was this her life? Again she felt the gagging absence in her heart—how could she have been such a fool as to allow Roger Bascombe to fill it? How could she have allowed such feelings to begin with—when they had only left her with this unanswerable ache? How could she be still beset by them, still want to be somehow simply misunderstood by him and taken by the hand—her own weakness was unbearable. For the first time in her twenty-five years Miss Temple did not know where she was going to sleep. She saw Doctor Svenson stepping toward her and forced a smile, waving him away.

“Your aunt,” he began, “surely, Miss Temple, her concern for you—”

“Pffft!” scoffed Miss Temple, unable to bear his sympathy. She walked to her bag and hefted it with one hand, doing her best to conceal the weight but stumbling as she made her way to the garden gate. “I will wait in the street,” she called over her shoulder, not wanting them to see the emotion on her face. “When you are finished, I’m sure there is much for us to do…”

She dropped the bag and leaned against the wall, her hands over her eyes, her shoulders now heaving with sobs. Only moments ago she had been so proud to find the scrap of silk in the stove and now—and why? Because Chang had feelings for some whore?—the full weight of all she had suffered and sacrificed and stuffed aside had reappeared to rest on her small frame and tender heart. How did anyone bear this isolation, this desolated hope? In the midst of this tempest, Miss Temple, for her mind was restless and quick, did not forget the sharp fear inspired by her enemies, nor did she refrain from berating herself for the girlish indulgence of crying in the first place. She dug for a handkerchief in her green bag, her hand searching for it around the revolver, another sign of what she had become—what she had embraced with, if she was honest, typically ridiculous results. She blew her nose. She was difficult, she knew. She did not make friends. She was brisk and demanding, unsparing and indulgent. She sniffed, bitterly resenting this sort of introspection, despising the need for it nearly as much as she despised introspection itself. In that moment she did not know which she wanted more, to curl up in the sun room of her island house, or to shoot one of these blue-glass villains in the heart…yet were either of these the answer to her present state?

She sniffed loudly. Neither Chang, for all his hidden moods, nor Svenson, for all his fussy hesitance, were standing in the open street in tears. How could she face them as any kind of equal? Again, and relentlessly, she asked herself what she thought she was doing. She’d told Chang that she was willing to pursue her investigations alone, though in her heart she had not believed it. Now she knew that this was exactly what she must do—for at the moment doing seemed crucial—if she was ever going to scour this awful sense of being subject from her body. She looked back at the garden door—neither man had appeared. She snatched up the bag with both hands and walked back the way they had come, away from the Boniface. With each step she felt as if she were in a ship leaving its port to cross an unknown ocean—and the farther down Plum Court she went, the more determined she became.

At the avenue, she hailed a coach. She looked back. Her heart caught in her throat. Chang and Svenson stood in the garden doorway. Svenson called to her. Chang was running. She climbed into the coach and threw the bag to the floor.

“Drive on,” she called. The coach pulled away and with an almost brutal swiftness she was beyond the lane and any vision of her two companions. The driver looked back at her, his face an unspoken inquiry for their destination.

“The St. Royale Hotel,” said Miss Temple.