The man pointed to the first compartment car. But another reached out and opened his palm to Svenson. In it he held a small purple stone.
“She had this in her hand, sir. The woman's dead.”
MISS TEMPLE did not make a sound. She could not tell if the shadow in the doorway—hissing in ragged gasps—was climbing in or not. The Contessa's hand tightened hard across her mouth.
There was a shout from outside, from the trainsmen. With the barest scrape of gravel the shadowed figure was gone. Miss Temple struggled to peek but the Contessa sharply pulled her down. A moment later came the sound of more bootsteps, jostling bodies in the doorway, mutters about the godawful smell—and then, like the sudden crash of a cannon, the door to the goods car slammed shut. Another agonizing minute, for the woman was nothing if not careful, and the Contessa at last released Miss Temple's mouth.
Miss Temple spun so her back was against the barrels and raised her knife. Her heart was pounding. The car was dark as a starless night.
“Wait now,” whispered the Contessa. “Just a few moments more…”
Then the entire train car shook, jolting Miss Temple and the barrels behind her, then settled to a regular motion as it gathered speed.
The Contessa laughed out loud. Then she sighed—a pretty, sliding sound.
“You may put away your knife, Celeste.”
“I will not,” replied Miss Temple.
“I have no immediate interest in harming you—I am not hungry, nor am I especially disposed to make a pillow of your lovely hair.”
The Contessa laughed again and Miss Temple heard her rummaging in the darkness. Then the Contessa lit a match, and set it to a white wax candle she had wedged into a knothole in the car's plank floor.
“I do not like to waste them,” the Contessa said, “but a little light will aid our… negotiation. The journey will best be served by a short-term mutually beneficial agreement.”
“What sort of agreement?” hissed Miss Temple. “I cannot imagine it.”
“Simple things. An agreement whereby, for example, we trust each other enough to sleep without fear of never waking.”
“But you are a liar,” said Miss Temple.
“Am I indeed? When have I ever lied to you?”
Miss Temple thought for a moment, and then sniffed. “You are vicious and cruel.”
“But not a liar, Celeste.”
“You lied to the others—to the Comte and Francis Xonck! You lied to Roger!”
“I did not need to lie to Roger, my dear—no one ever did. As for Francis and Oskar, I will admit it. But one always lies to friends—if you had friends you would know friendship relies on that very tradition. But lying to enemies… well, it lessens one's spark.”
“I do not believe you.”
“You would be a fool to believe me. And yet, I am offering a bargain. While we share this train car, I will not harm you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I do not need anything from you, Celeste. What I need is sleep. And sleep in a cold train car will be more restful if we are not barricaded behind barrels of fish oil ready to kill one another. Truly, it is a civilized gesture—a logic beyond morals, if that speaks to you.”
Miss Temple shifted slightly—one of her legs was getting a cramp, and the sweat on her back had cooled. She could feel the weight of her exertions waiting to fall. If she did not sleep well she would slip back into her fever.
“Do you have any food?” she asked.
“I do. Would you like some?”
“I had a perfectly fine supper,” said Miss Temple. “But I expect I will be hungry again in the morning.”
The Contessa smirked, and for the first time Miss Temple saw the woman's sharp spike had been ready if their conversation had gone another way.
THE CONTESSA removed a small cork-stoppered bottle and a handkerchief from her bag. She tugged the cork free and tamped the cloth over the bottle, tipping it once to soak a small circle. Without a glance to Miss Temple she wiped her face and neck as deliberately and thoroughly as a cat giving itself a bath. Miss Temple watched with some fascination as the woman's face slipped through so many guileless formations—shutting her eyes as the cloth dabbed around them, stretching her lips as she swabbed around her nose and mouth, lifting her jaw as she swept the cloth—resoaked—up and down her throat and under the collar of her dress.
“What is that?” Miss Temple finally asked.
“An alcoholic tincture of rosewater. The scent is horrid, of course, but the alcohol a welcome enough astringent.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Would you like to clean your face, Celeste? In truth, you do not appear at all well.”
“I have had fever,” said Miss Temple.
“Goodness, did you nearly die?”
“As I did not, it does not especially matter.”
“Come here, then.”
The Contessa soaked a new spot on the handkerchief. She held it out and, not wanting to seem either docile or ill-bred, Miss Temple scooted closer. The Contessa took gentle hold of Miss Temple's jaw and started at her forehead, working down. Miss Temple flinched as the cloth came near the bullet weal above her ear, but the woman took account of the rawness and her touch did not hurt at all.
“Did you ever think you. would die?” asked the Contessa musingly.
“When?” replied Miss Temple.
The Contessa smiled. “At any time at all.”
“I'm sure I did. Did you?”
Finished with the face, the Contessa re-drenched the cloth and swabbed brusquely at Miss Temple's neck. “Your hair.”
Miss Temple obligingly lifted both arms and held the curls to either side. A few more swipes with the cloth and the Contessa was finished, but then she blew a cool breath across the newly clean and dampened skin. Miss Temple shivered. The Contessa set down the bottle and cloth and looked up.
“Perhaps you will help me,” she said.
Miss Temple watched the Contessa's fingers undo one line of ebony buttons and then ease her right arm, pale as a swan's wing, from the dark silk dress with wincing difficulty. Miss Temple gasped at the bloody gash on the woman's shoulder blade.
“I can reach it myself,” the Contessa said, “but if you could assist me we would waste less of the tincture.”