“You always have been, dear.”
“Then why have you kept me alive?”
“Because even I cannot be everywhere at once.”
To Miss Temple's surprise, even as once more her tongue was darting within the warm and silken confines of the Contessa's mouth, the Contessa's fingers pinched Miss Temple's nose tightly closed. Merging oddly with the tingle of her loins and the flush she was sure had spread all down her front… was the realization that she could not breathe. She tried to gently shift the Contessa's arm but found her own sharply pinned by the woman's elbow. She tried to turn away, but the Contessa did not loosen her grip. Miss Temple arched her back. She tried to bite the Contessa's tongue but the woman merely brought up her other hand to clamp shut Miss Temple's jaw. Miss Temple thrashed her legs. She slapped at the Contessa's face, groped for her hair. The Contessa did not budge, the seal of her soft lips fast as an oyster to stone. Miss Temple became dizzy and afraid. She could not think. She heaved with all her strength but could not dislodge her succubus. With a last, desperate thought that such an end was exactly what she had come to deserve, Miss Temple's mind went black.
SHE OPENED her eyes to an unmoving car and the Contessa gone. Attempting to sit up, she found herself pinned to the wooden floor, the tip of her own knife driven through her dress at the very juncture of her legs. Miss Temple wrenched it free with both hands, snorting that to the Contessa such a gesture would pass for wit, and returned the blade to her boot. She crawled to the doorway of the car and, heaving with both arms, pulled it three inches wide, enough to peer through.
The land before her was a blend of fen and forest, perfectly suited for the construction of canals. She remembered Elöise's description of her uncle's cottage, annoyed that she had listened with such disinterest, for she was certain his home lay in this very part of the country. It had been in a park of some sort—what had it been called? Parchfeldt! Yet the idea of leaping off the train in the deluded hope that anyone— if there was anyone—might direct her to Parchfeldt Park was ridiculous. Miss Temple slumped back against the wall. Her actions in the freight car—from the first decision to sleep next to the Contessa to this last humiliating struggle—flayed her conscience like a whip.
If she ever found Chang and Svenson, what would she say to them—about her own failures of character, or about her loss of Elöise? Where would she possibly find the two men? She did not know where Parchfeldt was. She did not know what Chang's message possibly meant—“the Lord's Time”—no doubt it was the secret name for some gambling club or brothel!
The Contessa's words echoed in her heart. She could choose to leave her adventure as something finished, be satisfied with her revenge and her survival. She could return to her life with lessons learned and precious few scars to prove it. But then she clenched her legs tightly together, shivering at the memory of the Contessa's touch, pulling her knees to her chest in fervid misery.
The train at last pulled forward. Miss Temple curled onto her side, though the rest she found was thin and brought no comfort.
SHE WOKE to whistles and the rushing racket of other trains passing near. Miss Temple straightened her dress and wiped her face, making sure of the knife in her boot. They had entered the tunnels surrounding Stropping Station. The train slowed and crawled agonizingly to a stop. She opened the door with a determined, prolonged shove, wriggled through, legs dangling, and pushed herself off to land with a grunt on the soot-blackened gravel. Miss Temple ducked her head down and scuttled like a crab beneath the next train over. Emerging unseen on the far side, she advanced briskly toward the main station hall.
She was still in a quandary as to her path. She was tempted by so many sensible tasks—to find a hotel, arrange a draft of money from her bank, refit herself, a new bag from Nesbit's, undergarments from Clauchon, a dress from Monsieur Massée (who would have her sizes, and could be counted on to be discreet), and before everything a hot bath with rosemary oil.
Miss Temple ducked into the space between two cars. Ahead of her a figure in a long hooded black cloak crept from under a railcar, escaping her own train just as she had done. The figure paused there, for the path to the thronging open plaza of Stropping Station had been blocked by two men in long black coats and top hats and behind them four red-coated soldiers. The men in black looked very much like Roger—like government officials—and gazed grimly down the track-side, but they saw neither the cloaked man nor Miss Temple. With a shrug of agreement they marched from view, the soldiers in stomping unison behind them. The hooded man flowed soundlessly forward like a shadow against the side of the train.
Miss Temple scampered after him. She reached the spot where he had hidden and wrinkled her nose at the reek of indigo clay. She was following Francis Xonck. But why was Xonck hiding from the government officials and soldiers who had been his allies? Her heart rose with sudden hope. Did it mean that the Cabal had been overthrown?
Then she sighed bitterly. If only she knew where to meet Chang or Svenson she could satisfy herself with having seen Xonck, and make her way directly to a hotel, perhaps the Beacon, or—her heart leapt just a little—Anburne House, which boasted an especially excellent tea. But she did not know.
Xonck rushed into the bright lights of the main station floor and disappeared. Miss Temple reached down for her knife and, holding the thing as discreetly as she could in her fist, dashed after him.
THE MASSIVE angel-flanked clock, hanging over Stropping terminal like an oppressive omen of guilt, set the time at just before noon. As she turned away from its unwelcome image, Miss Temple realized that something in the station had changed. The teeming crowds coursed between the high staircases and the ticket counters and the different platforms, with eddies and pools around the various shops and kiosks scattered across the floor… but their formerly free movement was now directed by an army of brown-coated railway con stables. What had happened? She saw travelers driven in harried groups, resentful sheep under the rule of nipping hounds. She saw uncooperative individuals pulled aside and escorted brusquely away— respectably dressed people given over to the custody of soldiers! Had there been some rail crash or catastrophe? Had there been another riot at a mill? At the kiosks and shops, each purchase was observed by constables— even small groups standing in conversation were ordered to move along. Across the station Miss Temple saw bright knots of scarlet— dragoons in uniform, each group accompanied by figures in crisp city black. They peered down the track lines as different trains pulled in and out of Stropping, obviously engaged in a massive search—and a preponderance were gathered near her own quadrant of the station's platforms, where trains arrived from the north.
Francis Xonck thrust himself past two quarreling constables into the crush of waiting travelers, crouching low. Miss Temple threw herself into his wake, into the bags and elbows, the jabbing umbrellas and ankle-catching canes, finally stumbling to a halt against an elderly gentleman's back. She looked up to apologize and saw his face was wrinkled with nausea. With a hop she glimpsed Xoncks black hood. He had changed direction.
Thinking quickly, Miss Temple joined a group of schoolchildren led by hectoring tutors, for whom the constables made way—and when one of the children turned curiously back to her she hissed, “Face front!” with such authority that the young thing instantly complied. Suddenly Xonck was almost directly before her… waiting for an opening between the patrols of soldiers. From behind she could see how tall Xonck truly was, as she could too easily recall his deadly movements…the man was actually quite a bit like Chang. Of course, Xonck was a preening dandy, a wicked vampire of a man, while Chang… well, one had to admit the red coat was ostentatious, and Chang's character was wicked. He had abandoned them all, hadn't he?
Xonck dashed forward. At either side of the platform's edge stood black-coated men and dragoons, but Xonck slipped skillfully past them all, down a graveled alleyway beside a waiting, steaming train. She leapt after him—Xonck did not look back, racing straight to the farthest car. He craned his head ahead to the coal wagon, first looking for any trainsmen—warning Miss Temple, who threw herself down— then glancing behind him. When she peeked again he had climbed to an odd-shaped window at the car's front, perhaps to a lavatory. Miss Temple crept closer. The window would not open, and Xonck shoved again, striking the sash with the heel of his fist. He shifted his grip to push with both hands, but lost his balance and dropped to the ground with a snort of disgust. Xonck flipped his cloak over his shoulder to reveal a heavy canvas bag looped around his right hand—which Miss Temple now saw was wrapped with plaster. Setting the sack on the rocks, he rescaled the car, now clubbing at the window latch with the cast and pushing at the sash with his more nimble left hand.
Miss Temple advanced across the rocks, quiet as a trotting cat. Xonck did not see her. Without hesitation she snatched up the sack and ran.
THE SACK was heavy and bounced against her thigh. She'd not gone five yards before she heard Xonck roar. A rush of delirious fear rose to the very roots of her hair. Xonck's bootsteps pounded behind her. At the platform stood a man in a black coat, with three soldiers at his side, not a single one of them looking her way. Miss Temple screamed, high-pitched and helpless. She darted to the side and heard Xonck— so very close behind her—stumble to change direction. She screamed again and the idiots on the platform at last turned their faces. The man gaped at her, then finally called to his men. The dragoons drew their sabers and followed. Miss Temple screamed a third time and cannoned into the official's arms, knocking him back a full two steps as the soldiers charged by. She turned, chest heaving, to see the path behind her utterly empty. Francis Xonck was gone.
A SOLDIER STALKED along each flanking train, peering beneath every car. The third remained on guard, his saber drawn. The man in the black coat studied her with concern, a thin-faced fellow with a waxed black moustache and side whiskers a touch more full than his jaw could attractively bear.
“He was chasing me,” she gasped.
“Who was chasing you, child? Who was it?”
“I do not know!” cried Miss Temple. “He was quite wicked-looking and smelled foul!”
“She says there's a smell!” he called out to the dragoons. As if this was not at all strange, both searching soldiers bent forward to sniff.
“Yes, sir!” one called back. “Cordite and corruption—just like we were told!”
The man in the black coat raised Miss Temple's chin in a way she did not appreciate. “What is your name?”
“I am Miss Isobel Hastings.”
“And what are you doing running about between trains at Stropping Station, Miss Hastings?”
“I did not intend to be between trains at all, I promise you. I was chased. Of course, I am so grateful for my rescue.”
“What is in your parcel?”
“Only my supper. I was to travel on to Cap Rouge, you see, to meet my aunt.”
“All the way to Cap Rouge?”
“Indeed,” she said, hefting the sack, “and so I have packed enough for two meals. A pork pie and a wedge of yellow cheese and a jar of pickled beetroot—”
“Cap Rouge is to the south,” said the man, condescendingly. “These trains ride to the east.”
“Do they?” asked Miss Temple, curious why Francis Xonck had not simply fled into the city.
The man spoke to the soldier near him.
“Call them back. I must make my report.” He took hold of Miss Temple's shoulder. “Miss Hastings, I shall require a bit more of your time.”
SHE WAS escorted to a larger group of soldiers, with two Ministry officials instead of her one, who she overheard addressed as Mr. Soames. When Soames returned, his face was grave and he again took firm hold of her arm, pulling her toward the large staircase. Miss Temple was about to inform Mr. Soames that she was perfectly able to accompany him without physical contact—in fact, to wrench her arm away—but in that moment they passed a shop stall selling hats and scarves to forgetful travelers, which was to say she passed a stall that housed a mirror. With a shock, she first realized the standing rectangle was a mirror, and to her full mortification Miss Temple realized that she had seen herself without any recognition whatsoever. Every part of her body belonged to a different person: her splendid hair was tangled and lank; her dress was out-of-date, dirty, and plain; her boots, cracked and scuffed, her skin, streaked with grime where it was not marked with a cut or bruise—even the sack in her hand spoke to poverty and weakness. For the first time in her life Miss Temple was without control of her own character. In the eyes of the world she had been transformed to a completely and commonly known type of woman—unvalued, poor, untrustworthy—which left her at the unquestioned mercy of a man like Mr. Soames.
They reached the stairway, the soldiers falling in line behind, and began to climb. Had she eluded her enemies only to face the disinterested cruelty of the law? In vain she looked below her, the milling snakes of the ticket lines, the crowds at each platform, the tangle of bodies below the clock… the clock… Miss Temple's heart fell in an instant to her feet. The Lord's Time! Below the angel-flanked clock stood a tall, lean figure in red, motionless amidst the swirling crowd. It was Cardinal Chang. She had missed him completely. Soames pulled her arm and she stumbled. They had reached the top of the stairway. She looked back again but the soldiers blocked any sight of the terminal floor. Chang was gone.
ONLY SOAMES joined her in the coach, rapping his knuckle imperiously on the roof to start it forward.
“Where are we going?” asked Miss Temple, the canvas sack held tightly on her lap. At least Mr. Soames was crisp in his appearance, his hat set on the seat beside him, his dark hair parted in the middle, not over-oiled, and his coat well cut and clean.
“Do you know the man who chased you?”
“Not at all—he quite surprised me, and as I told you, smelled terrible—”
“Between the tracks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Between the tracks,” repeated Soames. “It is not an especially safe place, nor where one might expect to find a lady.”
“I have told you. He chased me there.”