“A great deal has changed.”
“You are no longer bound by the Process?”
“The Process opens one's eyes to the truth—you've only yourself to blame.”
Miss Temple remembered Xonck as a dandy—a rake, a wit—but within that pose he'd been as vicious and deadly as any viper. If Mrs. Marchmoor were not there, the whole of their party would have without question been at his mercy. Xonck took another step and his cloak gaped open to reveal a white shirt horribly stained with dried brown blood… and a spot within that stain boasting a bright blue crust.
Xonck cocked his head and studied the Duke. “Is he beginning to rot yet? I'm sure the Comte concocted all sorts of preparations to sustain longevity… such a shame he is not here to apply them.”
“You are as bereft without the Comte as I am,” hissed Mrs. Marchmoor. “Why else are you at Harschmort, if not to find his secrets?”
“I admit it freely,” replied Xonck, stepping just a bit closer. “A shame what's happened to the place, isn't it?”
“You claim not to have caused this destruction?”
“Don't be a fool,” laughed Xonck. “Look into the mind of any servant here and you will see the fire predates my return. What they will not tell you—for none of them know what to look for—is that the Comte's machinery had all been removed beforehand.”
“Who would have known to do that? Rosamonde—”
“She could not have returned any earlier than I. Truly, Margaret, who else could it be but you? Everyone else the Comte enlisted to help him is dead.”
“Where is Robert Vandaariff?” Miss Temple called out. “We did not see him anywhere.”
Xonck turned to her with a nasty look and in the same moment she felt a prick inside her skull from Mrs. Marchmoor's irritation. She winced but spoke again.
“I am well aware Lord Vandaariff's mind was emptied, but are the effects of an emptied mind permanent? Could some portion of the man remain? Before you betrayed him, Robert Vandaariff knew as much about your plots as anyone—indeed, he thought he was in command. One is curious, in these intervening days, who was given the task of minding him?”
Mr. Phelps stepped forward, sparking an immediate response from Xonck, the glass stiletto poised. Phelps raised his own empty hands before him and spoke clearly, despite his obvious fear.
“It is a simple enough matter for the servants to tell us where their master is, or at least when he left them. If his departure is coincidental with these fires, then the situation is all the clearer. Yes?”
Xonck nodded and stepped aside. Phelps walked quickly past him and into the house. Miss Temple wondered if he might not take the opportunity to run for his life.
“Elspeth Poole was to have tended Vandaariff,” said Xonck. “In her absence…”
He paused, his concentration broken by a spasm of discomfort. Miss Temple clucked her tongue. Xonck met her eyes with an intense distaste.
“May I ask why this woman is alive?” he snarled.
“Because I can force her to action, where the two of you cannot. And I don't care if she dies.”
“Do you care if anyone dies, Margaret?”
“Do you?”
“Do not be frightful,” said Xonck with a smile, his broken teeth dark and slick. “My own life I hold extremely dear.” He gestured with the dagger toward the massive reeking pit. “And I think there has been enough wanton destruction for the time being. Who has done this, if not you and if not me? Has your fellow found someone to talk to, Margaret? Eavesdrop in his brain—save us the misery of waiting!”
Mrs. Marchmoor did not reply, but Miss Temple could see the twitch in her posture. Xonck took another step. Miss Temple glanced over at Mr. Soames, but he remained holding the Duke's arm, as if that simple duty might protect him.
“He has,” replied Mrs. Marchmoor, and Miss Temple winced to imagine Phelps tottering on his feet as she possessed him, foam on his lips, eyelids batting like the wings of a moth in the dark. Mrs. Marchmoor held up one hand, sorting through the conversation they could not hear.
“The fires occurred in the night… two days ago. Lord Vandaariff was discovered missing the next morning. At first it was thought he might have set the blazes himself and perished in them—”
Xonck interrupted her. “Ask about the machinery—there must have been carts to haul it, or a freight launch on the canal.”
“Yes… the previous day, there were men—”
“Mrs. Marchmoor!” Miss Temple cried. Francis Xonck had advanced within range of a sudden lunge. The glass woman cocked her head and took a careful step back.
“What do you play at, Francis? Do you think I won't scruple to seize your mind? Do you think I would not enjoy it all the more? You rogering me? What of me rogering the stuffing from your very soul?”
“By all means, Margaret—your cause is perfectly just.” Francis Xonck leered at her, his mouth wide and hideous, and opened his arms in invitation. “But I do not think you can. I too have been touched by the glass—and my alchemy has changed…”
He took another deliberate, challenging step forward. Mrs. Marchmoor raised her arm. Xonck staggered, as if he had been struck by a hammer, and wavered on his feet. But then he rolled his head to the side, easily, as if he were resisting an unwelcome caress, and came on.
With a flick of the glass woman's arm, Mr. Soames flew forward at Xonck, grappling for the dagger. Mrs. Marchmoor retreated as fast as possible with her slow, careful pace. Miss Temple hesitated—should she fight or run? The unattended Duke sank to the grass like a balloon losing its air. Soames had Xonck's forearm with both hands, but Xonck shifted his weight and slammed the plaster-wrapped fist into Soames' head, knocking him to his knees. Still—perhaps this was the force of Mrs. Marchmoor's control—Soames did not let go. Xonck hammered him again, the impact spattering the cast with blood. Xonck shoved Soames clear.
“Give me the book, Margaret! Set it down this instant!”
Mrs. Marchmoor retreated two more steps and the edge of her cloak rippled to reveal the canvas sack she had set down on the grass. She continued backwards and Xonck followed, pausing to snatch up his prize, until they stood face-to-face.
“Very wise, Margaret. Stay where you are. You will be mine. You know it—there is no other way. I will keep you here in this garden— what can the rain or fog matter to you?—and if you set foot in the house or attempt to leave, I will smash you piece by piece and keep you alive through all of it!” He waved the book. “Because I will know how, Margaret, and I will know how to remake you, just to destroy you all over again.”
The pistol shot caught him above the right knee, the spray of blood blowing out onto the grass. Xonck crumpled with a cry of pain, but with a heave of effort he surged up and turned to face Mr. Phelps, who stood with a smoking pistol, a handful of black-coated Harschmort servants behind him.
“You fool!” cried Xonck. “Any shot that misses me shatters her!”
With an ungainly leap he took hold of Mrs. Marchmoor and pulled her roughly to him, with a force that Miss Temple was sure must crack the glass woman's arm. But it did not crack, and she stumbled, an unnatural embrace—Xonck's free hand swiftly circling her waist and his heavy cast braced against her neck, as if prepared to snap it clean.
It seemed as if Mr. Phelps would not stop—that he did not care— and his gaze passed over both the Duke, facedown on the lawn, and the unmoving Mr. Soames. But then Phelps' eyes went dull and he paused. The pistol-point drifted to the side. A stream of blood opened from Phelps' nose and dripped down to stain his starched collar. Mrs. Marchmoor had taken his decision into her own hands.
Xonck laughed again, harsh as a crow, and then swore as he shifted his weight from his bleeding leg. This caused Mrs. Marchmoor to turn, and their faces came as close as two lovers'.
Suddenly Xonck's spine stiffened. The canvas sack slipped from his hand.
In the open space between them Miss Temple saw that Mrs. Marchmoor had plunged her finger into the blue-crusted wound in Xonck's chest, well up to the third knuckle, just as she had inserted it into the book. Xonck arched his back and roared, a bull beneath the axe, but could not tear free.
Miss Temple dashed forward and snatched up the canvas sack, running away into the ruins of the Harschmort gardens, dodging behind hedges and between lines of gnarled rosebushes, her boots stumbling over sudden bands of cobblestone or crunching gravel. Xonck was screaming behind her… a pistol shot crashed into the air.
Miss Temple cried out at a sudden burst of pain. Something had happened to Mrs. Marchmoor. The glass woman's distress chopped viciously into the minds of everyone around her. Miss Temple shook her head. She lay on the grass—unaware of having fallen—and awkwardly crawled forward, heedless of the distant cries and shouting. Before her was a low stone wall—the edge of the garden?—and she scrambled over the thing with a desperate grunt of fear. The fear told her to keep running, but Miss Temple crouched low against the cover of the wall, breathing hard, listening for pursuit.
She did not feel the glass woman in her mind. Could Francis Xonck and Mrs. Marchmoor both have been destroyed?
Miss Temple looked down at the canvas sack in her hand and, just to make sure nothing had been damaged in the fracas, peeked inside. The book lay whole and gleaming. She knew how dangerous it must be. The first book she had looked into had changed her so profoundly, it was already impossible to recall what she had been like before. That this book too contained something powerful was obvious—Mrs. Marchmoor had been determined it should not fall into the hands of an enemy. Miss Temple bit her lip. Was she not an enemy? What if the book contained the knowledge that would allow her to smash the remaining members of the Cabal once and for all? What if it taught her the one true way to crush the Contessa forever?
Miss Temple looked over her shoulder… the garden was silent. If she merely touched the outside cover with one extended finger, she might but glimpse its contents… the merest graze and she would pull away…