It was a narrow gabled room with the roof slanted on each side—perhaps a child of seven could have stood without stooping in the very center. Across the floor near the window were the slumped shapeless forms of two women, obviously dead. Equally clear, though he possessed no explanation, was that their bodies were the source of the unnatural blue glow animating the grisly attic. He crawled into the room. The smell was unbearable and he paused to replace the handkerchief over his face before continuing on his hands and knees. They were from the train—one was well-dressed, and the other probably a maid. Both had bled from the ears and nose, and their eyes were filmed over and opaque, but from within, as if the contents of each sphere had become scrambled and gelatinous under extreme pressure. He thought of the Comte d’Orkancz’s medical interests and recalled men he had seen pulled from the winter sea, whose soft bodies had been unable to withstand the crushing tons of ice water above them. The women were of course completely dry—nothing of the kind could explain their conditions…nor could any disease of the arctic account for the unearthly blue glow that arose from every visible discolored inch of their skin.
Svenson bolted the hatch behind him and climbed down, laying the ladder on the floor. He coughed into his handkerchief—his throat was unpleasantly raw, he could only imagine what hers felt like—and then tucked it away. Elöise had crept to the stairs, sitting so she could look into the shadow of the floor below. He sat next to her, no longer presuming to place an arm around her, but—as a physician—scrupling to take one of her hands in both of his.
“I woke up with them. In the room,” she said, her voice a whisper, ragged but under her control. “It was Miss Poole—”
“Miss Poole!”
Elöise looked up at Svenson. “Yes. She spoke to us all—there was tea, there was cake—all of us from so many places…come for our different reasons, for our fortunes—it was all so congenial.”
“But Miss Poole is not in the attic—”
“No. She had the book.” Elöise shook her head, covering her eyes with a hand. “I’m not making any kind of sense, I’m sorry.”
Svenson looked back at the attic. “But those women—you must know them, they were on the train—”
“I don’t know them any more than I know you,” she said. “We were told how to get here, not to speak of it—”
Svenson squeezed her hand, fighting down each impulse of sympathy, knowing he must determine who she really was. “Elöise…I must ask you, for it is very important—and you must answer me truthfully—”
“I am not lying—the book—those women—”
“I am not asking about them. I must know about you. To whom are you a confidante? Whose children is it that you tutor?”
She stared at him, perhaps unsure in the face of his sudden insistence, perhaps calculating her best response, and then scoffed, bitterly and forlorn. “For some reason I thought everyone knew. The children of Charlotte and Arthur Trapping.”
“There is too much to tell,” she said, straightening her shoulders and pushing the loosened strands of hair from her eyes. “But you will not understand unless I explain that, upon the disappearance of Colonel Trapping”—she looked at him to see if he required more information but Svenson merely nodded for her to go on—“Mrs. Trapping had taken to her rooms, receiving the calls of no one save her brothers. I say brothers, for it is the habit of the family, but in truth the brother she wanted to hear from, to whom she sent card after card—Mr. Henry Xonck—did not once respond, and the brother with whom her relations are strained—Mr. Francis Xonck—called upon her throughout the day. On one visit, he sought me out in the house, for he is enough of a family presence to know who I am, and my relation to Mrs. Trapping.” She looked up again at Svenson, who opened his expression into one of gentle questioning. She shook her head, as if to gather her thoughts. “Who of course you don’t know—she is a difficult woman. She has been shut out of her family business by her older brother—she gets money, understand, but not the work, the power, the sense of place. It haunts her—and it is why she was so determined her husband should rise to importance, and why his absence was so distressing…indeed, perhaps more than the loss of her man was the loss of her, if you will permit me…engine. In any case, Francis Xonck took me aside and asked if I should like to help her. He knows my devotion to Mrs. Trapping—as I say, he has seen her reliance on my advice, and he is a man who misses nothing—of course I said yes, even as I wondered at this sudden attention to his sister, a woman who despised him as a corrupting influence on her already corrupted husband. He told me there would be secrecy and intrigue, there would even—and here he looked into my eyes—I would not be telling this to a soul, Captain, were it not—what has occurred—” She gestured to the darkened house around her.
Svenson squeezed her hand. She smiled again, though her eyes were unchanged.
“He looked at me—looked into me—and whispered that I might find advantage in the affair myself, that I might find it…a revelation. He chuckled. And yet even as he played at seducing me, the story he told was very dark and horrid—he was convinced Colonel Trapping was being held against his wishes—because of scandal it was impossible to go to the authorities. Mr. Xonck had only heard rumors but was too visible himself to attend to them. It was part of a much larger set of events, he said. He informed me that I would be expected to reveal secrets—compromising information—of the Trappings, of the Xonck family—and he authorized me to do so. I refused, at least without first consulting Mrs. Trapping, but he insisted in the gravest terms that to alert her to even this much of her husband’s predicament was to strain the marriage to the breaking point, to say nothing of what it must do to the poor woman’s nerves. Still, it seemed shameful—what I knew, I knew only because of her trust. Again I refused, but he pressed me—flattering me as he praised my devotion, only to insinuate a deeper devotion lay in doing as he asked. Finally I agreed, telling myself I had no choice—though of course I had. We always do…but when someone praises us, or calls us beautiful, how easy it is to believe them.” She sighed. “And then this morning instructions arrived to take the train and come here.”
“Who offers sin shall brave Paradise,” said Svenson. Elöise sniffed, nodding.
“The others were all like me—relations or servants or partners or associates of the very powerful. All of us bearing secrets. One at a time, Miss Poole led us from the parlor to another room. Several men were there, wearing masks. When my turn came I told them what I knew—about Henry Xonck and Arthur Trapping, about Charlotte Trapping’s hunger and ambition—I am ashamed of it, and I am ashamed that while part of my mind did this in earnest hope to save the missing man, another part—the truth of this is bitter to me—was greedy to see what Paradise I’d find. And now…now I cannot even recall what I said, what might have been so important—the Trappings are not scandalous people. I am a fool—”
“Do not—do not,” whispered Svenson. “We are all so foolish, believe me.”
“That cannot be an excuse,” she answered him flatly. “We are all also given the chance to be strong.”
“You were strong to come so far alone,” he said, “and you were even stronger…in the attic.”
She shut her eyes and sighed. Svenson tried to speak gently. He felt utterly convinced by her story, and yet wished he was not so predisposed to believe it. She had been at Harschmort—with the Trappings, as explained—but still, he needed more before he could trust her fully.
“You said that Miss Poole had a book…”
“She laid it on the table, after I’d told them what I thought they wanted to hear. It was wrapped in silk, like—like some kind of Bible, or the Jewish Torah—and when she revealed it—”
“It was made of blue glass.”
She gasped at the word. “It was! And you had mentioned glass on the train—and I hadn’t known, but then—I thought of you—and I knew I did not understand my situation—and just at that moment I had the most vivid recollection of the chill of Mr. Fr
ancis Xonck’s eyes—and then Miss Poole opened the glass book…and I read…or should I say that it read me. That makes no sense—but it made no sense at all. I fell into it like a pool, like falling into another person’s body, only it was more than one—there were dreams, desires, such thrills that I blush to recall them—and such visions…of power…and then—Miss Poole—she must have placed my hand on the book, for I remember her laughing…and then…I cannot convey it…I was deep…so deep, and so cold, drowning—holding my breath but finally I had to breathe and gulped in—I don’t know what—freezing liquid glass. It…felt like dying.” She paused and wiped her eyes and glanced back at the hatch. “I woke up there. I am lucky—I know that I am lucky. I know I should have perished like the others, my skin glowing blue.”
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“I can.” She stood, and smoothed out her dress, still holding his hand, and reached down to replace her shoes. “After all the trouble to gather me here they have cast me aside without a care, with so little thought! If you had not come, Captain Blach—I shudder to think—”
“Do not,” said Svenson. “We must leave this house. Come…the next floors are dark—the house seems to be abandoned, at least for now. I have followed the party of men, who I believe went elsewhere on the estate. Perhaps Miss Poole and the other ladies have gone to join them.”
“Captain Blach—”
He stopped her. “My name is Svenson. Abelard Svenson, Captain-Surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy, attached to the service of a very foolish young Prince who I, also a fool, yet retain a hope of saving. As you say, there is not enough time to tell the necessary tale. Arthur Trapping is dead. Earlier this morning Francis Xonck tried to sink me in the river, in the same iron casket as Colonel Trapping’s corpse. It may well be that he schemes to undo both of his siblings as his own part of these machinations—and indeed, damn it all, there is too much to say—we have no time—they could return. The man you sat with on the train, Mr. Coates—”
“I did not know—”
“His name, no, nor he yours—but he is dead. They have killed him for as little cause as can be imagined. They are all dangerous, without scruple. Listen to me—I do recognize you, I have seen you among them—I must say this—at Harschmort House, not two nights past—”
Her hand went to her mouth. “You! You brought word of the Prince to Lydia Vandaariff! But—but it wasn’t about that at all, was it? It was Colonel Trapping—”
“Found dead, yes—murdered, for what and by whom I’ve no idea—but what I am saying, what—I am deciding to trust you, despite your connection to the Xonck family, despite—”
“But you have seen them try to kill me—”
“Yes—though apparently some among them are happy to kill each other—no matter, please, what I need to tell you—should we escape, as I hope we shall, but if we are separated…Oh, this is ridiculous—”
“What? What?”
“There are two people you may trust—though I don’t know how you should find them. One is the man I described on the train—in red, dark glasses, very dangerous, a rogue—Cardinal Chang. I am to meet him tomorrow at noon under the clock at Stropping Station.”
“But why—”
“Because…Elöise…if the last days have taught me anything it is that I do not know where I shall be tomorrow at noon. Perhaps you will be there instead…perhaps we have met one another for just that purpose.”
She nodded. “And the other? You said two people.”
“Her name is Celeste Temple. A young woman, very…determined, chestnut hair, of small stature—she is the ex-fiancée of Roger Bascombe—a Ministry official who figures in this—who owns this house! Oh, this is foolish, there is no time. We must be off.”
Svenson led her by the hand down the successive flights, a nagging anxiety rising along his spine. They had taken too long. And even if they escaped the house—where to go? The two men knew he was at the King Crow—it could not be safe if they were part of the Cabal, as of course they must be—but the train was not until next morning. Could he sleep in someone’s shed? Could Elöise? He flushed at the very idea, and squeezed her hand in instinctive assurance that the thoughts in his head would not be succumbed to—a certainty challenged by her squeeze of his own hand in return.
At the top of the last staircase—leading down to the brightly lit first floor and the parlor where he’d left the Bascombe woman—he stopped again, indicating they should be especially silent. Svenson listened…the house was still. They crept down one stair at a time until Svenson could step to the parlor door itself and peer in. It was empty, the dishes still there (but not the cake). He looked the other direction—another parlor, also empty. He turned back to Elöise and whispered.
“No one. Which way is the door?”
She finished descending the stairs and crossed to him, standing close and leaning past his chest to look for herself. She stepped back, still quite close, and whispered in return. “I believe it is through that room and one other, not far at all.”
Svenson barely took in her words. In her exertions in the attic, her dress had opened another button. Looking down at her—she was not so very short, but still his was a lovely view—he could see the determination in her face and eyes, the naked skin of her throat and then, through the opened collar of her dress, the join of her clavicles to her sternum—bones that always made him think with a strange sensual stirring of bird skeletons. She looked up at him. Without moving her eyes he knew she saw him looking at her body. She said nothing. Around Doctor Svenson time had slowed—perhaps it was all this talk of ice and freezing—and he drank in the sight of her and her acceptance of his gaze equally. He was as helpless as he had been before the Contessa. He swallowed and attempted to speak.
“This afternoon…do you know…on the train…I had…such a dream…”
“Did you?”
“I did…goodness, yes…”
“Do you remember it?”
“I do…”
He had no idea what lay behind her eyes. He was about to kiss her when they heard the screaming.
It was a woman, somewhere in the house. Svenson spun his head toward either parlor but could not tell in which direction to go. The woman screamed again. Svenson snatched hold of Elöise’s hand and pulled her back through the tea cups and cake plates to the corridor where he’d first arrived, his hand digging at his greatcoat as they went. He quickly opened the door and thrust her into the study. She tried to protest, but her words were stopped as he placed the heavy service revolver in her hands. Her mouth opened with shock, and Svenson gently forced her fingers around the butt of the gun, so she was holding it correctly. This got her attention enough that he could whisper and know she would understand him. Behind them the woman screamed again.
“This is Lord Tarr’s study. The garden door”—he pointed to it—“is open, and the stone wall is low enough to climb. I will be right back. If I am not, go—do not hesitate. There is a train at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to the city. If anyone accosts you—anyone who is not a man in red or a woman wearing green shoes—shoot them dead.”
She nodded. Doctor Svenson leaned forward and placed his lips on hers. She responded fervently, emitting the softest small moan of encouragement and regret and delight and despair all together. He stepped back and pulled the door closed. He walked down the hallway to the other end, passed through a small service room. Svenson availed himself of a heavy candlestick, twisting it in his hand to get a firm grip. The woman was no longer screaming. He strode forward to his best estimate of where the sound had been with five pounds of brass in his hand.
Another hallway fed Svenson into a large carpeted dining room, the high walls covered with oil paintings, the floor dominated by an enormous table surrounded by perhaps twenty high-backed chairs. At the far end stood a knot of men in black coats. Curled into a ball on her side, on top of the table, was the Bascombe woman, her shoulders heaving. As he walked toward them—the carpet absorbin
g the sound of his step—Svenson saw the man in the middle take hold of her jaw and bend her head so she must face him. Her eyes were screwed shut and her wig dislodged, revealing the poignantly thin, lank, dull hair beneath. The man was tall, with iron grey hair worn down to his collar—and Svenson saw with alarm the medals on the chest of his tailcoat and the scarlet sash that crossed his shoulder, signs of the highest levels of nobility. If he were a native he felt sure he would have known the man…could he be Royal? To his left were the two men from the tavern. To his right was Harald Crabbé, who—pricked by some presentiment—looked up, eyes widening, at Svenson’s grim-faced approach.
“Get away from her,” Svenson called coldly. No one moved.
“It is Doctor Svenson,” said Crabbé, for the benefit of his superior.
Svenson saw that the Royal’s other gloved hand held a lozenge of blue glass above the struggling woman’s mouth. At Svenson’s call she had opened her eyes. She saw the lozenge and her throat gurgled in protest.
“Like this?” the man idly asked Crabbé, taking the lozenge between two fingers.
“Indeed, Highness,” replied the Deputy Minister, with all deference, his widening eyes on Svenson’s approach.
“Get away from her!” Svenson cried again. He was perhaps ten feet away and approaching fast.
“Doctor Svenson is the Macklenburg rebel…,” intoned Crabbé.
The man shrugged with indifference and stuffed the glass into her mouth, snapping the woman’s jaw between his two hands, holding it tight, her voice rising to a muted scream as the effects within intensified. He met Svenson’s hot gaze with disdain and did not move. Svenson raised the candlestick—for the first time the others saw it—fully intending to dash the fellow’s brains out, no matter who he was, never breaking stride.
“Phelps!” Crabbé snapped, a sudden, desperate imperative in his voice. The shorter of the two men—with the Empire hairstyle—rushed forward, a hand out toward Svenson in reasonable supplication, but the Doctor was already swinging and the candlestick caught the man across the forearm, snapping both bones. He screamed and dropped to the side with the momentum of the blow. Svenson kept coming and now Crabbé was between him and the Royal—who still had not moved.