"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 pa.s.sed a shop stall selling hats and scarves to forgetful travelers, which was to say she pa.s.sed 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 Every part of her body belonged to a different person: her splendid hair was tangled and lank; her dress was out-of-date, dirty, and plain; her boots, cracked and scuffed, her skin, streaked with grime where it was not marked with a cut or bruise-even the sack in her hand spoke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."

Soames raised one warning eyebrow at her tone.

"The man in question is sought by the highest levels of government," he announced. "He is a dangerous traitor."

"What Ministry do you work for?"

"Excuse me?"

"I am acquainted with many men at the Foreign Ministry-"

"A word of advice, Miss Hastings. It is the wise trollop who holds her tongue and survives."

Miss Temple was stunned. Soames studied her closely, as if weighing a decision, and then leaned back and glanced too casually at the window, as if none of what he had said was of the slightest importance.

"I have been recently promoted," sniffed Soames. "I have been seconded to the Privy Council."

Would he proposition her then and there in the coach? Soames took off his gloves one finger at a time, as if the task was serious business, and then slapped them together on his knee.

"It is a very different matter than what you are used to." He smiled tolerantly. "Very easy for a girl to get in over her head-to quite lose herself, without an ally-"

He was interrupted by a cry from outside. The coach lurched and came to a sudden stop. Before Soames could call to the driver they heard the driver calling himself, a torrent of abuse immediately echoed by a swell of shouting from the street.

"What is going on?" asked Miss Temple.

"It is nothing-agitators, malcontents-"

"Where are we?"

Soames did not answer, for the harsh voice of the dragoon sitting next to the driver now threatened whoever blocked the coach. Soames waited-the voices in the street remained defiant-but then the coach moved again. Soames sank back in his seat with a frustrated sigh, snapping closed the curtain on the small window as they pa.s.sed the still-shouting crowd apparently lining both sides of the street.

"Do not be concerned," he muttered. "All this rabble will soon be settled."

"As all rabble ought to be," said Miss Temple, and then she smiled. "Privy Council! My goodness-then perhaps you can tell me if the Duke of Staelmaere is still alive?"

Soames sputtered, then shot an arm out to the door to steady himself as the coach went round a turn too fast. "Of course he is alive!"

"Are you sure?"

"He rules the Privy Council!"

"And Colonel Aspiche?" asked Miss Temple.

"Colonel Aspiche?" cried Soames. "By G.o.d, someone has schooled you in any number of topics you have no business knowing!"

He leaned forward and Miss Temple feared he might strike her, or worse. She looked up at Mr. Soames and batted her eyes hopefully.

"I should be more than happy to answer your questions, Mr. Soames, but you can see for yourself that I am tired and-well, indeed-disheveled. I have an excellent proposal that will help us both. If you would let me off near the Circus Garden I should be most grateful, and we can speak tomorrow when I will be rested and not so unpleasantly insolent. The fright of my escape, you understand, has rattled my nerves-"

"I cannot oblige you." There was a distinct note of pleasure in his voice. "Any person having contact with traitors must be transported directly for questioning."

"Traitors?" asked Miss Temple. "You only mentioned the one."

"It is hardly your concern."

"It becomes mine when you detain me."

"What do you expect?" replied Soames. "You obviously know more than you will say!"

"Say? You have barely asked a thing!"

"I will ask however it pleases me!"

"What apparently pleases you most is to waste my time," muttered Miss Temple.

THE COACH pulled up, forestalling Soames' defiant reply. Miss Temple pulled aside the curtain, but saw nothing through the little window save a waist-high wall of white brick. Beyond it rose a very musty old hedge, blocking the sky. Soames reached for the door handle.

"You had your chance. Now we shall see how you answer your betters."

But instead of opening the door, Soames exhaled with a strange rattle. Both eyelids fluttered, the eyes themselves rolled back in his head. Then the fluttering stopped and he very slowly turned toward her, his jaw slack. Miss Temple retreated to the far corner of her seat.

"Mr. Soames?" she whispered.

He did not seem to hear. The coach rocked as the soldier climbed down. Miss Temple heard bootsteps on the cobbles. Then, like the p.r.i.c.k of a needle puncturing her skin, Soames' eyes snapped into focus- he saw her...

Then Soames was shaking his head and swallowing awkwardly, smacking his lips like a dog that has snapped at a bee. He pulled open the door and stepped through, turning behind to take her hand.

"This way, Miss Hastings." He cleared his throat and then smiled heartily. "It will be for the best. Better manners always are..."

HE DID not release her hand as they made their way to a small open gate in the wall. Before they reached it, two more men emerged. They wore coats identical to Soames'.

"Mr. Phelps," called Soames in greeting.

Phelps, whose coat hung slack over his right shoulder, ignored Soames. Instead he met Miss Temple's gaze with an expression of dismay, as if her existence was simply more evidence of a disappointing world. His hair was brushed forward in an old-fashioned manner, and strangely his right arm, like Francis Xonck's, was wrapped in plaster, from the hand up to the elbow.

"What is in that bag?" His voice was crisp and high-pitched, as if belonging to a smaller animal.

"Her supper," answered Soames.

"Give it to me."

Soames reached for the canvas sack. Miss Temple knew she could not maintain her grip in the face of so many, and let it go. Phelps did not look into the bag-nor did he even seem tempted, merely looped it over his plaster-wrapped hand. Without another word he led them through an ill-trimmed archway in the hedge to a little courtyard with a weed-choked pool, from which rose a nonworking fountain, a stone statue of a naked youth with broken arms, a corroded metal spout protruding from his mouth.

Across the plaza was another archway in another hedge, this time leading to a heavy wooden door set with an iron-barred window. The third man fished out an iron key and unlocked it. Miss Temple followed them into a dark, dank, stone corridor with a low ceiling. The door was locked, the dragoons remaining on the other side.

They pa.s.sed through narrow pools of light let in by a series of oval barred windows, footsteps echoing off the stone. Another wooden door was opened with another key. Mr. Phelps indicated that Miss Temple should enter-a room of pale plaster walls, the floor bare, two simple wooden chairs, and a battered table of planking.

"Would you care for anything while you wait?" he asked. "Tea?"

"I should appreciate that very much."

She saw Soames bite back a comment as the third man marched away at once, a small satisfaction that allowed Miss Temple to enter the room with poise. To her surprise, the door was not locked behind her.

"Go ahead and sit down." Phelps gestured with his protruding pink fingers toward the nearest chair. Miss Temple did not move. He stepped into the room.

"I appreciate the oddness of the occasion. You have no need to be afraid."

"I am not afraid," replied Miss Temple.

He looked as if he expected her to say more, but being rather afraid indeed, she did not. Phelps turned to Soames. "What is your name again?"

"Soames. Joseph Soames. One of Lord Acton's special liaisons."

"Soames." Phelps intoned it, committing the name to memory. "Per haps you could discover what delays this woman's tea."

SOAMES' FOOTSTEPS echoed down the corridor. Phelps reached into the pocket of his topcoat, pulling out one black leather glove. Still watching her expression-which remained willfully bland-he tugged the glove onto his non-plastered hand and then carefully opened the canvas sack. As if he were unpacking a cobra, Phelps removed a shining blue gla.s.s book. He set it down on the table and took two steps away, removing the glove.

"What was your name again?" he asked, a bit too idly. "Because I feel I have seen you before."

"Isobel Hastings. May I ask what happened to your arm?"

"It was broken," said Phelps.

"Did it hurt?"

"It did indeed."

"Does it hurt still?"

"Only when I am attempting to sleep."

"You know, I myself am fascinated by that exact sort of thing- how in the middle of a sleepless night a sore tooth can seem to have become the size of one's entire fist-so much room does it take up in one's thoughts, you see. What did you actually do to break it?"

"A German doctor broke it for me-at a place called Tarr Manor. Do you know it?"

"Do you insinuate I ought to?"

"Heavens no, I merely pa.s.s the time."

Miss Temple settled herself on one of the chairs, both because she was bored by standing like a servant and to bring the knife in the boot nearer to her hand.

"I'm sure it is a lesson to steer clear of Germans to begin with," she observed. "Am I your prisoner?"

"I will tell you as soon as I know myself," said Mr. Phelps.

Mr. Soames returned alone, holding a metal tray with a pot, a stack of cups without saucers, a small jug of milk, and, Miss Temple noted bitterly, not one biscuit on a plate. He stopped abruptly in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the book on the table, then caught himself and turned to Phelps, raising the tray as if to ask where-the table taken-he should put it. Phelps gestured with disdain to the floor. Soames set the tray on the tiles and knelt, pouring tea, looking to Miss Temple to see if she wanted milk, then pouring milk at her indication that she did. He took the cup to her, returned to the tray, and looked to Phelps, who shook his head with impatience. Soames looked down briefly at the tray, measuring whether, with Phelps' demurral, he might avail himself of a cup, but then clasped his hands behind his back, looking sharply at Miss Temple. She held the warm cup cradled on her lap and smiled back at him brightly.

"We were just discussing the manner in which pain can preoccupy the mind-"

Her words were cut off by the loud clatter of Mr. Soames' foot kicking the teapot, scattering the tray and its contents across the floor. He staggered where he stood, his face blank as it had been in the coach, arms dangling at his side. Miss Temple looked to Phelps, but Phelps had already crossed to the doorway. He slammed it shut and turned a metal key in its lock. Miss Temple's hand reached toward her boot. Soames blinked and c.o.c.ked his head, watching her with intent, flickering eyes.

"Celeste Temple." His voice was an unpleasant, uninflected hiss.

"Mr. Soames?"

"It is not Mr. Soames," whispered Phelps. "If you value your life, you must answer every question put to you."

Mr. Soames drew back his lips in the unnatural leer of an ape in a cage. "Where is she, Celeste? Where are the others?"

It was a small number of people who might presume to call her Celeste and a smaller number still to whom she might grant the privilege-not half a dozen in life, and nowhere in this number stood Mr. Soames. The troubling, hideous spectacle was not-at least in terms of mind-Mr. Soames at all.

Mr. Phelps cleared his throat, and Miss Temple looked to him. "You must answer."

Mr. Soames watched her closely, a bit of foam having appeared at each corner of his mouth.

"What others do you mean precisely?" she said to him.

"You know what I want," hissed Mr. Soames.