"There has been a fire," Phelps said.

Miss Temple turned to Mrs. Marchmoor, but the gla.s.s woman was already moving. Miss Temple followed with the others, hoping Mrs. Marchmoor's probing mind might become distracted such that a resourceful person might avail themselves of something like a heavy bra.s.s candlestick or a flingable Chinese urn. A sudden snap of pain between Miss Temple's eyes made her stumble. Phelps glanced back at her, his mouth a clenched, disapproving line.

The stench of smoke was most intolerable at the center of the house, though any actual sign of what had been burned remained hidden. An elderly man in black livery toppled onto the marble floor as his mind fell subject to Mrs. Marchmoor's need. He lay on his back, blood flowing from his ears, and they swept to a winding staircase Miss Temple had taken before-down to an old library where the Comte d'Orkancz had set up a smaller experimental laboratory. The smell of smoke worsened as they traversed the curving corridor to the blackened door. The Comte's laboratory was littered with the charred wreckage of fallen balconies and the bookcases that had propped them up, the walls peeled and streaked with soot, the domed ceiling pitted by flame. The stone worktops were cracked, and seared with brilliant colors where his stores of chemical compounds succ.u.mbed to the blaze. Miss Temple stepped gingerly into the room, her feet crunching on cinders, gazing with a grim fascination at the charred feather bed where Lydia Vandaariff had undergone the loathsome ministrations of the Comte d'Orkancz.

Miss Temple turned to Mrs. Marchmoor. Clearly she had hoped to find the Comte's tools and his supply of refined blue gla.s.s, his copious notes and specially designed machines. Had Mrs. Marchmoor left the protection of Staelmaere House, risked exposure, risked everything, only to find herself outwitted by an adversary she did not know existed?

But Mrs. Marchmoor was not looking at the wall, or the ruined chemical machinery, or even the bed. As Miss Temple watched, the gla.s.s woman carefully advanced into the ruined chamber, stopping only when she stood within a wide circle of smoke-blackened blue gla.s.s fragments. Miss Temple covered her mouth with one hand, recalling the first gla.s.s woman she had encountered-the Comte's prize... Cardinal Chang's love... the gla.s.s woman she had herself destroyed in this very room with Doctor Svenson's pistol. Mrs. Marchmoor turned to Miss Temple, impa.s.sive, her unseen feet grinding against the broken remains of Angelique.

No one spoke as they retraced their steps to the main floor. Directed by two more unfortunate servants, the gla.s.s woman stalked slowly across the empty ballroom. The smell of fire grew strong again, and then openly oppressive as they stepped through the French doors into the ornamental garden. As if a ma.s.sive explosion had taken place (a level of destruction one a.s.sociated only with newspaper accounts of full-scale battle), the center of the garden had fallen in on itself, collapsing utterly into the ma.s.sive cathedral chamber beneath it, which now lay open to the air, and in ruins. Here the fire had been far more ma.s.sive and savage, melting the bright pipes that lined the walls, consuming the roof timbers, toppling the tiers of prison cells into a mangle of misshapen steel. In the center of it all still rose the iron staircase tower, broken and jagged as a black rotting tooth. The platform at its base, where all the Comte's machinery had been installed, where Mrs. Marchmoor had been strapped to a table-for the last time flesh and blood-lay smothered in debris.

Mrs. Marchmoor's head whipped to the right, toward the interior of the house, the action so sharp as to dislodge her hood and reveal her shining face. In the doorway to the ballroom stood another figure in a cloak, as dark but much more ragged, tall but bent with fatigue. His red hair was shocked with lifeless white, as if it had been wiped with paste. His skin, deathly pale, was at every margin-the rims of each eye, the discolored flare within each nostril, both livid dripping lips- cast in varying shades of blue, as if he were a monochrome portrait of a frozen corpse. In Francis Xonck's left hand glittered a narrow lancet of blue gla.s.s.

"YOU'VE TRAVELED quite a way, Margaret. How very brave of you."

"So you are alive, Francis."

The woman's response insinuated itself into Miss Temple's mind, like the sound of a knife being sharpened in another room. Xonck snorted and spat a knot of blue matter on the gra.s.s.

"When did it become Francis? Whatever happened to 'Mr. Xonck'? Even when I was rogering you sideways at the Old Palace you still kept your sense of respect. I suppose that also explains the pack of spaniels out searching for me."

He nodded contemptuously at Phelps and Soames, then pa.s.sed his gaze more deliberately over the Duke, stiff as statuary, and then Miss Temple. Xonck's voice dropped into a low snarl.

"If you have her, then you have my book. Will you give it back, Margaret?"

"I cannot, Francis. I know what it holds."

"If I understand things correctly, the contents would be useless to you."

"Useless in that I cannot penetrate them directly. But I am determined to influence whoever does."

"Influence? I think you mean control."

"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 c.o.c.ked 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 p.r.i.c.k 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 gla.s.s 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 ma.s.sive 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 ca.n.a.l."

"Yes... the previous day, there were men-"

"Mrs. Marchmoor!" Miss Temple cried. Francis Xonck had advanced within range of a sudden lunge. The gla.s.s woman c.o.c.ked 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 gla.s.s-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 gla.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s. She continued backwards and Xonck followed, pausing to s.n.a.t.c.h 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 gra.s.s. 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 gla.s.s woman's distress chopped viciously into the minds of everyone around her. Miss Temple shook her head. She lay on the gra.s.s-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 gla.s.s 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...

Miss Temple looked behind her once more. Then, taking a breath, she touched her finger to the cover of the book. Nothing happened, though her fingertip began to feel cold. She pulled it away, took another breath, and then put forward two fingers. Still nothing. Then she took a deep breath and laid the entirety of her open palm upon the book.

A blast of sensation, like the sharp choking rush of black smoke from a stovepipe, shot through the flesh of her arm and without warning enveloped her mind before she could even blink. Miss Temple flew back with a strangled cry, struck the wall, and rolled into the gra.s.s, her eyes blind, vomiting without heed, moaning through each spasm like a terrified animal. For she knew now that what Xonck's book contained was death, and its obliterating taste had taken root inside her soul.

Five. Carapace.

AS IT WAS the nearest place certain to be void of any occupant, L Chang had dragged the insensible man into the closet and through the connecting door into Colonel Trapping's private rooms, locking the door and lighting a single candle after making sure every window shade had been tightly drawn. His captive's topcoat, black suit, and shoes were well made and crisp-Chang was reminded of the odious Roger Bas...o...b... He held the candle close to the man's face, pulling back the lid of each eye. The whites were bloodshot and yellowed, but the pupils reacted to the candlelight. Chang turned the man's jaw-already a bruise was darkening where his blow had landed-and frowned to see his lips were also bleeding. Had he broken a tooth? With some distaste he peeled back the lower lip, surprised by the raw color of the gums and a newly missing canine. The gap was on the opposite side of the mouth from where Chang had struck him.

Chang rolled back on his heels and slapped his captive on the face. The man coughed and Chang slapped him again, noticing a patch of scalp above his left ear, pink and raw, like the mistake of a razor or- he was not sure why the thought came to mind-as if his prisoner had sacrificed a lock of hair to some witch's ceremony. Chang glanced at the room, well kept and undisturbed. Any secrets it held would require a thorough search, and yet-the Ministry man was now blinking and wheezing-Chang felt there was more to it, that the room was not well kept so much as embalmed. The Colonel's desk was completely clean-not a blotter, not pens or an ink-pot, even the square sorting compartments empty of envelopes, as if the desk was new. Every trace of Arthur Trapping had been discreetly removed.

The man coughed again and tried to sit. Chang's free hand easily gathered up the lapels of the fellow's coat, and twisted the fistful of fabric into a knot beneath his jaw.

"You will answer my questions," he whispered, "quietly and with speed. Or I will cut your throat. Do you understand?"

The man looked into Chang's covered eyes with dismay. Chang was aware-what with the candlelight-that his appearance must be even more mysterious than normal, and he permitted himself a satisfied smile.

"Who do you serve? What Ministry?"

"Privy Council," the man whispered.

"The Duke is alive?"

The man nodded.

"Then what about the woman?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Margaret Hooke. Mrs. Marchmoor. The gla.s.s woman."

The man swallowed. "I'm afraid I am not acquainted-"

Chang casually tipped the candle and dropped a spatter of wax onto the functionary's forehead. The man hissed with pain and clenched shut his eyes.

"She would be with the Duke," Chang explained patiently. "If you have seen the Duke, you must have seen her."

"No one has seen the Duke!" the man protested. "Everyone is waiting-all the Ministers, the Generals and Admirals, the Men of Business. There are rumors-blood fever at Harschmort House, quarantine ..."

"Where is he now?"

"In his rooms! The Duke does not appear-merely sends his servants on-on-on-errands-as he requires information-"

"What information?"

"Whatever we can find-"

Chang dripped another stream of wax and used the man's subsequent writhing as a pause, allowing a shift in his questions.

"What is your name?"

"Rawsbarthe!" the man whined. "Andrew Rawsbarthe-a.s.sistant to the Deputy Under-Secretary of the Foreign Ministry."

"Who is the Deputy Under-Secretary?"

"Roger Bas...o...b..."

Chang laughed out loud. "You are Bas...o...b..'s a.s.sistant? You are older than he by five years!"

Rawsbarthe sputtered, "Mr. Bas...o...b..'s ascent at the Foreign Ministry is due to his great talents-and once Mr. Bas...o...b.. discovers how I have been so roundly mistreated-"

"Roger Bas...o...b.. is dead."

"What?" Rawsbarthe licked his swollen lips. "May I ask how you know this?"