"Excellent." Miss Temple turned to the Corporal. "I a.s.sume you are charged with the safety of these two young men. I met your Captain coming the other way-he directed me to you. If you might in turn direct me..."

"To the Colonel?"

"The Colonel will do perfectly well."

"How did you follow?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is there another barge?"

"Do I have wings? Of course there is."

She glanced at the boys and saw that Ronald held the small leather case she had last seen in the hands of Andrew Rawsbarthe, lined with orange felt and holding vials of what she a.s.sumed to be the children's blood.

"Ronald," she snapped. "What do you have?"

"They left it behind," the little boy sniffed, gripping the case tightly.

"Give it to me."

"No."

"I will return the thing, Ronald, but you must let me look at it."

"No."

"You must give it to me or the Corporal here will force you."

She gave the soldier a narrow glance that warned him to cooperate. He obligingly cleared his throat.

"Come now, Master... the lady says she'll give it back..."

Ronald wavered, looking at his older brother, and Miss Temple took the instant of distraction to s.n.a.t.c.h the case away. Ronald's mouth opened wide in shock. Miss Temple leaned forward with a hiss. "If you cry out, Ronald, I will throw this into the trees-and then where will you be? You will go looking for it and be eaten!"

The boy's lower lip quivered. She nodded sharply-aware that the soldier too was curious to see inside-and snapped it open.

The three vials were exactly where they had been, but the orange felt around them was smeared and stained, the fabric stiffened... and blue. The vials had all been opened and replaced uncorked, but the contents had not spilled, for the blood within had been solidified into gla.s.s. Miss Temple closed the case and returned it to Ronald, who took it in sullen silence.

"What do you say to the lady?" prompted Corporal Dunn.

"Nothing," sniffed Ronald.

"It is perfectly well," said Miss Temple. She turned to the older boy. "Put an arm around your brother, Charles-he is cold. Corporal Dunn, you have been entirely helpful. Your Colonel would be where?"

MISS TEMPLE strode confidently toward the house, measuring how far she needed to walk until the Corporal could no longer see her, fearful that by then she would have already reached Aspiche. She went as far as she could bear with her spine straight, the factory and its racket looming nearer, then looked back and saw with relief the soldier and the boys sunk in the darkness. Miss Temple dropped to a crouch and squinted toward the factory. Where was the main force of Dragoons? Had they all advanced when Tackham and his men had gone into the trees? If all the gla.s.s woman's soldiers became involved in the attack, perhaps she could ambush her enemy directly.

A loud shouting erupted to the west side of the factory, like the noise of a mob in a city square-Sergeant Bell and his dragoons. Miss Temple was suddenly afraid she had dawdled and missed her time. She broke into a hurried trot, the curls to either side of her head bobbing against her shoulders.

The shouts at the gate were answered by a crashing volley of gunshots. The shouting did not flag, not even after another volley. In stead, the cries soared into a triumphant spike-had the mob forced the gate? A third volley was answered by screams, cutting through the shouts like a scythe. The Dragoons began returning fire and the volleys from the factory grew ragged, though most of the screaming still came from the attackers.

But then Tackham's men in the ruins opened fire in the east. The bullets spattered at the factory's defenders like hot rain on a metal roof. Yet it was as if the men in the white building had an entirely different sort of weapon, firing faster and to terrible effect, even though they were clearly outnumbered. Miss Temple could not see anything of either combat, but she noticed when the defenders' gunfire came from within the building, as if they had fallen back. Would the dragoons storm the factory so soon-would it be that simple? From the gate came a rising cry, as the crowd charged forward.

A window above the crowd spat out a tongue of flame, and directly before it-from the thick of where she imagined the crowd of men to be-a column of black smoke bloomed up like a wicked night-flower. The screams were horrific, and the charging cry faltered at once. An identical blast crashed into the ruins, with its own echoing curtain of screams and the cracking of toppled trees. With an instant of forethought Miss Temple looked up at the windows facing the gravel road-facing her-and flung herself down. Another crash, and the earth around her kicked like a horse. She cried out but could not hear her own voice. Her body was spattered with pebbles and earth. The ground shook again and again. She could not move. The defenders had cannons facing every direction.

SMOKE DRIFTED up from the battered landscape, a scatter of riven pits. From beyond the trees rose moans and screams. The firing had ceased. Miss Temple shook the loose earth from her hair. A raw hole lay steaming in the center of the road, not ten yards away.

A sound cut through the ringing in her skull. Someone was speaking.

The voice was amplified as the Comte's had been inside the cathedral tower at Harschmort. With a slicking of bile in her throat, Miss Temple recalled the black speaking tube connected to the Comte's wicked-looking bra.s.s helmet, and how the great man's voice had then filled the ma.s.sive chamber like a G.o.d's. But this voice was different- thin, and brittle, even cruel. It was a woman.

"As you have seen and felt," cried the voice, "our artillery can be directed anywhere we choose, from our doorstep to the ca.n.a.l. You cannot hide, and you cannot advance. Your men will be slaughtered. Your business here has failed. Your soldiers and your rabble will withdraw. You yourself will come forward from your shadows, madame, alone. You have five minutes, or we will begin sh.e.l.ling the ground in every direction. Make no mistake. If you do not come forward, you will all be destroyed."

These words were followed by a rasping pop, which told Miss Temple the speaking tube had been detached and the woman's fearful p.r.o.nouncement was done. Miss Temple waited for any response- orders bawled out to the dragoons, cries of retreat from the crowd around the gate-but heard nothing. Miss Temple crept forward through a line of sh.e.l.l-holes and their rising smoke. Still she heard no response, neither to attack nor to flee. Surely staying where they were, vulnerable and in the open, was the poorest strategy of all-it could only provoke another barrage.

The smoke cleared enough for her to see that the gravel road ended at a low wooden wall, beyond which rose the factory. Its white surface seemed all windows and light, and the bricks the merest framework, like a flaming cage made from innumerable small bones. Shadows darted across its openings and along the edge of the rooftop, and above it the black smoke still rose in a billowing curtain.

The smoke cleared and Miss Temple finally saw the gla.s.s woman's army, for the low wooden wall was lined with crouching figures... more than a hundred Dragoons, with here and there an awkward fellow in Ministry black. Not one of them moved. Miss Temple went near-as if she were dreaming, for not a man acknowledged her approach-finally close enough to touch the soldiers on the face. Had Mrs. Marchmoor immobilized her own minions, as she had stilled Miss Temple in the coach? Had she grown so powerful-to touch so many minds in a stroke, and with such force? But why were the men not sent away? Did this not leave them even more vulnerable to cannon fire? Not to retreat was direct defiance of the amplified voice's demands, and when the minutes ticked away these men must die.

She had very little time herself. Miss Temple looked up to the windows, aware there must be all sorts of eyes upon her. But no one shouted, no one shot her down. She returned the knife to her boot and stepped to the nearest of the black-coated men. It was the odious drone from Harschmort, Mr. Harcourt, his blue eyes staring blankly like a fish looking up from the poaching pan. Cradled in his hand was a small six-shot revolver. She tugged it from his grip and measured the cold iron's weight in her little palm. It would absolutely do.

SHE DID not see Mr. Phelps, Mr. Fochtmann, or Colonel Aspiche, and a.s.sumed they had advanced with Mrs. Marchmoor, despite Mrs. Trapping's order-either willingly or dragged as automaton slaves- along with Francesca Trapping. But again, why Francesca alone? Miss Temple thought of the vials stopped up and smeared with blue. Had a sliver of gla.s.s been inserted into each little dram of blood? Or had Mrs. Marchmoor transformed the vials herself with the tip of her finger, like an indigo Medusa?

To enter the factory, Miss Temple stepped over two men in green uniforms, blood smeared from their upper lips down to their chin. Beyond these bodies, the entire ground floor of the factory was occupied by rattling, blazing machinery. Miss Temple winced. Oppressed by the din and nauseated by the reek of indigo clay, she stopped where she stood, one hand to her brow. Through the Comte's memories, every machine seemed to glow before her eyes as she sensed its purpose, its hideous capacity. Each polished carapace vibrated like an ungainly tropical beetle bellowing for its mate. Miss Temple knew there were only rods and shafts and oiled bolts beneath their metal covers- but to the man who had made them, these devices represented life, and somehow the shuddering things seemed ready to extend their awful legs and wings at any moment.

WHERE WAS everyone? She picked her way around the machines, to a nest of little rooms, past another two crumpled men in green. Why would the defenders leave their crucial machines so unprotected-were they so desperate, or so confident? Or did they know Mrs. Marchmoor required them in full operation as much as they?

Miss Temple was gratified to find a staircase-wider than normal, which she supposed actually was normal when one had to shift, well, who knew what exactly... material up and down to be worked or lathed or milled or baked-again, details escaped her. But the staircase was as dark as the rest of the factory was bright-lacking windows, lamps, lanterns, even a candle left on a plate. Miss Temple gazed up into the blackness with distaste, the mechanical roar chopping at her concentration and her nerves. Then she perceived something new in the rhythmic din, writhing through the air like a snake... an agonized scream.

The first-landing door was locked tight. The next, up a double length of stairs, was locked as well. She pressed her ear against the door. If the ma.s.sive beetles below created the rumbling buzz, here was the gnashing, hammering clatter, what she took to be the turbines- the works-of a proper mill. This floor must also hold the cannons- stuffed with soldiers and locked to keep their threat sure. Miss Temple did not care for cannons. It was sixteen steps to the next landing, each one carrying her closer to the keening scream.

But this landing bore a meager light, a tiny tallow stub that allowed Miss Temple to ascend without feeling her way. She let her eyes fix first upon the little hands cupped round it, their skin glowing yellow, and then upon the ghostly small face floating above the flame. Francesca Trapping.

The girl did not speak, and so Miss Temple climbed until their heads were at the same height and did her best to smile, as if the horrid sounds around them were not there, and the simplest thing in the world would be for Miss Temple to lead the child away to safety.

"You are the lady from the house," said Francesca. Her voice was very small, and her shoulders trembled.

"I am," Miss Temple said, "and I have come a very long way to find you."

"I do not like it here," said the girl.

"Of course not, it is entirely unwholesome. Why are you on the stairs?"

"They have put me out."

"Are they not afraid you will run? I would run."

Miss Temple peered more closely at the girl's face, but with just the one candle it was impossible to see if she had been damaged by the gla.s.s. Francesca shook her head, her lips pressed so tight together, they nearly disappeared.

"I have been told not to," she said.

"No sort of reason at all." The wailing cry worked to undo Miss Temple's composure like a key. "Who is that?"

"I suppose it is him."

"And I am certain he deserves every second of it too," said Miss Temple. Beyond the door, the scream bubbled away... and there was nothing but the sound of machines. There was no time. She took Francesca's arm. The girl stood up but did not move to descend.

"O I cannot go!" she said.

"Of course you can."

"But the Lady said I must stay."

"I will take you back to your brothers."

"The Lady doesn't want them. She wants me."

"What about your mother?"

"But Mama said to stay too."

"I'm sure she did not mean it. Parents often lie, you know."

The little girl spoke in a rush, catches in her breath forced through the cracks in her failing courage. "Mama was gone for so long-everyone said we would find her-and when we did find her-we heard her-she did not say anything-anything to me-she only talked to them-and I could not talk-she would not let me-and no one will tell me of Papa-and Mama is so different! Why won't she take me home?"

Miss Temple saw the dried tears across each cheek, and smelled the indigo reek in the girl's hair. "I do not know. But that will not stop us. Come."

Francesca pointed with the candle toward the door. "We cannot!"

"Nonsense."

"But the Lady will know! I am only outside to keep watch."

"Keep watch for what?" asked Miss Temple.

"For you!" said Francesca. "They are all waiting!"

MISS TEMPLE saw a flicker of terror in Francesca's eyes but then just as fast it was gone, and the girl's entire face went blank as stone. The muscles of the tiny arm went slack and the tallow light was dropped, plunging the landing into blackness. Miss Temple still held Francesca's arm, but she knew she could not carry the girl alone, not down the stairs in the dark. Such helplessness was infuriating.

The first wisp of cold flitted against her mind, like a moth past a window.

"Celeste..." the girl whispered.

Miss Temple heard it with revulsion, for in the twisted little voice lay the death of Soames, of Rawsbarthe, the decay of her own body. She squeezed the unresponsive little hand and awkwardly stumbled them both up the last steps to the door. She shifted the pistol and the leather case and found the k.n.o.b with her fingertips. At its touch the girl gasped and immediately began to whimper.

"Do not be afraid." Miss Temple's voice was unpleasantly grim. "These people are weak, and weaklings only ever want for whipping."

She pushed on the door, and the landing was flooded with white light.

THE TABLEAU struck Miss Temple as one of those unsettling dreams, in which figures from quite separate portions of one's life are thrown together, as if cut from paper and pasted together in a frame- the schoolmaster and the housemaid and the garrison soldier and wretched Cynthia Hobart from the plantation on the opposite side of the river, all eating toads on a boat that she herself was expected to steer. In dreams, such unpleasant groupings always appeared to demonstrate some unwanted lesson-that she was too proud, or had been cruel, or covetous of something (always the case regarding Cynthia) in truth beneath her. But what met Miss Temple in the white factory was different, not only because she knew it to be real, but because Miss Temple had finally accepted, despite every determined effort, how impossible it was to avoid consequence. She stepped through the doorway, the girl's hand in hers, with the same awareness of import as when she had first boarded the ship that would take her across the sea, when each hollow knock beneath her heels had echoed the certainty that she would never return. Her entrance brought an end to the business of all these people as surely as a little flaming match sets off a siege gun.

The open room was enormous, its far end fully taken up with bright metal ducts bundled together to feed a line of silver machines. These in turn sprouted black hoses, vibrating with gases and fluid, covering the floor like creepers from an industrial jungle. The shining casings of these machines had been peeled back and white light streamed out, each cracked carapace cradling a nugget of brilliance- super-refined bolts of indigo clay, powering the machines as they had powered the airship. Behind the machines and along each side wall were lines of green-coated soldiers with carbines. The factory's defenders had been withdrawn to this center point, as if to maintain power in this room was to maintain it over all.

On a raised dais, like a carved figure above an altar, perched Robert Vandaariff. Three huge metal plates hung behind the financier from a lattice of chains, like panels in an indecipherable triptych. To each side were placed the buzzing bra.s.s box-stands, and at his feet lay long wooden boxes lined with orange felt-the whole arrangement like a bizarre icon for a religion, the deranged alchemy of the Comte d'Orkancz. The Comte's black memories surged within her like hounds against a leash. The scrawls on the metal plates jabbed at her thoughts and she gagged to recognize the ruddy purpled burn that looped around the industrialist's eyes and across his nose. The screams were now explained. Robert Vandaariff had just undergone the Process.

Next to Vandaariff, like an angel hovering near a punished soul in Purgatory, stood a slender woman with reddish hair, wearing a dark dress whose hem was crusted with dried mud. At her side lurked a man in a respectable brown topcoat, meager hair pasted optimistically upwards, whose eyes kept flicking between the soldiers along the walls and those guarding the machines directly at his back.

Forming a triangle with Vandaariff and his keepers were two other groups, divided from each other like rival suppliants before an idiot king. On the left stood Mrs. Marchmoor's party: the gla.s.s woman in her black cloak; Aspiche; and Phelps. Opposite them, in a strange little non-knot of their own-and Miss Temple did not comprehend this group at all-stood the Contessa, Francis Xonck, Cardinal Chang, and Doctor Svenson. They looked so depleted by their journey that even their hatreds had lost fire. She met their eyes-Xonck's insanely glazed, the Contessa's hard as a hunting bird's, the Doctor's pale with despair, and finally Chang's, mere smoked gla.s.s.

Had they been captured? By whom? What were they doing together?

What Miss Temple did not understand made her angry at the best of times, but now these least-expected betrayals made her furious- and this fury, so like the Comte's own bitter rage, broke her last restraint on his memories. Miss Temple choked and lost her balance. She let go of Francesca Trapping and dropped to one knee, face flaming red, trying to retain her mind against the tide of despair and spite, against the crowd of facts-sickening facts-that split her attention into slivers. All around her the insanity of the room began to make sense... she knew that the copper filaments had burned through, that the rattle of one machine that was off by a quarter-turn, that the exact temperature of the indigo clay perceived by smell was- "Celeste! Celeste-are you all right?"

A hand had gently taken her shoulder. Miss Temple looked up with an unladylike grunt into the face of Eloise Dujong, crouching next to her. Where had she come from?

Eloise shouted to the man in the brown coat. "Mr. Leveret! Please!"

The man did not react, but then Mrs. Trapping spoke in his ear and he waved to the soldiers behind him. They pulled bra.s.s levers on each machine, and like kettles taken off their flame, their high-pitched wailing fell away. The machines far below them still rumbled, but now the upper floor stood in silence.

EVERYONE WAS staring. How long had she been on her knees? The leather case had been taken away, and was held by Mr. Phelps. The pistol was nowhere to be seen. Francesca Trapping stood with the gla.s.s woman. The child's streaked face was turned to Miss Temple without expression. Eloise spoke urgently.

"Celeste... please listen... they know everything-"

The anger caught at the back of Miss Temple's throat like a rusted spike she could not swallow.

"What have you done, Eloise? Why does everyone stand with them?"

"Celeste, it is your parcel." Eloise pointed to Lydia's case. "You have been their p.a.w.n. She has monitored your pa.s.sage all the way from Harschmort, the better to get both you and it here safely, away from the gunfire..."

Miss Temple felt ill. She was a fool, a vulgar lap-dog. She began to gag again. She swatted blindly at Eloise's hand and gasped.

"Get away from me..."

"Leave her be, Eloise," called the red-haired woman. "It seems you've done something to offend her."

"Charlotte-"

Mrs. Trapping dismissed Miss Temple with a toss of her head. "We do not care about her. We care that she hasn't done anything to harm that book."

"Allow me to make sure of it."

Mr. Fochtmann appeared from behind Vandaariff, white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and his forehead bound with a plaster. The engineer strode self-importantly across to Phelps, taking the case from him. He set it on the floor. His long fingers unsnapped the clasps and opened the lid, then Fochtmann carefully plucked at the pillowcases, one after the other, until the gleaming blue book was revealed to them all.

"You will notice I do not touch the gla.s.s," Fochtmann announced. "We do not know what consequences might have arisen from the circ.u.mstance of its ... harvest, or from the circ.u.mstances of its ... conveyance."

Fochtmann studied the book carefully through slitted eyes, then picked it up-using the silk as a barrier to his skin-tipping it this way and that, as if he might penetrate its contents without risk.

Mrs. Trapping's shrill voice rang out again. "Is it what we have waited for or not? For all the time she's cost me, I should just as soon have this young lady flung headfirst out the nearest window."