The Dark Volume

by Gordon Dahlquist

  But Miss Temple appreciated shame no more than criticism, and shoved this unwelcome conclusion away as if it were a malingering servant in her path. On her way to the door she paused to wipe the edges of Lydia's case on the carpet. The last thing she needed was to stain her dress.

  MISS TEMPLE realized she had not properly understood the glass woman. Fochtmann must have been sought out some time ago, perhaps as soon as the airship had been aloft. Even if only in the interest of survival, Mrs. Marchmoor was casting a wider net—hiring her own expert on the glass, hunting down Charlotte Trapping, ransacking the minds around her for diplomatic advantages. But the Duke's usefulness was only a matter of time, and the glass woman would need another mouthpiece.

  At once Miss Temple saw the glass woman's plan, and the reason she had come to Harschmort: to implant the contents of the book— the Comte's memories and sensibility—into the vacant mind of Robert Vandaariff. With both the Comte's knowledge and Vandaariff's vast fortune at her call, what need she fear from any survivor of the Cabal— what from any quarter anywhere?

  Yet this book was now Miss Temple's. And the Comte's machinery— whose now was that? And where was Robert Vandaariff? Every element of the glass woman's plan had gone wrong. Miss Temple's torment of minutes before was shoved aside by her own ably working mind—these plagues would prove as tractable as any other apparently devastating tragedy. Did the loss of a mother or a father's violence dog her every step as a woman? Of course not—she scarcely recalled either to mind at all.

  Her intention had been to climb through a window and hike across the fens to the train. Yet as she sought the proper ground-floor room, Miss Temple was aware of another possibility, like the echo of her boots against the marble. If Harschmort was riddled with her foes, they were now scattered and beset: Fochtmann bloodied, Rawsbarthe debased, Mrs. Marchmoor perhaps quite literally broken… she asked herself what Chang would do in the same circumstances and knew he would hunt down whoever had offended him. Miss Temple turned to the more rational Doctor Svenson, and immediately remembered the sad face of young Francesca Trapping. If he were here, the Doctor would no more leave Harschmort now than take the child's life himself.

  She allowed herself a sneer at the Doctor's tractability, just on the off chance such sneering might convince her that she could in fact walk on, but it did not, and so Miss Temple stopped, besieged all the more by her own meanness of spirit. There really was nothing wrong with simply saving herself. Indeed, she was certain the Doctor and Chang would both advise this exact course of action for her, while never once considering it for themselves. This realization settled the matter at once.

  SHE REACHED an odd hallway lined with marble heads (Romans—a doomed cruelty marked the faces, like animals still ferocious in a cage) and she stopped. On the floor lay a jumble of clothing and broken glass—shattered champagne flutes by what remained of the stems. The wine was dried but was still tacky beneath her boots. Miss Temple stepped over the mess, but as she went she found more debris—spilled food that had been stepped on, broken masks from the final night's ball, female undergarments—the corridor looking as if it had not been visited once by a servant in the whole intervening week. Finally she reached a set of double doors left ajar, and heard running water, the murmur of voices—and strangest of all, the plink of an out-of-tune piano.

  She entered an entirely lovely atrium, with a glass ceiling and a stone fountain set into the floor, the whole surrounded by tall potted trees. The piano sat beneath the wide, splitting leaves of a banana plant and the man slumped against it—thick-waisted, in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet, a gold-leather mask pulled down around his neck—did not play, but picked at the keyboard with one index finger, like a sated chicken amongst scattered seed. The atrium held at least twenty more people, lolling on chairs and benches or on the tile— men and women kissing each other quite openly, others fast asleep, half-dressed, the floor more littered than the hallway, with bottles and plates and rotting food. Every third person still wore a mask. All had once been arrayed in the finest evening attire, now rumpled or discarded—even exchanged, for more than one woman wore a topcoat or evening jacket, and at least one man—the opened bodice strange against the hair on his chest—a lady's gown. This was the last band of the Cabal's adherents, confounded by appetite and the excess that Harschmort could supply. Miss Temple studied the still bodies she first assumed were asleep and wondered how many might be dead.

  Her foot kicked a toppled wineglass. The man at the piano stopped, turning to her. Others looked up from their absorptions, and soon they were all staring.

  “Who is it?” one fellow whispered to a bearded, shirtless man crouched at his feet.

  “Have they come back?” called an older woman, her petticoats pulled up above vein-mottled thighs. “Is it time?”

  “You don't have a mask,” a young woman chided Miss Temple. Another next to her poured brandy into teacups. Both their chins were matted with dried slime. “Everyone has been instructed to wear masks.”

  “I have just arrived,” replied Miss Temple. “I am looking for three children.”

  The young woman with the brandy bottle began to snigger. Miss Temple kept on, stepping around groping couples—in one case groping men—and felt the rising flush in her limbs. She reached the fountain—happy to find nothing worse than a sunken pair of shoes in the water. They all continued to stare at her.

  “There has been a fire,” she told them. “Lord Vandaariff is gone.”

  The woman with the bottle sniggered again.

  “The soldiers are coming,” Miss Temple said. “You should be ready—all of you.”

  But with the exception of the man at the piano, the tattered adherents had gone back to their dissipation. Miss Temple met the man's gaze, and then he too resumed his distended, internal melody.

  IF TACKHAM had been taking the children to the main floor and Mrs. Marchmoor's hand had been mended in the kitchens, then that meant her enemies were gathered in the center part of the house. Miss Temple had just decided to cross the next hallway and try what doors she could, for the people behind her—like animals in a human zoo— made her shiver, when something caught her eye. At first she was frightened to turn, fearing it was another assignation that would bring her to her knees, but it was only a dark mark on the wall, a broken vertical line that indicated a hidden door. She could not stop herself, even if she assumed it to be full of more revelers. Miss Temple went to the door and opened it wide.

  The room was very small, sized for a servant, with a daybed, standing cabinet, writing desk, and several lamps with brightly colored shades. The door from the atrium lacked a knob, opening instead by the pressing of a button—from the outside posing as merely another wall panel. Miss Temple laughed aloud, for the purpose of such a hidden bedchamber directly off such a romantic space as the garden conservatory was suddenly obvious. The bedcovers had been remade but not cleanly, and the writing desk lay cluttered with items more redolent of assignation than correspondence—ointments, a hairbrush, wineglasses, one of which was smeared with lipstick. Indulging her naughtiness this much, Miss Temple crossed to the bed and sat on it, bouncing to test the firmness. Flushing at the memories this action kicked up, she quickly stood again, grinning despite an uncomfortably growing itch.

  Before her on the green blotter was a letter in the unmistakable hand of Roger Bascombe. It was addressed to Mrs. Caroline Stearne.

  THE LETTER itself, read with a studied revulsion, as if she were peeling up a bandage to peek at her own half-healed wound, contained no particular point of interest, simply informing Mrs. Stearne—at no point did the familiar, Ministry-schooled tone of Roger's prose presume to “Caroline”—of the arrangements for Lydia's gala engagement party: that she would be collected by coach at the St. Royale Hotel, taken to Stropping—Roger himself would see her on the train—and from there to Harschmort, where she would be met by the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. He instructed her as to dress, and closed with a simple cong
ratulations on her imminent embrace of the Process. Miss Temple read it again and set the paper onto the blotter so as not to notice her own shaking hands. Her eyes fell onto the rumpled bed, mocked by the book within her, knowing that upon it Roger and Caroline must have surely acted those visions out in flesh.

  That the letter contained no evidence of affection meant nothing. Roger would not have crossed the street to bid good day to his mother if it meant appearing less than properly poised. And yet… She read the note a third time, and noted with a sour curdle in her stomach the appearance of certain words. Roger loved words very much, and took care to polish a handful of favorites, the pleasure they gave him attaching to the object of his affection, and here they were. She could imagine his tender smile at the writing of each one: “piquant”… “exactitude”… “tulle” …

  She pushed the letter aside and roughly pawed through the other papers, sweeping what did not interest her to the floor, only preventing herself by deliberate will from toppling the entire little desk altogether. She stopped. She had crumpled and thrown another letter without looking at it closely, but not before a name had leapt out to her eye. She kicked awkwardly through the scattered pile until she found the one she sought. She would have liked to sit but could not now bring herself to further touch any piece of furniture, given what gymnastic purposes they might have served. Miss Temple smoothed out the paper against her thigh.

  The looping script matched the note in her dress. Miss Temple scanned the text for the name she was sure she'd seen… and there it was… Elöise Dujong.

  Sweet Caroline,

  As we discussed, Husband and Family are your Skeleton Keys.

  She will come at your Request, I am Sure, if the Invitation appears by way of her Companion, Mrs. Elöise Dujong. A Room has been laid ready at the St. Royale tomorrow night. Our Allies understand you do my Business, so you must justify your Travels. Thus go first to the Ministry to give the enclosed List of Invitees to Mr. Roger Bascombe.

  They will do the work Themselves. Be genuinely their Friend. There is always Time for Everything.

  RLS

  The note bore no date. Some elements were obvious enough— if Elöise was “Companion” to “she,” then “she” must be Charlotte Trapping. The husband and family were the late Colonel and the three children now in the care of Captain Tackham. The Contessa's reference to “our allies” made clear that to the rest of the Cabal, Caroline was the Contessa's creature and thus needed to seemingly embark on normal business with Roger (the “invitees” being those figures from the highest levels of society they planned to assimilate into books) to conceal the Contessa's private business. And this private business had to do with Charlotte Trapping and Elöise. Had Elöise truly met with Charlotte Trapping and Caroline Stearne at the St. Royale? Surely Elöise would have said something about it to her, or to the Doctor— surely she must have recognized Caroline Stearne on the airship, or at Harschmort when she was taken prisoner!

  But was that the case? When Elöise had been captured in the Comte's laboratory, Caroline had been elsewhere. They had all been on the rooftop and in the airship, but with the chaos of the battle, was it possible that Elöise and Caroline had not recognized one another? Miss Temple huffed. Anything was possible, but was it likely? Was it not more likely that Elöise remembered the meeting perfectly well, that she had merely kept the knowledge to herself? As they walked from the Jorgenses' cabin Miss Temple had spoken of Caroline Stearne, about her murder… and Elöise had not said a word.

  SHE LOOKED around her at the tiny room with a colder sense of pride. Caroline Stearne, like Elöise, had been a creature in service, and indeed, the room appeared now every bit as provisional and undistinguished as a military barracks or a cramped cabin on a trading ship. And this had been the woman's final home—these were her things, still strewn about because there existed no one in the world to claim them, no one who cared to know her fate—whether she might be dancing in a Macklenburg ballroom or a frozen, crab-chewn corpse at the bottom of the sea. Miss Temple walked out, stepping over the trash in the atrium and past the debauchery, accepting the taste of death in her throat and the unfettered desire coursing through her veins. These people were nothing.

  MISS TEMPLE marched through Harschmort at a rapid pace, determined to find the Trapping children and extricate them from the glass woman's clutches. She swept into a suite of offices—thick with filing cabinets and bookcases and work desks—and looked down to see her feet kicking through loose papers as if they were autumn leaves. The cabinets and desks had been pulled open and ransacked without care. Then through a large doorway she heard a crash and raised voices. Miss Temple threw back her shoulders and deliberately walked toward the noise, the knife in one hand and the case in the other.

  Robert Vandaariff's private office was full of soldiers. Red-coated dragoons—with their brass helmets and clanking sabers, half like machines themselves—were tearing through every expensively appointed inch as uncaringly as a thresher pounding grain. Hovering ineffectually around them were Lord Vandaariff's own people, doing their vain best to preserve his files from destruction.

  Miss Temple darted back from view.

  “I do not care, sir!” bellowed a harsh voice. “We will find it! We will find him!”

  “But we have told you, we have told you all, we do not—”

  “Pig swill! Barrows, have a look through these, from his own desk!”

  There followed a whump, as another column of paper was dropped without ceremony onto a table. The second voice yelped in protest.

  “Colonel! I cannot allow you—”

  “Foster!”

  “Sir!”

  Aspiche, for it was none other, ignored Vandaariff's secretary, barking to Foster, “Where is Phelps?”

  “With Mr. Fochtmann, sir.”

  “Tackham?”

  “The Captain is with the… ah… children, sir.”

  “What word from Lieutenant Thorpe?”

  “None yet, sir. If they searched as far as the canal—”

  “I am well aware of it! Carry on.”

  “Sir!”

  This last was echoed by a snapping click of Foster's boot heels, and the renewed protests of Vandaariff's man. Miss Temple risked another look. She caught the Colonel's receding form, tall and fierce, stalking to the far end of the wide office… Robert Vandaariff's own office, being ransacked like a Byzantine jewel house for clues as to where he had vanished. Miss Temple darted across the open doorway, paused for any corresponding cry of alarm, and then crept on to the next open door.

  Before she reached it, a man stepped through, stopping abruptly at the sight of her.

  “Mr. Harcourt,” she said, and bobbed her knees, for it was the same young Ministry official from the upstairs hallway. “Miss Stearne. We met with Captain Tackham.”

  “I am aware of it. Why are you still at Harschmort? I am sure you have no one's permission.”

  “My good friend Lydia Vandaariff—”

  “Lydia Vandaariff is not here!”

  Mr. Harcourt looked past her to Lord Vandaariff's office. He would call for soldiers. She would be seen by Aspiche.

  “What of Lord Vandaariff?” she asked quickly.

  “Lord Vandaariff is gone.”

  “You do not know where he is?”

  Harcourt gestured angrily toward the sound of the ransacking soldiers. “Of course not!”

  “Goodness.” She smiled brightly. “Would such information be worthwhile?”

  As she hoped, Harcourt hustled her back where he had emerged, the better to make her capture his own. It was another office, its furniture covered with dust cloths. His grip remained hard on the arm that held the case, and he shook her when he spoke.

  “Where is he? Tell me! Lord Vandaariff has five estates within two days' travel. Soldiers have searched each one!”

  Miss Temple chuckled and shook her head. “Mr. Harcourt, I am not a girl to take the efforts of the Queen's own army lightly! Believ
e me when I say, with sober respect—”

  Harcourt shook her arm again. She looked down at his hand and her voice became cold.

  “It is merely a matter of logic—”

  “Logic? Are you just guessing? If you think to mock me—”

  “Mr. Harcourt, contain yourself! If Lord Robert Vandaariff is not here at Harschmort, then two things have unquestionably taken place.”

  “What things?”

  “First, someone has lost him. And second, someone else… has taken him.”

  Harcourt sputtered with exasperation. Her knife-hand was still tucked behind her back.

  “You said you knew where he was!”

  “I said I was looking for Captain Tackham.”

  “I am right here,” called Tackham from the inner door.

  Miss Temple and Mr. Harcourt both spun toward the officer. He smirked at their expressions, then pushed himself toward a tall piece of furniture from which the white cloth had been pulled, a sideboard stocked with bottles. The Captain sorted amongst the brandy as Harcourt sputtered.

  “Are they finished? Why did no one call?”

  “Where are the children?” asked Miss Temple.

  Tackham pulled the cork from a squat square bottle and poured an inch of amber liquid into a glass. “What is she doing here?” he asked.

  Harcourt's reply was stopped by a cry from the inner room, the high-pitched voice of a child. Miss Temple took a step toward the door. Tackham quite casually reached back and pulled it tight with a click.

  “What is being done to them?” she cried.

  Harcourt called past her to Tackham. “She claims to know how to find Lord Vandaariff.”