Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

“O yes, the Prince's man. Lord above —”

“He has saved my life repeatedly.”

“So you intimated. Or,” the woman added dryly, “so you remember …”

“He saved my life from Francis.”

“Why would Francis hurt you?”

“Charlotte—”

“Why would Francis hurt any one of us? What nonsense !”

“Charlotte.” Elöise sighed with some forbearance. “Charlotte, that is not true.”

To Chang's astonishment, Charlotte Trapping laughed .

“Ah, well, there you have me.” She chuckled quite merrily. “Per haps I fathom one or two elements after all!”

“Charlotte—”

“Stop blubbering! Your dear friend—of, goodness, ten days?—is still alive. And left behind he will remain so, and there's an end to him. What did you want instead, Elöise? A romance to sweep you away? After all you've done?”

“What I've done for you—”

“You say that—so often that I nearly believe you. Do you believe her?”

This last was to the man.

“She is very pretty,” he answered gently. Charlotte Trapping huffed.

“Pretty! What girl isn't pretty? I was perfectly pretty, and look what happened! Come now, Elöise, did you really expect—and from a German —”

“He is very decent.”

“Decent!” Mrs. Trapping crowed. “A word to describe a churchman! Elöise, a woman cannot put her hope in a man she pities!”

“I do not pity him. Doctor Svenson—”

“He struck me as—O I don't know—rather weedy —”

“He was injured!”

“Not like Arthur. Arthur was a strapping man, with very broad shoulders. Even if you grant your Doctor his uniform—though it was extremely shabby—you cannot allow his shoulders are anywhere near as broad. What's more, your fellow's hair was unpleasantly fair—not like Arthur with his very thick whiskers. I do not believe this Doctor possessed any whiskers at all. You approved of Arthur's shoulders and his whiskers yourself, didn't you, Elöise? I am sure you said something very much like that—perhaps you did not know that I could hear you. I made a point to hear everything , you know.”

“Yes, Charlotte.”

“Arthur . My husband promised to save me, but he was always promising things he didn't understand.”

“I am sorry , Charlotte.”

“Everyone is always sorry for everything.”

“Not Francis,” said Elöise.

To this, Charlotte Trapping was silent.

“THE TEA is hot,” said the man, quietly, as if he had been waiting for some time to speak. Both women ignored him.

Chang eased two fingers to the oilcloth and edged it aside with glacial patience. Elöise sat on a broken-backed wood chair. She still wore her black dress, but had added a dark shawl. Her hair had become curled with the moisture of the woods and rough travel. There was a lost look in her eyes Chang had not, even in their determined struggles aboard the airship, seen before. The veil of kindness and care that had been so customary had gone, and a frank, bitter clarity had taken its place.

To her right, on a rotting upholstered bench, the still-steaming mug of tea held tight between his palms, sat Robert Vandaariff, hat-less, in a black topcoat with silk lapels and the muddy shoes and trouser cuffs of a sheep farmer. Like a child for whom an absent parent bears responsibility, the mindless magnate's hair was uncombed and his cravat had gone askew.

Charlotte Trapping sat with her back to Chang, in what was obviously the only whole chair in the ruined house. The widow's hair was pale with a touch of red (he would have taken it to be a henna wash had he not known her brother), silhouetted against the light of the glowing fire. She wore a well-cut jacket of blue wool over a warm straight dress. Next to her chair was a leather travel case, a hat, and long gloves, all spelling out that Mrs. Trapping had attired herself for travel and difficulty. A patterned velvet clutch bag had been looped around her wrist and hung heavily. When Mrs. Trapping raised her mug of tea, the bag clacked as if it were stuffed with Chinese ivory tiles. Near to Vandaariff lay another awkward bundle, wrapped in a blanket and bound with twine.

“SO YOU have seen Francis,” remarked Charlotte Trapping.

“I have,” replied Elöise. “Have you seen your brother Henry?”

Mrs. Trapping waved her hand toward Vandaariff with a sniff. “The world will lose no sleep over Henry,” she said, and then too lightly, “I did not know if Francis was alive.”

Elöise did not respond, and once more Chang noted the dull hardness of her gaze. Mrs. Trapping must have noticed it too, for she muttered with disapproval.

“I thought you liked Francis.”

“Charlotte… your brother Francis… has changed.”

“But that is where you are ignorant, Elöise. Francis has always changed—it is why he is the opposite of Henry! You would not have known him before he went to school, or again before each of his celebrated travels. Every time he returned he appeared entirely new— and each time he made new friends with no inkling how strange or dissipated he had become. It was as if portions of his character kept vanishing one after another—given over in exchange for… well… something . And what did he have to show for it—for all his boasting? Land? A title? I will tell you, Elöise, and it is Francis all over: nothing but more wicked stories… more cruel tricks.”

“But this is different, Charlotte. It is physical. It is monstrous.”

“Really, Elöise—”

“Francis is beyond whims and cruelties—it is the blue glass!”

Mrs. Trapping pursed her lips and took an unsatisfying sip of tea. “I am heartily sick of this blue glass. Is it true that especially nasty man is dead?”

“The Comte? Yes.”

“And who killed him?”

“Cardinal Chang.”

Mrs. Trapping snorted. “Are you sure you remember correctly? Are you sure it was not my brother?”

“Your brother and the Comte were fast allies!”

“I very much doubt it.” Mrs. Trapping smirked. “Francis is not one to keep promises. He was never the Comte's true friend! And who can blame him? I never liked the way that man smelt. Just like a Russian —or how one imagines a Russian—”

“Charlotte—”

“If you take that tone with me, Mrs. Dujong, I will forbid you shelter in even this crude ruin! We find ourselves at liberty—and you find yourself rescued —precisely because I have learned all there is to know about this blue glass, about this supposedly alchemical woman —and these apparently all-powerful books. Not that I have seen any of them, you understand, but I have done my share of work. You will not perhaps credit that as children I always got the better of Francis playing chess, and always got the better of Henry too—whenever he would play me, which was very rarely, because he hated to lose! Do you think I spent my time at those dreadful Harschmort galas worrying about my evening gown? I watched Henry, and I studied Robert Vandaariff. Look at him now, Elöise! Smarter than Henry, smarter even than Francis, though of course without Francis' appetites.”

“I saw Francis shot in the chest. Yet he lives.”

Mrs. Trapping stopped talking.

“I thought him dead,” Elöise said. “We all did—and drowned beneath the sea. But then there were signs, Charlotte, murders—innocent people, terrible attacks made to look like an animal. Then I saw him myself. He has poisoned himself to stay alive, and the only man who could cure him is dead. It is all hopeless. You must abandon this business. You must go home. You have other responsibilities. Francesca needs you, and Charles, and Ronald. They have no one else.”