Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

Instead, as if in wicked confirmation of her failure, Miss Temple's brooding opened her senses to the very lurid memories that she feared—the knotted collisions of a wedding night refracting into a score of disturbingly remade memories, rooms she had been in throughout her life now repurposed to lust, every bed, every sofa, carpets, tables, her father's own garden. She staggered from the road and sank to her knees, the glow of need spreading from her hips through what felt like every stinging nerve. The sweet quickening swept on, deliciously re-coloring her past—Doctor Svenson's elegant, gentle fingers and the muscles in his neck like a gazelle's… Chang's curling lips and unshaven face… Francis Xonck groping her body in the crowded corridor of Harschmort House… Captain Tackham's long legs and broad shoulders… the Comte d'Orkancz reaching underneath her dress—

She shuddered, exquisitely suspended, then exhaled with a gasp. She opened her eyes deliberately wide, forcing her mind to think, to remember where she was… and where she had been. This last memory had come from her coach ride with the Comte and the Contessa, from the St. Royale. But it was wrong —the Comte's hand had been around her throat . The groping fingers had been the Contessa's, seeking in Miss Temple's arousal nothing more than the young woman's debasement and shame. Miss Temple had refused to be ashamed then, and with a snort she refused again now—refused the bond any of these magnetic bodies might place upon her mind or heart.

She wiped her eyes and wondered sadly at how she had placed Svenson and Chang so easily with so many obvious villains—but what did that signify after all? Miss Temple was very sure about the hearts of men. Her blue glass memories were full of them.

A SHARPER NOISE caused her to turn toward the bright building, and then instantly throw herself down flat. A knot of jostling shadows … Dragoons marching to the canal, at least forty soldiers in all. Before they reached her, at a crisp word from their officer the soldiers stamped to a halt, close enough for Miss Temple to place the easy— even soft—voice giving out their instructions.

“A score to each side,” began Captain Tackham. “I will command the eastern squadron; Sergeant Bell, the west. Each will advance through the wood— quietly —until to the west you meet the crowd at the gate, and to the east we reach the first ruined wall. These are hold points. At the signal you will then move forward in force, firing as necessary. In the west your objective is to open the gate so the men gathered there may enter. In the east, it is merely to clear the yard and prevent any retreat. Are there any questions?”

“These men at the gate, sir,” whispered the Sergeant. “They will expect us?”

Tackham paused, and a slight weaving of his posture filled Miss Temple with dread, as if his mind had been occupied .

“Sir?” asked Sergeant Bell.

“They will,” said Tackham, clearing his throat. “But if any man gives you trouble, do not hesitate to club him down. It is time. Good luck to you all.”

The soldiers poured into the woods. Miss Temple remained still. She knew that dragoons could both ride and shoot, trusted men for reconnaissance and courier missions, and yet as they vanished with the skill of practiced woodsmen she was newly aware of how serious— how real —her enemies were. These men— hundreds of them, hidden all around her—were trained killers. And their officers, men like Tackham and Aspiche, were cold-eyed experts who long ago made their accommodation with dealing out death.

Miss Temple stood, brushing at her damp-stained knees. The land surrounding the factory had been infiltrated by the glass woman's forces… but when a single bullet from a window—or for that matter, one flung brick—could end her life, Mrs. Marchmoor would be in the rear, Miss Temple was sure, with her closest minions arrayed before her like a shield. Yet their attention would be directed ahead of them, to the factory.

Miss Temple took the knife from her boot with a grim determination. She had followed them across miles and through the dark, just like a wolf. They did not know she was there.

SHE HAD been walking on for two careful minutes, when suddenly new figures appeared, silhouetted against the white building's glare. It was not the dangerous mass she had expected, nor even the glass woman herself. Instead, a single man guarded what appeared to be a collection of baggage. Miss Temple crept closer… and then one of the bags yawned. She looked around to confirm there was truly only the one soldier and then strode forth, the knife held tight behind her back.

“ There you are,” she called, causing the soldier to swivel abruptly, a carbine in his hands. Miss Temple ignored the weapon and approached the drowsy Trapping children, who struggled to stand. With a pang she saw it was only the two boys, Charles and Ronald, the latter especially cold and sniveling. Their sister was not with them.

“Who is there?” cried the guard. “Halt!”

“O I will not,” replied Miss Temple. “I have been following Mrs. Marchmoor these hours— hours , I tell you—and must know where she is. I am Miss Stearne. I have something she needs.”

She raised the leather case for the soldier to see, and shifted her grip on the knife. Was she near enough to strike him? Did she want to strike him? In front of the children? She bent forward to the boys.

“We met at Harschmort. You were with Captain Tackham.”

“You had someone's hairbrush,” replied Charles.

“My own hairbrush,” said Miss Temple. “It had been borrowed. Who is your soldier?”

“Corporal Dunn,” said Charles.

“Excellent.” Miss Temple turned to the Corporal. “I assume 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 assumed 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 snatch 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 glass. Miss Temple closed the case and returned it to Ronald, who took it in sullen silence.