Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

Chang tightened his grip on her arms. His whisper was curt and condescending. “They will hear you —”

She turned to him. “How did you leave? Are you such a coward?”

“Celeste,” the Doctor said, “I am most sorry—so many things happened…”

This annoyed Miss Temple even more. She saw Elöise Dujong over the Doctor's shoulder, watching them, and spoke bitterly. “Trust makes everyone its fool.”

Svenson followed her gaze, only to see Elöise turn away. He turned back to Miss Temple, his voice even and hard. “What they intend to do is abominable—”

“I know it very well!”

“And I know you have been most brave—”

“You are both insane,” hissed Chang, and he pushed his knee into the back of Miss Temple's, causing her to sag suddenly into Svenson, who raised both arms to catch her. Miss Temple just saw Chang's hand slip out of the Doctor's pocket, then Chang pulled her backwards, spinning her so she lurched face-first into his chest. She gasped as the Cardinal's fingers plunged directly into the bosom of her dress and felt, as his fingers just as quickly pulled away, an unfamiliar weight where they had been. Chang had deftly tucked something beneath her corset, in front of everyone.

He stepped back, straightening Miss Temple on her feet. Miss Temple looked guiltily at Mrs. Marchmoor, but the glass woman was blocked by Elöise. Miss Temple looked the other way. Xonck had his head down and was rocking back and forth on his heels, his breath whistling thickly. But the Contessa's violet eyes met Miss Temple's coldly.

“Are you back with us, Celeste?”

“She is not well,” announced Svenson. “It is the glass.”

The Doctor's gaze flicked again to Elöise, near Francesca Trapping. The little girl did not respond to her tutor in any way. Her vacant eyes stared ahead. But Miss Temple could detect a thin halo of blue around each eye. The girl's thin lips had darkened to the color of bruised plum-skin. At once Elöise raised one hand to her head and, stumbling backwards, extended the other toward Mrs. Marchmoor, as if warding off a blow.

“I'm sorry,” she cried. “I'm sorry—”

“Get away from her, Elöise!” called Mrs. Trapping. “You must stop interfering! Francesca will be perfectly safe. Come stand by me.”

“She is not safe, Charlotte—look at her!”

With a reflexive defensiveness, Mrs. Marchmoor's remaining hand slipped from her cloak and took tight hold of the girl's shoulder. Francesca did not react, her face slack and dull, but Mrs. Trapping's face went as suddenly sharp as an unsheathed blade.

“Alfred!”

“Company!” Mr. Leveret shouted. “Arms!”

The soldiers shifted their carbines with a uniform precision, their aim fixed on the glass woman and her party.

Mr. Phelps stumbled forward as if he had been pushed very hard.

“Ladies, Mr. Leveret—please! There is no call for histrionics—we are nearly to the finish, I beg you—one more moment of patience! Look around you!”

Phelps sniffed loudly and dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief, careful to fold it over before anyone could detect any trace of blood, and then, back to business, gestured to Lord Vandaariff, whose scarred, livid face was wet with tears.

“In administering the Process , we have made proof of both Mr. Fochtmann's learning and Mr. Leveret's machines. What is more, this proof has rendered our subject's empty mind utterly compliant!”

Miss Temple remembered Roger Bascombe rhapsodizing about the Process—its gift of clarity, passage to essential truths— claptrap — but what essence did a man like Vandaariff still possess? Even without the Comte's book, she knew the main advantage of the Process for the Cabal was the insertion of a control phrase, allowing them to issue commands the subject would be forced to obey. At once she understood—a control phrase had just been implanted in Vandaariff and given to both parties.

“Charlotte, your daughter is at stake.” Elöise pointed toward Mr. Leveret. “And that man will not tell you what you need to hear.”

“And who are you?” Leveret snorted. “That child's tutor!”

“Mrs. Trapping knows very well what I am,” answered Elöise. “And she ought to know what it has cost me. Charlotte, think! Once they get what they want, you will not matter!”

“But they have not got anything, Mrs. Dujong,” cried Leveret hotly, “nor will they!” He smugly snapped his fingers at a pair of crouching soldiers. “We stand quite completely protected —by a Xonck Armory 296 explosive shell!”

Leveret surveyed the silent room with satisfaction. “A 296 explosive shell, Mrs. Dujong, will shatter every piece of glass in this building. As our windows lack glazing, the glass I refer to stands there.” He stabbed a long, thick-knuckled finger at Mrs. Marchmoor. “And at the first sign of—of—alchemical, mind-bludgeoning, dream-sniffing, thought-eating nonsense , those men will push their plunger and that creature's newest allies shall be a broom and dustpan!”

“What side are you on , Elöise?” called Mrs. Trapping. The woman was smiling . Leveret broke into a confident grin, looking back at her.

“Charlotte,” Elöise pleaded, gesturing to Francesca, “it is not about mere sides.”

“But it is , Mrs. Dujong,” called another voice. “And you must get out of the center… before you are killed there.”

Doctor Svenson stepped toward Elöise, his arm outstretched. His uniform was shabby and his face smeared with soot, but his blue eyes were clear. Stranded in the center of the room, Elöise looked down at his extended hand. As if his gesture was especially unbearable, she veered away with a cry, standing alone with her arms crossed and one hand covering her mouth.

“WE'LL NOT waste more time,” announced Mrs. Trapping. She turned to Fochtmann and clapped her hands together, as if she were calling a dog. “I trust you are finished?”

The tall man bowed gravely and motioned Mrs. Trapping and Mr. Leveret farther away. He had secured black hoses across Vandaariff's body, strapped the black rubber mask across his face, and swaddled the black webbed gloves around his hands and bare feet. Lord Vandaariff sat wrapped like a stuporous insect, stuffed away for future consumption in some spider's larder. Miss Temple wondered at how easily people who two weeks before would have licked this man's boot heel for the merest scrap of attention now treated him like a slave. Vandaariff's fate—pathetic, degraded—seemed only what any of them would receive, or even merit.

Fochtmann turned dramatically to face them all, pulling the brass helmet onto his head. At the wash of ash in her mouth, Miss Temple gagged.

“It will not work!” she croaked.

“Of course not!” Fochtmann barked through the helmet's voice box. “We have not restored the power.”

Fochtmann signaled the men and the line of silver machines roared back to deafening life. Then he pulled down the brass handle with the flourish of a circus showman.

Nothing happened. Fochtmann raised it up, prodded a bit of wiring, and pulled it down even harder. Nothing happened. Fochtmann waved angrily at the men, and the machines powered down. Fochtmann pulled off the helmet, his face hot and the bandage on his brow flapping loose. He strode toward Miss Temple.

“Why did you say it would fail? What do you know?”

“You lack a device… to manage the flow.” Miss Temple's words slurred.

“What device?” demanded Fochtmann, taking hold of her jaw.

“She does not have it,” said Chang.

“And you do?”