Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

“What sort of agreement?” hissed Miss Temple. “I cannot imagine it.”

“Simple things. An agreement whereby, for example , we trust each other enough to sleep without fear of never waking.”

“But you are a liar,” said Miss Temple.

“Am I indeed? When have I ever lied to you?”

Miss Temple thought for a moment, and then sniffed. “You are vicious and cruel.”

“But not a liar , Celeste.”

“You lied to the others—to the Comte and Francis Xonck! You lied to Roger!”

“I did not need to lie to Roger, my dear—no one ever did. As for Francis and Oskar, I will admit it. But one always lies to friends—if you had friends you would know friendship relies on that very tradition. But lying to enemies… well, it lessens one's spark.”

“I do not believe you.”

“You would be a fool to believe me. And yet, I am offering a bargain. While we share this train car, I will not harm you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not need anything from you, Celeste. What I need is sleep. And sleep in a cold train car will be more restful if we are not barricaded behind barrels of fish oil ready to kill one another. Truly, it is a civilized gesture—a logic beyond morals, if that speaks to you.”

Miss Temple shifted slightly—one of her legs was getting a cramp, and the sweat on her back had cooled. She could feel the weight of her exertions waiting to fall. If she did not sleep well she would slip back into her fever.

“Do you have any food?” she asked.

“I do. Would you like some?”

“I had a perfectly fine supper,” said Miss Temple. “But I expect I will be hungry again in the morning.”

The Contessa smirked, and for the first time Miss Temple saw the woman's sharp spike had been ready if their conversation had gone another way.

THE CONTESSA removed a small cork-stoppered bottle and a handkerchief from her bag. She tugged the cork free and tamped the cloth over the bottle, tipping it once to soak a small circle. Without a glance to Miss Temple she wiped her face and neck as deliberately and thoroughly as a cat giving itself a bath. Miss Temple watched with some fascination as the woman's face slipped through so many guileless formations—shutting her eyes as the cloth dabbed around them, stretching her lips as she swabbed around her nose and mouth, lifting her jaw as she swept the cloth—resoaked—up and down her throat and under the collar of her dress.

“What is that?” Miss Temple finally asked.

“An alcoholic tincture of rosewater. The scent is horrid, of course, but the alcohol a welcome enough astringent.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Would you like to clean your face, Celeste? In truth, you do not appear at all well.”

“I have had fever,” said Miss Temple.

“Goodness, did you nearly die?”

“As I did not, it does not especially matter.”

“Come here, then.”

The Contessa soaked a new spot on the handkerchief. She held it out and, not wanting to seem either docile or ill-bred, Miss Temple scooted closer. The Contessa took gentle hold of Miss Temple's jaw and started at her forehead, working down. Miss Temple flinched as the cloth came near the bullet weal above her ear, but the woman took account of the rawness and her touch did not hurt at all.

“Did you ever think you. would die?” asked the Contessa musingly.

“When?” replied Miss Temple.

The Contessa smiled. “At any time at all.”

“I'm sure I did. Did you?”

Finished with the face, the Contessa re-drenched the cloth and swabbed brusquely at Miss Temple's neck. “Your hair.”

Miss Temple obligingly lifted both arms and held the curls to either side. A few more swipes with the cloth and the Contessa was finished, but then she blew a cool breath across the newly clean and dampened skin. Miss Temple shivered. The Contessa set down the bottle and cloth and looked up.

“Perhaps you will help me,” she said.

Miss Temple watched the Contessa's fingers undo one line of ebony buttons and then ease her right arm, pale as a swan's wing, from the dark silk dress with wincing difficulty. Miss Temple gasped at the bloody gash on the woman's shoulder blade.

“I can reach it myself,” the Contessa said, “but if you could assist me we would waste less of the tincture.”

The cut was deep but had closed with a near-black clotting seam. Miss Temple frowned, not knowing quite how to begin, a little transfixed by the sweep of the Contessa's shoulder and the smooth line of the Contessa's vertebrae—these were her bones —disappearing down her back like something whispered but not understood. She returned her gaze to the wound.

“It must be soaked,” said the Contessa. “It does not matter—this far north I cannot prevent a scar.”

Miss Temple took up the bottle and poured carefully along the wound, catching the drips with the cloth. The Contessa winced again, but said nothing. The cut seeped blood as Miss Temple pressed against it, refolding the stained cloth several times until the bleeding stopped. At last the Contessa's hand came over hers, holding the cloth in position herself.

“I am obliged to you, my dear.”

“What happened?” asked Miss Temple.

“I was forced to pass through a window.”

“By whom?”

“Cardinal Chang.”

“I see.” Miss Temple's heart leapt. Chang was alive.

“But I was not fleeing Cardinal Chang. I was fleeing Francis Xonck.”

“Francis Xonck is alive?”

“If you can call it life. You smelled him yourself, didn't you?”

“He was chasing me? Just now? The monster?”

“I say this with kindness, my dear, but you really must keep the pace.”

“But Xonck stinks of the blue glass!”

“He does.”

“But the Doctor shot him!”

“One did not think the Doctor had it in him—yet it does seem Francis has taken drastic steps to survive…”

The Contessa carefully returned her arm to her dress and did up the buttons. The close working of her fingers drew Miss Temple's eyes as if their repeated movement was a conjuring sign.

“How did you escape the airship?” Miss Temple asked.

“How do you think?”

“You must have jumped.”

The Contessa tilted her head, encouraging her to go on.

“But your dress—the Doctor said it would have soaked in the water and pulled you down.”

“The Doctor is astute.”

“You took it off!”

The Contessa tilted her head once more.

“I should never have done that,” whispered Miss Temple.

“Then you should have died,” the Contessa told her. “But I think you would have done it. And anything else you needed to. That is how we recognize one another, Celeste.”

Miss Temple's words came suddenly, hot and loud. “But you did not recognize me, madame. You consigned me to death. On more than one occasion!”

The Contessa's eyes glittered, but her voice remained even. “Why should wanting you dead change a thing?”

Miss Temple opened her mouth, then shut it with a snap.

SHE LISTENED to the rattling wheels, wondering what stops there might be between Karthe and the city, and if the contents of their car were even destined for the city. The doors might well open in an hour at another mountain town, or two hours after that in some village that stank of pigs. And would Francis Xonck be waiting for them?

“Where is Elöise Dujong?” she asked.

“I'm sure I've no idea.”

“I thought I was chasing her,” said Miss Temple. “But I was chasing you . The man on the path—Mr. Olsteen, the hunter—”

“The soldier , Celeste.”