“If you would,” he said to her. “The St. Royale…”

AS IF admitting she had been for the moment foxed, the Contessa smiled. Doctor Svenson braced himself. Whatever she was about to say would form the first step in her revenge.

“There is practically nothing to describe. You must know of her assignation with Trapping—merciful sin, Doctor, you met the man yourself. Is there anything more dispiriting than to be the mistress of a fool?”

Svenson wanted very much to strike her, but did not move. “I find you dispiriting, madame. With all your unquestioned talents, you remain the epitome of waste.”

“From a man who has thrown away his life for Karl-Horst von Maasmärck…well, I shall bear it in mind.”

“The meeting. The hotel.”

“What is there to say? I did not want Francis or Oskar or Crabbé to know of my suspicions, so I could not risk being seen. As I knew Charlotte Trapping socially, it needed to be arranged by Caroline.”

“Mrs. Trapping was not to know of your involvement?”

“She least of all,” replied the Contessa, as if this point were especially obvious.

“But why should Elöise be present? Why, if she was—” he stammered to say it, feeling his face grow hot with anger and shame “—the Colonel's mistress, and Mrs. Trapping was aware of—her—their— assignations—”

“Aware?” laughed the Contessa.

Svenson was dumbfounded. “But—if—why—”

The Contessa laughed again. Svenson saw her assumptions change—and knew what she would tell him had changed as well. Before she could speak, he held up his hand.

“You were not getting information from Charlotte Trapping— that you would have insisted on hearing alone. Instead, Mrs. Stearne was informing her that some deep secret was known, and exacting a promise or payment to forestall its publication. The obvious secret is the infidelity, the Colonel's mistress…”

But suddenly Svenson knew this was wrong.

“Indeed, such would explain the presence of Mrs. Dujong. But you forget that I have seen the women arrive together to this building, as I have seen them together earlier this day: if the infidelity were indeed a breach between them, this would not be. You included Mrs. Dujong in the invitation for two reasons: first, as a sensible, observant person who must have known the secret herself, she would make sure Charlotte Trapping showed up; and second, upon being apprised of the threat to her mistress, Mrs. Dujong would exert a prudent influence—in protecting Mrs. Trapping, she would inadvertently deliver her into your control.”

It was also ironic, he thought: Elöise being made aware of the threat to Mrs. Trapping—swiftly followed by the Colonel's disappearance—explained why she had been so readily persuaded by Francis Xonck to go to Tarr Manor, where the memories of that meeting, along with the very fact of her infidelities, had been removed from her mind.

“Why should I require prudence?” asked the Contessa. “I find prudence dull.”

“Because Mrs. Trapping is a Xonck,” replied Svenson. “Proud, angry, bitter, and as unpredictable as a drunken Lord.”

The Contessa smiled again. “My goodness, Doctor, your cleverness has so nearly assuaged the urge to strike you dead.”

“You have not yet told me what the secret was.”

“And I will not.”

“You will.”

“Unfortunately, Doctor, we are no longer alone.”

SVENSON SPUN toward the rooftop door. At once, instinct firing his limbs just in time, he threw himself back to avoid the slash of the Contessa's spike across the front of his throat. The woman staggered at the force of her erring blow. Svenson's own arm was cocked in a fist when he met her eyes and saw she was once again laughing.

“You cannot blame me, Doctor—only a fool gives up easily. Strike me if you must—or if you can—but I was telling you the truth.”

She pointed with her steel-wrapped hand at the far side of the rooftop, beyond the line of chimneys. Two men stood there, one straight, one bent as if in illness, yet however many steps apart they stood, they unquestionably stood together. Svenson turned back to the Contessa, wishing he still held the silver revolver. On the other side of the line of smokestacks stood Francis Xonck with—with!—Cardinal Chang.

The two men advanced to the line of chimneys and crossed through to Svenson's side of the tar-covered rooftop. The Contessa darted to the ladder, but once there merely leaned down, sniffed, and then called to them.

“No one climbs up. As it would be evident to an infant that we are here, I must assume Mr. Leveret considers us managed.”

How easily the woman had gone, in the matter of a minute, from dashing conversation to attempted murder, to a reunion with sworn enemies—and then shown the presence of mind to assert that any specific argument between them had been rendered trivial by their shared predicament.

“What weapons are they using?” growled Xonck, his voice thick and hoarse.

“Your special carbines, of course,” replied the Contessa. “But I do not believe they have men in the trees to shoot us here.”

“They could rush us if they cared.” Xonck nodded to the rooftop door.

“So they do not care,” she snapped. “It is your Mr. Leveret—perhaps you know his intentions.”

Xonck hacked out a wretched blue gobbet onto the tar. For an instant his eyes lost focus and his body swayed. “Leveret… merely following… orders.”

“I do not think so, Francis,” the Contessa said. “Leveret remains no more your creature than Margaret Hooke is the Comte's, or Caroline Stearne is my own.”

“He does not know that I have arrived.”

“Perhaps not—merely that a savage, stinking, monstrosity—”

“Rosamonde—”

“And how bold you were to remove Oskar's machinery from Harschmort—before anyone was even dead! Or was everyone to die in Macklenburg by way of a poisoned pudding?”

Standing apart from them all, Cardinal Chang chuckled. Svenson searched on his one-time ally's face for some explanation for his alliance with Xonck, but found only the two implacable, flat circles of black glass.

“Francis.” The Contessa's tone was almost kindly. “There is no time at all. You must talk to us while you are still able, and while we have time. The machines are gaining speed.”

The clatter from below, and the corresponding vibrations, had accelerated so gradually the Doctor had scarcely noticed the change. But the incremental change was actually quite extreme, like a ship's boiler driven slowly to ramming speed to break through ice.

“What of that army—those adherents?” Xonck growled. “Why summon them if you are marooned with us?”

“Because she did not summon them at all,” said Chang.

“You might have said before what you knew,” hissed Xonck, swaying.

“Neither of you could have called them. You have both just arrived.”

“Nor Leveret,” said Svenson. “He does not even know who they are.”

“It is Margaret,” said the Contessa, bitterly.

“She will skin you alive yet, Rosamonde,” Xonck snorted, a garbled rueful laugh. “Do you still have it?”

“Have what?”

“The marrow sparge,” said Chang, again causing both to turn to him.

“Margaret has the book,” Xonck snarled. “She will bring it here.”

“With a damned army,” began Svenson, but Xonck ignored him, weaving close to the Contessa.

“If you have the marrow sparge, none of this matters!”

“Unless Margaret did not recover the book,” said Chang.

“Recover it from whom?” the Contessa asked with impatience.

“The little teapot.”

“Celeste Temple,” said Chang.

“She is alive?” cried Svenson, taking a step closer to Chang, wanting to shake the man.

“She went to Harschmort,” said Chang. “And took the book for herself.”