“FRANCIS!” CRIED Vandaariff. “Francis—stop him!”
“Go to the devil!” barked Svenson. The Doctor stumbled as the force of Xonck's mind struck him, but then he lurched free—free of the same power that had toppled Elöise and overcome Mrs. Marchmoor. Svenson leapt forward to catch the sobbing girl's hands.
“I cannot reach him!” whispered Xonck.
“Reach her!” commanded Vandaariff.
The girl slumped into dead weight. With an exasperated cry in German, Svenson pulled with all his strength, wrenching the slender child away from Elöise, and sprawling onto his seat.
“Stop him!” Vandaariff's voice rose to a shriek. “She is my price! She is my price to spare the lot of you! If she escapes—”
The crack of the Contessa's pistol rang in Miss Temple's ear and a white seam of new wood was ripped from the planks near Svenson's head.
Miss Temple wheeled toward the Contessa and shrieked, desperately waving her arms.
“The soldiers are waking up!”
The Contessa could not help but look—and indeed the green-coated bodies were slowly writhing to life, their limbs like a welter of interlocked snakes—as did everyone else in the room.
Everyone but Chang. At Miss Temple's cry he launched himself straight for Vandaariff. Fochtmann hurled himself in front of his new master, arms outstretched. Chang struck him on the jaw with the saber hilt, and the tall man flew back like a parasol taken apart by the wind. Vandaariff stumbled into the brass machinery, and hissed with pain as his bare hand touched the hot metal. Chang raised the blade. Fochtmann, bleeding from his mouth, dove at Chang's legs, knocking him off balance and sending the stroke wide, striking sparks from a snarl of copper wire. Chang kicked Fochtmann viciously below the ribs.
Fochtmann moaned. “You cannot! You cannot!”
Chang kicked him again, then took hold of Vandaariff's coat and threw the old man brutally to the floor. Chang raised the saber. With horror Miss Temple saw the Contessa aiming her pistol at Chang's chest.
Too late, Miss Temple groped for the knife in her boot—but the Contessa's shot also went wide, as Chang stumbled, nearly falling… kicked by Francis Xonck's glass foot. Chang wheeled as Xonck rose from the nest of machinery. Without the least hesitation he hacked the fat-bladed saber at Xonck's head, but the edge was turned by the plaster cast still sheathing Xonck's right arm, chopping out a hunk of plaster and skidding past the clear blue shoulder. Before Chang could pull the saber back for a second blow, Xonck's plastered arm shot forward like a hammer, striking Chang's head with enough force to sever the glass arm at the elbow in a shower of sparking shards.
The mental explosion at Xonck's willful amputation staggered Miss Temple, but she kept her senses while across the room others toppled or stood stunned. With an anguished cry she threw herself at the Contessa. Too dazed to shoot at so fast a target, the Contessa clubbed the gun wildly, clipping Miss Temple's head with the butt. Miss Temple went to her knees, but slashed out with the knife as she fell, drawing blood on the Contessa's outer thigh. The Contessa screamed and hopped away, the distance allowing her to bring the pistol to bear and fire. The bullet plucked at Miss Temple's curls and tore a jagged gash in the planking. Miss Temple launched herself at the Contessa's bleeding leg and brought the woman down in a heap, the gun bouncing across the floor. The Contessa kicked and clawed for the knife. Miss Temple stabbed her fingers blindly at the woman's eyes. The Contessa twisted her face and very nearly caught Miss Temple's thumb between her snapping teeth. With her free hand Miss Temple slammed the Contessa's bad shoulder. The Contessa screamed—as much with rage as pain—and Miss Temple rolled away toward Robert Vandaariff, who recoiled as if she were an advancing animal, an ugly resolve coloring his eyes like a greasy black film.
Miss Temple slashed at his legs and missed, falling forward. She lunged with a grunt, and missed again, her blow stopped short. The Contessa had taken hold of her foot. Miss Temple kicked fiercely and broke free, but then powerful hands caught her wrist—Fochtmann, risen again—and pried her fingers apart one at a time until her weapon fell to the floor.
“YOU REALLY should have killed her, Rosamonde,” rasped Robert Vandaariff. “She is a very vexing creature.”
Chang lay near her, glasses askew, blinking at the blood dripping into his dark eyes. He was alive and awake. The Doctor was gone, along with the girl. Francesca had been saved—she had done that much. Elöise propped herself up on her arms, oblivious to the soldiers around her, all shaking their heads in the same way, all struggling to rise.
Vandaariff's forehead was bloody. He clucked his tongue absently at the blue glass scattered around him.
“Such recklessness, Francis… I do not like your being so free with my property—”
“What is that?” interrupted Mr. Fochtmann, cocking his head toward the windows where Mrs. Marchmoor had retreated.
Below, through the open windows, came a chorus of shouts…then a loud rhythmic smashing. The mob below had recovered their nerve and were battering the factory doors.
“The soldiers!” snapped Fochtmann. “You must rouse them—while there's still time!” He turned to Xonck, whose impassive expression was fixed on the empty doorway. “Order them to fire the cannons!”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Vandaariff. “That does seem sensible… Francis?”
“They will not obey Francis,” groaned the Contessa, clutching her leg. “They will not know him.”
The mob burst into another roar. The doors were down. Their cries echoed higher as the throng flooded into the factory itself.
“I suppose you are right at that,” said Vandaariff, struggling to concentrate. “It is very vexing in general…”
“He must stop them!” cried Fochtmann. Vandaariff shut his eyes. The Contessa attempted to shift her body, and grimaced. Xonck ignored them all, occupied as he was with the delicate task of stepping free of the brass boxes. Fochtmann pointed with dismay.
“What… what is he doing?”
Miss Temple swallowed, quite unable to avert her eyes, not only because of the man's nudity (she had not quite apprehended it, because of the bindings and hoses, yet was now provoked to inevitable and insistent questions about how the glass flesh actually worked and, as she stared, its elasticity), but also because she was fascinated to see another glass body move—for Xonck, lean and strong like Chang, was of an entirely different weight and figure to the three glass ladies. Miss Temple swallowed again, her mouth terribly dry. Watching Xonck was like watching a tiger on a chain; she marveled at the unfamiliar muscles shifting powerfully with each step. But her gaze was drawn again to Xonck's groin as he turned, lurid memories bubbling in her mind, though this was like nothing anyone had ever seen… the dark whorls of color, so shining and so soft, disgusting and ripe, arrogant and tender, lewd and alluring… she wondered if his body would be cold to the touch… she wondered at its taste. Xonck flexed the fingers of his one hand, grimacing at the steaming, shattered stump, and picked away stray flecks of glass where they clung.
The mob burst into another roar, which was followed by the high-pitched screeching of disabled machinery and a spattering of gunfire.
“If they come up here,” called Aspiche hoarsely, “it will be finished.”
Phelps turned to Mrs. Marchmoor. “Madame—what instructions have you given them, what summons?”
“Those men will destroy you too,” Fochtmann yelled to the glass woman. “As soon as they see you—like any monster! You can stop them! All you represent will be needlessly lost!”
“What I represent?” hissed Mrs. Marchmoor.