“You must stop…”
“I do not believe you,” breathed the Contessa against Miss Temple's throat.
“Your plots,” gasped Miss Temple, turning her head away despite herself, so the Contessa's tongue might trace itself more freely. “Your intrigues—you must be content with survival…”
“What did you say?”
“You have corrupted my heart—”
“O… nothing of the kind… you were always so…”
“They will kill you if you do not disappear.”
“Who will kill me?”
“Cardinal Chang—the Doctor—”
“Those heroes… but what, Celeste, of you?”
“I would kill you myself—”
“And how very brave, and how principled.”
This did not seem like a compliment. Miss Temple's breath was still rapid—when had the Contessa's knee lodged itself between her legs?
“Such principles just show how much you understand…” The Contessa planted small speculative kisses along Miss Temple's jaw. “And how little… a gratifying thing to have displayed by an enemy.”
“I am your enemy.” Miss Temple writhed against the Contessa's grinding knee.
“You always have been, dear.”
“Then why have you kept me alive?”
“Because even I cannot be everywhere at once.”
To Miss Temple's surprise, even as once more her tongue was darting within the warm and silken confines of the Contessa's mouth, the Contessa's fingers pinched Miss Temple's nose tightly closed. Merging oddly with the tingle of her loins and the flush she was sure had spread all down her front… was the realization that she could not breathe. She tried to gently shift the Contessa's arm but found her own sharply pinned by the woman's elbow. She tried to turn away, but the Contessa did not loosen her grip. Miss Temple arched her back. She tried to bite the Contessa's tongue but the woman merely brought up her other hand to clamp shut Miss Temple's jaw. Miss Temple thrashed her legs. She slapped at the Contessa's face, groped for her hair. The Contessa did not budge, the seal of her soft lips fast as an oyster to stone. Miss Temple became dizzy and afraid. She could not think. She heaved with all her strength but could not dislodge her succubus. With a last, desperate thought that such an end was exactly what she had come to deserve, Miss Temple's mind went black.
SHE OPENED her eyes to an unmoving car and the Contessa gone. Attempting to sit up, she found herself pinned to the wooden floor, the tip of her own knife driven through her dress at the very juncture of her legs. Miss Temple wrenched it free with both hands, snorting that to the Contessa such a gesture would pass for wit, and returned the blade to her boot. She crawled to the doorway of the car and, heaving with both arms, pulled it three inches wide, enough to peer through.
The land before her was a blend of fen and forest, perfectly suited for the construction of canals. She remembered Elöise's description of her uncle's cottage, annoyed that she had listened with such disinterest, for she was certain his home lay in this very part of the country. It had been in a park of some sort—what had it been called? Parchfeldt! Yet the idea of leaping off the train in the deluded hope that anyone— if there was anyone—might direct her to Parchfeldt Park was ridiculous. Miss Temple slumped back against the wall. Her actions in the freight car—from the first decision to sleep next to the Contessa to this last humiliating struggle—flayed her conscience like a whip.
If she ever found Chang and Svenson, what would she say to them—about her own failures of character, or about her loss of Elöise? Where would she possibly find the two men? She did not know where Parchfeldt was. She did not know what Chang's message possibly meant—“the Lord's Time”—no doubt it was the secret name for some gambling club or brothel!
The Contessa's words echoed in her heart. She could choose to leave her adventure as something finished, be satisfied with her revenge and her survival. She could return to her life with lessons learned and precious few scars to prove it. But then she clenched her legs tightly together, shivering at the memory of the Contessa's touch, pulling her knees to her chest in fervid misery.
The train at last pulled forward. Miss Temple curled onto her side, though the rest she found was thin and brought no comfort.
SHE WOKE to whistles and the rushing racket of other trains passing near. Miss Temple straightened her dress and wiped her face, making sure of the knife in her boot. They had entered the tunnels surrounding Stropping Station. The train slowed and crawled agonizingly to a stop. She opened the door with a determined, prolonged shove, wriggled through, legs dangling, and pushed herself off to land with a grunt on the soot-blackened gravel. Miss Temple ducked her head down and scuttled like a crab beneath the next train over. Emerging unseen on the far side, she advanced briskly toward the main station hall.
She was still in a quandary as to her path. She was tempted by so many sensible tasks—to find a hotel, arrange a draft of money from her bank, refit herself, a new bag from Nesbit's, undergarments from Clauchon, a dress from Monsieur Massée (who would have her sizes, and could be counted on to be discreet), and before everything a hot bath with rosemary oil.
Miss Temple ducked into the space between two cars. Ahead of her a figure in a long hooded black cloak crept from under a railcar, escaping her own train just as she had done. The figure paused there, for the path to the thronging open plaza of Stropping Station had been blocked by two men in long black coats and top hats and behind them four red-coated soldiers. The men in black looked very much like Roger—like government officials—and gazed grimly down the track-side, but they saw neither the cloaked man nor Miss Temple. With a shrug of agreement they marched from view, the soldiers in stomping unison behind them. The hooded man flowed soundlessly forward like a shadow against the side of the train.
Miss Temple scampered after him. She reached the spot where he had hidden and wrinkled her nose at the reek of indigo clay. She was following Francis Xonck. But why was Xonck hiding from the government officials and soldiers who had been his allies? Her heart rose with sudden hope. Did it mean that the Cabal had been overthrown?
Then she sighed bitterly. If only she knew where to meet Chang or Svenson she could satisfy herself with having seen Xonck, and make her way directly to a hotel, perhaps the Beacon, or—her heart leapt just a little—Anburne House, which boasted an especially excellent tea. But she did not know.
Xonck rushed into the bright lights of the main station floor and disappeared. Miss Temple reached down for her knife and, holding the thing as discreetly as she could in her fist, dashed after him.
THE MASSIVE angel-flanked clock, hanging over Stropping terminal like an oppressive omen of guilt, set the time at just before noon. As she turned away from its unwelcome image, Miss Temple realized that something in the station had changed. The teeming crowds coursed between the high staircases and the ticket counters and the different platforms, with eddies and pools around the various shops and kiosks scattered across the floor… but their formerly free movement was now directed by an army of brown-coated railway con stables. What had happened? She saw travelers driven in harried groups, resentful sheep under the rule of nipping hounds. She saw uncooperative individuals pulled aside and escorted brusquely away— respectably dressed people given over to the custody of soldiers! Had there been some rail crash or catastrophe? Had there been another riot at a mill? At the kiosks and shops, each purchase was observed by constables— even small groups standing in conversation were ordered to move along. Across the station Miss Temple saw bright knots of scarlet— dragoons in uniform, each group accompanied by figures in crisp city black. They peered down the track lines as different trains pulled in and out of Stropping, obviously engaged in a massive search—and a preponderance were gathered near her own quadrant of the station's platforms, where trains arrived from the north.