“A moment!”

This was Aspiche, his left arm extended to the glass woman, the saber in his right aimed at Chang.

“The man's a villain—do not listen to his lies. Simply allow me to kill him—”

“No, we need his information!” said Phelps, and he called sternly to Chang, “Where is Francis Xonck?”

“Such loyalty,” said Chang. He felt the cold pressure batting ineffectually at his thought and laughed. “Neither of you is even curious as to how I confound her? Perhaps if you consulted a mirror you'd change your mind.”

Mrs. Marchmoor jutted her brittle chin at Chang. “His essence… tastes of Xonck's… proximity.”

“Where did he go?” Phelps asked again.

“Where do you think?”

“He recovered the book!”

“By finding that young woman!” cried Aspiche. “She escaped back to the train! Xonck knew we did not have her, nor the book—”

Their blurted words were exactly what Chang had hoped for, but too much to make sense of in the moment. Young woman? Book?

“How would Francis Xonck know any of that?”

This was Mrs. Marchmoor. She took a halting step forward, gesturing with the stump of her right arm.

“I saw into his mind. Francis did not notice her at all, no more than he takes note of anyone. To him I am a whore—the Colonel, a pompous dupe—Cardinal Chang, a rabid dog in need of poison—”

“Did he know about the children?” asked Chang.

She cocked her head and studied Chang carefully. “He did not…”

Her eyes slid closed and her body went abruptly still. It took Phelps and Aspiche a moment to realize her attention had been directed elsewhere, but neither man knew whether their opportunity lay in killing Chang or freeing themselves from their mistress. Chang discounted Phelps—the man was too schooled by reason to act on his own—but watched Aspiche warily. Yet the Colonel hesitated as well—had sickness broken the soldier's nerve? The glass woman's eyes slid open again, one layer of a glass onion peeling away to reveal another, and her moist blue lips curled with disdain.

“The children are perfectly well. Captain Tackham—with whom I see you are acquainted—has them in hand. Francis Xonck has abandoned Harschmort House like a whipped cur.”

“Francis Xonck is many things,” said Aspiche, “and most far worse than any scorpion. But we believe him beaten at our peril.”

Chang barely listened. It was as one tasted intuition in a fight—on impulse lunging when a sane man would retreat, throwing all to the attack when others would flee—as a swordsman balances all in an instant, the position of each limb, the weight of the blade, and the nearness of each adversary…

“… we have men watching Hadrian Square, and his brother's houses in town and in the country, his club, his bank, his tailor, the Old Palace, his own rooms at the Caracalla—”

“The Caracalla?” asked Mr. Phelps. “He has rooms there?”

“He does,” replied Aspiche.

“But it is horrible.”

“It is perhaps notorious.”

“It is louche,” insisted Phelps, “and foul.”

“So,” observed Aspiche, “is the man in question—”

THE WOODEN chair caught the Colonel across the legs, but Chang took care—whipping it with one arm from behind a table—to aim so it would not bounce in the direction of Mrs. Marchmoor. Aspiche went down with a shocked cry of pain, and as the man groped for his saber Chang stepped on the blade. Again, his reaction far too slow, Phelps raised his revolver, but Chang had already hauled Aspiche up by the collar, holding him as a shield.

Mrs. Marchmoor had not moved.

“Take control of your man,” Chang snarled, “before he hatches an idea.”

Phelps lurched and then settled like a stack of jostled crockery, his face blank. Aspiche's body stiffened beneath Chang's grip, ensuring the same degree of silence and cooperation.

“I have others at my call,” she whispered, “in every direction throughout this house. You will not escape, no matter what you believe.”

“Whoever you call will only find a pile of broken shards.”

“I can have Mr. Phelps shoot you.”

“You can have him try.”

He scooped up Aspiche's saber and felt the desperate thrust of her mind. Two steps gave Chang the range to take her head.

“If I had decided to harm you, Margaret, I would not have thrown the chair at the Colonel.”

The glass flesh conveyed no more feeling than marble—or less, as marble at least presented a coherent surface. Chang's gaze penetrated beyond his ability to measure, into a swirling well whose depths he could not resolve.

“Of course, Cardinal… perhaps we can aid each other… there must be so much you want to know…”

Chang sneered at the need in her grating, acid-etched voice.

“Why have you taken Charlotte Trapping's children?”

“To force the cooperation of their mother, of course.”

“Why should you need the cooperation of Charlotte Trapping?”

He could feel her presence again, more gently, like the flickers of an annoying breeze.

“Stop that, Margaret. Answer me.”

The coldness fell away but her eyes still watched him closely.

“I should think it obvious. I need her because the Grand Design depended on shipments of munitions—how else were we to make sure of Macklenburg, much less our own city? With Henry Xonck lacking a mind and Francis Xonck ruined, Charlotte Trapping takes their place.”

“You're a liar.”

“How dare you!”

“When your masters left for Macklenburg, Henry Xonck was exactly as empty-minded as he is now, and Francis Xonck as unavailable—nothing has changed to require Mrs. Trapping's participation. All munitions were to be managed by Francis Xonck's handpicked man, Alfred Leveret—whom you have driven away. But that is not what I asked. I asked why you have taken that woman's children.”

Chang's voice had become too loud, and in the silence that followed he feared some earnest minion or other would take it upon themselves to intrude—or perhaps those intrusions were just what Mrs. Marchmoor was preventing as she paused.

“Think of all I can tell you, Margaret,” he whispered. “Just answer this first. You sent Rawsbarthe into her home—”

“Charlotte Trapping is not important,” she barked, like a nail scraping porcelain. “But there is too much for me to manage—the Duke, the Council, all the adherent minions awaiting instructions— so many tasks… and I am alone, without help.”

“Without help? You have the servants of a Pharaoh.”

“But they must not see me! They would rebel! They would break my body!”

“Why is that?”

“Because they are all as ambitious as I once was!”

“Once?”

“You cannot begin to understand what has been done to me!”

“What has been done? What you desired!”

“But so much has changed… I was not to be alone…”

“Everyone's alone, Margaret.”

“No, not everyone.” Her voice had gone disturbingly still. “Some are fortunate enough to carry their loved ones with them always …”

CHANG SENSED the pressure of her thought entering his palm like a key into a lock-hole, and before he could react the same vision of Angelique that had over-borne him in the garden swallowed his awareness again. Chang shook his head but it was too late. When he saw the room once more, Colonel Aspiche had been pulled away, his body positioned to shield her. Chang stood utterly open to a bullet from Phelps, who extended the revolver with an arm of stone. How had she done it?

“All you can tell me?” Mrs. Marchmoor mocked him. “Will you begin—or will Mr. Phelps shoot your leg?”

“I should prefer he didn't.”

“How do you know of Leveret? Where is he now? I need the machines! I need the power!”

“You need a book too, I believe. Xonck's book.”