“Allow me to make sure of it.”
Mr. Fochtmann appeared from behind Vandaariff, white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and his forehead bound with a plaster. The engineer strode self-importantly across to Phelps, taking the case from him. He set it on the floor. His long fingers unsnapped the clasps and opened the lid, then Fochtmann carefully plucked at the pillowcases, one after the other, until the gleaming blue book was revealed to them all.
“You will notice I do not touch the glass,” Fochtmann announced. “We do not know what consequences might have arisen from the circumstance of its … harvest, or from the circumstances of its … conveyance.”
Fochtmann studied the book carefully through slitted eyes, then picked it up—using the silk as a barrier to his skin—tipping it this way and that, as if he might penetrate its contents without risk.
Mrs. Trapping's shrill voice rang out again. “Is it what we have waited for or not? For all the time she's cost me, I should just as soon have this young lady flung headfirst out the nearest window.”
Fochtmann frowned at the book, and then stood. “I am sorry, ma'am. I have managed the convection chambers, the aerating pathways, the distillation pipes, yet here I am blocked out. Only one of our company can divine if the book is what we hope, and whether it may be used.” He turned haughtily to Mrs. Marchmoor. “Enter her mind, madame! Enter the book! Is there any impediment to our going forward? Has she harmed it? Is there any damage?”
“Did the harvesting work at all?” added the Contessa. “Given that Oskar was dying at the time—”
“Of course it worked!” Xonck's voice was thick and labored.
“Be quiet, Francis!” shouted Mrs. Trapping. She called to the glass woman, imperious and resentful, “Tell us!”
Against her will, Miss Temple looked at Mrs. Marchmoor, flinching with dread at the invasion to come. An icy prickling resonated inside her skull… but then retreated at once, leaving only the chilly echo of a distant winter chime. Miss Temple braced herself for another, more savage penetration… but then the pressure receded altogether, and along with everyone else in the room she felt only the cold slither of the glass woman's voice.
“The book… contains… the Comte d'Orkancz.”
The room was completely still, the air abruptly pregnant with discomfort. The glass woman had spoken. Miss Temple saw the reactive loathing on the faces of Leveret and Mrs. Trapping, and on every soldier ringing the room. She waited for Mrs. Marchmoor to say more, but she did not. Had she not sensed the corruption? Or was she laying yet another trap?
“Excellent.” Charlotte Trapping smiled icily. “Let us move on.”
MISS TEMPLE was forgotten. Every eye in the room was fixed on Fochtmann's meticulous efforts. Lifting the book carefully from the case, the silk pillowcases between his fingers and the glass, he eased it into the slotted brass box and then screwed a metal plate tight over the slot to seal it in. The glass began to glow. Miss Temple shut her eyes and swallowed against the rising burn in her throat, against the knowledge that the different plates of memory were being activated one after another, the electrical current weaving a lattice of force through a precise fusion of tempered metal and alchemical salts—
Hands slipped under her arms and heaved Miss Temple to her feet. She turned, to see Chang behind her, and then Svenson took gentle hold of her jaw, gazing seriously into her eyes.
“Do nothing rash,” whispered Chang. “Let them have at one another. Just stay alive.”
“Why should I care about that?” she replied.
“You are not well,” muttered the Doctor under his breath. “That book is deadly. You must prevent any further contact with it, or her.”
“How did you simply leave?”
The question had flown from Miss Temple's lips before she knew it. Svenson's gaze darted up to Chang's, then back to her grey eyes. “Ah—O—no, no—it was not—truly—”
Chang tightened his grip on her arms. His whisper was curt and condescending. “They will hear you—”
She turned to him. “How did you leave? Are you such a coward?”
“Celeste,” the Doctor said, “I am most sorry—so many things happened…”
This annoyed Miss Temple even more. She saw Elöise Dujong over the Doctor's shoulder, watching them, and spoke bitterly. “Trust makes everyone its fool.”
Svenson followed her gaze, only to see Elöise turn away. He turned back to Miss Temple, his voice even and hard. “What they intend to do is abominable—”
“I know it very well!”
“And I know you have been most brave—”
“You are both insane,” hissed Chang, and he pushed his knee into the back of Miss Temple's, causing her to sag suddenly into Svenson, who raised both arms to catch her. Miss Temple just saw Chang's hand slip out of the Doctor's pocket, then Chang pulled her backwards, spinning her so she lurched face-first into his chest. She gasped as the Cardinal's fingers plunged directly into the bosom of her dress and felt, as his fingers just as quickly pulled away, an unfamiliar weight where they had been. Chang had deftly tucked something beneath her corset, in front of everyone.
He stepped back, straightening Miss Temple on her feet. Miss Temple looked guiltily at Mrs. Marchmoor, but the glass woman was blocked by Elöise. Miss Temple looked the other way. Xonck had his head down and was rocking back and forth on his heels, his breath whistling thickly. But the Contessa's violet eyes met Miss Temple's coldly.
“Are you back with us, Celeste?”
“She is not well,” announced Svenson. “It is the glass.”
The Doctor's gaze flicked again to Elöise, near Francesca Trapping. The little girl did not respond to her tutor in any way. Her vacant eyes stared ahead. But Miss Temple could detect a thin halo of blue around each eye. The girl's thin lips had darkened to the color of bruised plum-skin. At once Elöise raised one hand to her head and, stumbling backwards, extended the other toward Mrs. Marchmoor, as if warding off a blow.
“I'm sorry,” she cried. “I'm sorry—”
“Get away from her, Elöise!” called Mrs. Trapping. “You must stop interfering! Francesca will be perfectly safe. Come stand by me.”
“She is not safe, Charlotte—look at her!”
With a reflexive defensiveness, Mrs. Marchmoor's remaining hand slipped from her cloak and took tight hold of the girl's shoulder. Francesca did not react, her face slack and dull, but Mrs. Trapping's face went as suddenly sharp as an unsheathed blade.
“Alfred!”
“Company!” Mr. Leveret shouted. “Arms!”
The soldiers shifted their carbines with a uniform precision, their aim fixed on the glass woman and her party.
Mr. Phelps stumbled forward as if he had been pushed very hard.
“Ladies, Mr. Leveret—please! There is no call for histrionics—we are nearly to the finish, I beg you—one more moment of patience! Look around you!”
Phelps sniffed loudly and dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief, careful to fold it over before anyone could detect any trace of blood, and then, back to business, gestured to Lord Vandaariff, whose scarred, livid face was wet with tears.
“In administering the Process, we have made proof of both Mr. Fochtmann's learning and Mr. Leveret's machines. What is more, this proof has rendered our subject's empty mind utterly compliant!”
Miss Temple remembered Roger Bascombe rhapsodizing about the Process—its gift of clarity, passage to essential truths—claptrap— but what essence did a man like Vandaariff still possess? Even without the Comte's book, she knew the main advantage of the Process for the Cabal was the insertion of a control phrase, allowing them to issue commands the subject would be forced to obey. At once she understood—a control phrase had just been implanted in Vandaariff and given to both parties.