The gun clicked. It had run out of bullets.
As I sighed with relief, he tossed the gun aside and took another from his coat pocket. He’d taken the extra weapon from one of his men before he’d left them. Now he saw, as I did, that the fuse had burned down to a mere inch. The flame flared and sputtered. Stieber dove at it while he fired on Slade again. Slade rolled away from the shot. He kicked out at Stieber with his left leg. His right leg was bleeding from the wound in his thigh. His foot struck Stieber’s knee. Stieber flailed his arms and lost his grip on the gun as he tried to rebalance himself. It flew out of his hand, skittered across the floor, and stopped near the glass fountain. Stieber fell on his buttocks. Slade crawled toward the fuse. I hurried to help him, but Stieber raced up behind me and shoved me away. He and Slade lunged for the bomb. They collided in midair.
Kavanagh smiled beatifically, as if nothing that was happening could affect him. He seemed ready to die a martyr to his own genius, at peace at last.
Mr. Thackeray stood by, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if he couldn’t decide whether to join the melee or run. His face had the expression of a stray dog I’d once seen wander into Euston Station, panicked by the roaring locomotives and the crowds. He still clutched his glass of lemonade.
The burning end of the fuse had almost reached the igniting device on the bomb. The flame burned brighter. It crackled and sizzled as it consumed the gunpowder that coated the twine. Slade and Stieber crashed to the floor together, their hands outstretched inches from the fuse. I grabbed the glass from Mr. Thackeray’s hand and dashed the lemonade onto the fuse.
Sometimes we act best when we act unthinkingly. Sometimes the body takes the initiative when the mind is too fraught with confusion to guide us. I didn’t pause to remember that liquid extinguishes fire. I instinctively put the ancient knowledge to work.
The fuse hissed and fizzled out. Lemonade splashed Niall Kavanagh. Uttering a startled grunt, he looked from the wet fuse to me. Slade and Stieber were struggling to untangle themselves from each other. Kavanagh giggled, took another match out of the box, and struck it. But the match was drenched. It wouldn’t light. Neither would the next one he struck. Rendered impotent by common sense, the scientific genius wailed.
Mr. Thackeray and I were so surprised that we stood gaping. Kavanagh flung the matches on the floor. Then he hurled himself, shrieking and sobbing, at me. I was caught off guard. He grabbed me by the front of my dress and shouted, “You spoiled everything!” He shook me so hard that my neck snapped back and forth and my teeth jarred.
His face was purple with fury, bleared with mucus, his bloodshot eyes burning through his tears. At the corners of his mouth, saliva frothed. He reminded me of Branwell during one of his rages, desperate for opium and liquor. But Branwell had never laid a hand on any of us. I had never feared that he would hurt me except inadvertently. Niall Kavanagh punched my left ear. I cried out as pain shot through my jaw, cheekbone, and temple. The lights in the Crystal Palace shimmied and fragmented, as if behind a pane of shattering glass. Noises echoed weirdly. Through them I heard Slade calling, “Charlotte!”
My vision cleared, but I was so dizzy that that the world spun. Niall Kavanagh was yelling at me, calling me profane, ugly names. His angry face whirled before me. Nauseated by vertigo, fearing contagion, I turned my head away. I seized his wrists and tried to break his grip on me, but although he was skin and bone, weakened by disease and dissipation, his temper lent him strength. I could not break free.
Near us, Slade was on the floor with Stieber. Hands gripping each other’s throats, they grunted, shouted, and kicked. Slade rolled on top of his enemy. He lifted Stieber’s head up, then banged it against the floor. He thrashed free of Stieber and sped toward me.
“I’m all right,” the Queen told George Smith, who hesitated between his duty to assist her and his desire to save me. “Go fetch help.”
Although clearly reluctant to abandon her and me, George went running. I saw Stieber raise himself to a sitting position. Gasping and coughing, one hand at his throat, he pushed himself onto his knees. He walked on them toward the bomb.
“Never mind me!” I cried to Slade as I grappled with Kavanagh. “Stop Stieber!”
Mr. Thackeray recovered his wits. “Go ahead,” he told Slade. “I’ll take care of Miss Bronte.”
Slade wheeled around and charged at Stieber. Mr. Thackeray took hold of Kavanagh’s collar, said, “Desist, or I’ll be forced to hurt you,” and pulled.
With one hand still twisted in the folds of my dress, Kavanagh flung his other arm up and behind him. His fist hit Mr. Thackeray’s face. Mr. Thackeray yelped and released Kavanagh. I struck out at Kavanagh, pummeling his face. He seemed not to care, even though blood poured from his nose. He shook me, cursing while I fended off slaps and punches. My vertigo upset my balance; I fell. He crashed upon me, just as Slade tackled Stieber and brought him down.
Flat on my back, I kicked, but my legs were entwined in my skirts. I struggled to push Kavanagh away, but his weight held me down. He caught my wrists, pinned them to the floor. Mr. Thackeray seized Kavanagh by the arms and heaved. Kavanagh lifted off me like a tiger ripped from its prey. The ruffle on my dress tore off in his hands. He shrieked; his body arched and flailed. As Mr. Thackeray tried to grip him in a headlock, Kavanagh snarled and bit. He assailed Mr. Thackeray like a dervish made of kicks, swings, and punches. He was so consumed by violent urges that he forgot who’d angered him; he didn’t care whom he attacked. Mr. Thackeray clumsily dodged and parried blows. They landed everywhere. His legs caved. I snatched at Kavanagh, but he swerved out of my reach. He lowered his head and rammed it into Mr. Thackeray’s stomach. Mr. Thackeray doubled over, dropped to his knees, and fainted.
I tried to stand, but my dizziness tilted the floor up at a sickening angle. My ear rang and my head ached from Kavanagh’s blow. I saw the bomb, sitting in a puddle of lemonade, ignored by everyone. I heard the Queen shout, “Miss Bronte, get the bomb! The bomb, you idiot!”
I dragged myself toward it while Kavanagh hobbled to a standstill. The Queen’s words had penetrated his tantrum; he saw me and realized that he was about to lose his precious invention. He bellowed, ran ahead of me, and snatched up the bomb. He crammed it into the suitcase and secured the lid. The room pitched like the deck of a ship in a storm, but I managed to reach him. I grabbed the suitcase.
“You can’t have it!” Kavanagh shrilled. “It’s mine!”
We fought a tug-of-war. He had hold of the handle and I, the wheels. I hung on even though I was sweating and sick. The jars inside the suitcase rattled dangerously. I prayed that shaking the bomb wouldn’t set off the gunpowder.
Slade wrestled Stieber by the fountain. Stieber’s movements had grown feeble; his strength was waning. Slade straddled his stomach and punched his face again and again. Slade’s expression was merciless as he administered the brutal beating. It seemed as if he dealt Stieber one blow for each of the Russian radicals and British agents executed, one for Katerina’s death, one for his torture in Bedlam, one for mine. Stieber wriggled helplessly, his face a mass of blood.
I yanked on the suitcase with all my might. At the same moment Kavanagh shoved the suitcase at me. I fell backward. The ceiling undulated; lights twirled. Kavanagh pulled on the suitcase. An attack of retching weakened my grip on the wheels.
Stieber flung out his hand and groped for the pistol he’d dropped. His fingers grazed it, but it slid out of his reach. Slade saw. Delivering another punch to Stieber’s face, he snatched up the pistol. Stieber pounded his fist against the bullet wound in Slade’s thigh. Slade yelled and convulsed with pain. Stieber grabbed the wrist of Slade’s hand that held the pistol. He and Slade grappled for control of the weapon. It discharged with loud bangs, spewing bullets that ricocheted off the floor