“What happened?” asked Miss Temple.
“I was forced to pass through a window.”
“By whom?”
“Cardinal Chang.”
“I see.” Miss Temple's heart leapt. Chang was alive.
“But I was not fleeing Cardinal Chang. I was fleeing Francis Xonck.”
“Francis Xonck is alive?”
“If you can call it life. You smelled him yourself, didn't you?”
“He was chasing me? Just now? The monster?”
“I say this with kindness, my dear, but you really must keep the pace.”
“But Xonck stinks of the blue glass!”
“He does.”
“But the Doctor shot him!”
“One did not think the Doctor had it in him—yet it does seem Francis has taken drastic steps to survive…”
The Contessa carefully returned her arm to her dress and did up the buttons. The close working of her fingers drew Miss Temple's eyes as if their repeated movement was a conjuring sign.
“How did you escape the airship?” Miss Temple asked.
“How do you think?”
“You must have jumped.”
The Contessa tilted her head, encouraging her to go on.
“But your dress—the Doctor said it would have soaked in the water and pulled you down.”
“The Doctor is astute.”
“You took it off!”
The Contessa tilted her head once more.
“I should never have done that,” whispered Miss Temple.
“Then you should have died,” the Contessa told her. “But I think you would have done it. And anything else you needed to. That is how we recognize one another, Celeste.”
Miss Temple's words came suddenly, hot and loud. “But you did not recognize me, madame. You consigned me to death. On more than one occasion!”
The Contessa's eyes glittered, but her voice remained even. “Why should wanting you dead change a thing?”
Miss Temple opened her mouth, then shut it with a snap.
SHE LISTENED to the rattling wheels, wondering what stops there might be between Karthe and the city, and if the contents of their car were even destined for the city. The doors might well open in an hour at another mountain town, or two hours after that in some village that stank of pigs. And would Francis Xonck be waiting for them?
“Where is Elöise Dujong?” she asked.
“I'm sure I've no idea.”
“I thought I was chasing her,” said Miss Temple. “But I was chasing you. The man on the path—Mr. Olsteen, the hunter—”
“The soldier, Celeste.”
Miss Temple ignored her. “He had her knife in his hand.”
“What a conundrum. A shame he cannot explain it.”
“You killed him.”
“Someone had to.”
“How do you know he was a soldier?”
“Because I went to great trouble to avoid him—and his fellows— for some days, while they went to not quite enough trouble to find me.”
“Did they find Chang?” Miss Temple asked, suddenly afraid. “Did they find the Doctor? Who are they?”
“I thought you wanted to know about Mrs. Dujong.”
“I want you to answer my questions.” Miss Temple fixed her gaze on the Contessa quite firmly.
The Contessa studied Miss Temple's face, then yawned, covering her mouth with her hand, and then lowered the hand to reveal another knowing smile.
“I am tired. As you look like without sleep you will die, I would suggest that you do so next to me. It is still the mountains, and we have no blankets. Think of it as a pact for warmth between animals.”
Before Miss Temple could reply the Contessa blew out the candle.
MISS TEMPLE did not move from her barrel, listening with consternation to the rustling of the Contessa's petticoats as the woman sorted herself on the floor. The Contessa was a wicked, wicked creature—it would be the act of an idiot to trust her. Miss Temple was exhausted and shivering. What had happened to Chang? He'd left his note—and then done what, simply vanished to the city, knowing the Contessa was alive and free? And was Doctor Svenson any better? Miss Temple hugged her knees to her chest. She did not wish to find either man a source of disappointment, and yet they had clearly done less than they might have in her service.
The Contessa sighed, rather contentedly. Miss Temple yawned, not even bothering to cover her mouth, and blinked. She was trembling with cold, and felt utterly ridiculous. Staying awake would only waste whatever strength she still possessed—she knew this for a fact and bitterly resented that in being sensible she was doing the Contessa's bidding.
Miss Temple crawled to the Contessa's side and then, rather hesitantly, pressed her body close, curling her knees behind the other woman's and nestling her face against the nape of the Contessa's neck, which smelled of the alcohol and rosewater. At her touch the Contessa pushed her body gently back into Miss Temple's. Miss Temple held her breath at the suddenly intimate press of the woman's silk-wrapped buttocks into her own pelvis. The Contessa shifted again, nuzzling her body still closer. Miss Temple's impulse was to draw away, though already she was shivering less and it was pleasant to have something as soft as the Contessa's hair upon which to rest her head. From the smell of alcohol and roses she realized that the shoulder inches from her face bore the bloody gash. She found herself tempted to touch it, to even— her eyes were heavy and her thoughts slipping adrift—dab at it with her tongue. But before this thought could even spark her own disapproval, the Contessa reached back, groped between them, and took firm hold of Miss Temple's hand. The hand was pulled across the Contessa's body and tucked tightly between the woman's breasts. The Contessa wriggled a last time—now the hand was no longer in the way—tight against Miss Temple, and sighed deeply. Miss Temple had no idea what to do at all. She gently squeezed the Contessa's hand. The Contessa squeezed hers in return, slipping two of her fingers into Miss Temple's half-formed fist. Within worries that she very much should get back to her barrel, Miss Temple fell asleep.
SHE OPENED her eyes in a dim light that peeped cautiously through the very few gaps and knotholes in the freight car wall. The train had stopped. Outside she heard footsteps on the gravel. They passed by, followed by an exchange of shouts. Then with a slow, grinding rhythm the train pulled back into life.
Miss Temple realized with a shock that her hand was cupping the Contessa's breast, and that the woman's own hand held hers in place.
Miss Temple did not move. Had she shifted her hand to its present location or had the Contessa done it for her? Miss Temple had, with an interest at times abstract and at other times less so, of course held her own breasts, wondering at their shape and sensitivity, convinced they were both bothersome and perfectly splendid. But the Contessa's breast felt very different—being somewhat larger and connected to an altogether different body—and it was all she could do not to gently squeeze her fingers. Miss Temple bit her lip. At the margins of her mind she felt the seeping presence of the blue glass book, insistent and intoxicating, sparking an undeniable itch between her legs (… wrapped naked in furs in the back of an ice-sledge… a smearing of musk and blood across her lips… her own inner thighs stroked with a feather…) and she squeezed her hand, ever so softly, breath held tight, then squeezed again, her whole body warming with desire.
The Contessa's hips pushed luxuriously back into her own. Miss Temple yanked her arm free with a gasp, sitting up. In a moment she was across and against her barrel, knees drawn up, smoothing back her hair. When she could no longer prevent her eyes from glancing to the Contessa, she saw that the woman was leaning on her elbow, still drowsy from sleep, smiling back at her with a mild sort of hunger.