“He was chasing me,” she gasped.
“Who was chasing you, child? Who was it?”
“I do not know!” cried Miss Temple. “He was quite wicked-looking and smelled foul!”
“She says there's a smell!” he called out to the dragoons. As if this was not at all strange, both searching soldiers bent forward to sniff.
“Yes, sir!” one called back. “Cordite and corruption—just like we were told!”
The man in the black coat raised Miss Temple's chin in a way she did not appreciate. “What is your name?”
“I am Miss Isobel Hastings.”
“And what are you doing running about between trains at Stropping Station, Miss Hastings?”
“I did not intend to be between trains at all, I promise you. I was chased. Of course, I am so grateful for my rescue.”
“What is in your parcel?”
“Only my supper. I was to travel on to Cap Rouge, you see, to meet my aunt.”
“All the way to Cap Rouge?”
“Indeed,” she said, hefting the sack, “and so I have packed enough for two meals. A pork pie and a wedge of yellow cheese and a jar of pickled beetroot—”
“Cap Rouge is to the south,” said the man, condescendingly. “These trains ride to the east.”
“Do they?” asked Miss Temple, curious why Francis Xonck had not simply fled into the city.
The man spoke to the soldier near him.
“Call them back. I must make my report.” He took hold of Miss Temple's shoulder. “Miss Hastings, I shall require a bit more of your time.”
SHE WAS escorted to a larger group of soldiers, with two Ministry officials instead of her one, who she overheard addressed as Mr. Soames. When Soames returned, his face was grave and he again took firm hold of her arm, pulling her toward the large staircase. Miss Temple was about to inform Mr. Soames that she was perfectly able to accompany him without physical contact—in fact, to wrench her arm away—but in that moment they passed a shop stall selling hats and scarves to forgetful travelers, which was to say she passed a stall that housed a mirror. With a shock, she first realized the standing rectangle was a mirror, and to her full mortification Miss Temple realized that she had seen herself without any recognition whatsoever. Every part of her body belonged to a different person: her splendid hair was tangled and lank; her dress was out-of-date, dirty, and plain; her boots, cracked and scuffed, her skin, streaked with grime where it was not marked with a cut or bruise—even the sack in her hand spoke to poverty and weakness. For the first time in her life Miss Temple was without control of her own character. In the eyes of the world she had been transformed to a completely and commonly known type of woman—unvalued, poor, untrustworthy—which left her at the unquestioned mercy of a man like Mr. Soames.
They reached the stairway, the soldiers falling in line behind, and began to climb. Had she eluded her enemies only to face the disinterested cruelty of the law? In vain she looked below her, the milling snakes of the ticket lines, the crowds at each platform, the tangle of bodies below the clock… the clock… Miss Temple's heart fell in an instant to her feet. The Lord's Time! Below the angel-flanked clock stood a tall, lean figure in red, motionless amidst the swirling crowd. It was Cardinal Chang. She had missed him completely. Soames pulled her arm and she stumbled. They had reached the top of the stairway. She looked back again but the soldiers blocked any sight of the terminal floor. Chang was gone.
ONLY SOAMES joined her in the coach, rapping his knuckle imperiously on the roof to start it forward.
“Where are we going?” asked Miss Temple, the canvas sack held tightly on her lap. At least Mr. Soames was crisp in his appearance, his hat set on the seat beside him, his dark hair parted in the middle, not over-oiled, and his coat well cut and clean.
“Do you know the man who chased you?”
“Not at all—he quite surprised me, and as I told you, smelled terrible—”
“Between the tracks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Between the tracks,” repeated Soames. “It is not an especially safe place, nor where one might expect to find a lady.”
“I have told you. He chased me there.”
Soames raised one warning eyebrow at her tone.
“The man in question is sought by the highest levels of government,” he announced. “He is a dangerous traitor.”
“What Ministry do you work for?”
“Excuse me?”
“I am acquainted with many men at the Foreign Ministry—”
“A word of advice, Miss Hastings. It is the wise trollop who holds her tongue and survives.”
Miss Temple was stunned. Soames studied her closely, as if weighing a decision, and then leaned back and glanced too casually at the window, as if none of what he had said was of the slightest importance.
“I have been recently promoted,” sniffed Soames. “I have been seconded to the Privy Council.”
Would he proposition her then and there in the coach? Soames took off his gloves one finger at a time, as if the task was serious business, and then slapped them together on his knee.
“It is a very different matter than what you are used to.” He smiled tolerantly. “Very easy for a girl to get in over her head—to quite lose herself, without an ally—”
He was interrupted by a cry from outside. The coach lurched and came to a sudden stop. Before Soames could call to the driver they heard the driver calling himself, a torrent of abuse immediately echoed by a swell of shouting from the street.
“What is going on?” asked Miss Temple.
“It is nothing—agitators, malcontents—”
“Where are we?”
Soames did not answer, for the harsh voice of the dragoon sitting next to the driver now threatened whoever blocked the coach. Soames waited—the voices in the street remained defiant—but then the coach moved again. Soames sank back in his seat with a frustrated sigh, snapping closed the curtain on the small window as they passed the still-shouting crowd apparently lining both sides of the street.
“Do not be concerned,” he muttered. “All this rabble will soon be settled.”
“As all rabble ought to be,” said Miss Temple, and then she smiled. “Privy Council! My goodness—then perhaps you can tell me if the Duke of Stäelmaere is still alive?”
Soames sputtered, then shot an arm out to the door to steady himself as the coach went round a turn too fast. “Of course he is alive!”
“Are you sure?”
“He rules the Privy Council!”
“And Colonel Aspiche?” asked Miss Temple.
“Colonel Aspiche?” cried Soames. “By God, someone has schooled you in any number of topics you have no business knowing!”
He leaned forward and Miss Temple feared he might strike her, or worse. She looked up at Mr. Soames and batted her eyes hopefully.
“I should be more than happy to answer your questions, Mr. Soames, but you can see for yourself that I am tired and—well, indeed—disheveled. I have an excellent proposal that will help us both. If you would let me off near the Circus Garden I should be most grateful, and we can speak tomorrow when I will be rested and not so unpleasantly insolent. The fright of my escape, you understand, has rattled my nerves—”
“I cannot oblige you.” There was a distinct note of pleasure in his voice. “Any person having contact with traitors must be transported directly for questioning.”