That was all. If he was frightened, he gave no sign.
“We saw Coulton,” she said. “We saw what you did to him.”
Marber’s eyes glittered. “And what did I do? He was dying. I saved him.”
“You killed him.”
“And yet here he is, walking this earth still. Hardly killed, Alice.” Marber’s wrists and hands were covered in tattoos that seemed to move in the candlelight. “There is much you misunderstand, I fear. I am not your enemy. I do not wish for violence between us.”
Mrs. Harrogate reached over and gently, firmly, lowered Alice’s revolver. Her own knives had been tucked away. “And neither do we,” she said.
“I do,” said Alice.
But Mrs. Harrogate only folded her skirts and sat in one of the chairs and held her handbag upright on her lap and after a long sullen moment Alice sat too. She kept her Colt Peacemaker sidelong on her thigh, its barrel pointing darkly toward Jacob Marber’s heart.
Jacob Marber had squinched his eyes shut, darkness leaking from their corners. “You are surprised to see me so unwell, Margaret. You imagine it is because of the child. What happened on the train. But you are wrong.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Harrogate. “Perhaps.”
“My body weakens because I grow stronger.”
Mrs. Harrogate said nothing for a long moment. Then she replied, “You are weak in body because of the drughr. And you are weak in spirit because of the drughr. In the end it will consume you, as it consumes everything. That is its nature. You just do not see it.”
Something flickered across Jacob’s face, was gone.
“I am not doing this for me,” he said calmly.
“Of course not. You are doing it for the drughr,” replied Mrs. Harrogate. “For the drughr, and only for the drughr. You just do not realize it. You have been useful for a time, but that usefulness will end. What will happen to you, I wonder, once your master gets its hands on the child?”
“She is not my master.”
“Oh, Jacob.” And there was such pity in Mrs. Harrogate’s voice that Alice turned her face and looked at her.
And she saw then, slowly, materializing out of the shadows, pale as smoke, the white form of Frank Coulton. He stood at the tunnel opening, long clawlike fingers at his sides.
Jacob Marber’s voice was soft. “Where are the weir-bents, Margaret?”
Alice, surprised, looked back.
“The weir-bents,” said Mrs. Harrogate slowly.
She seemed to be considering what to say next and Alice thought she would plead ignorance but she did not.
“The weir-bents can be of no use to you, Jacob. Even if I had them. Which I do not. The child is protected by a glyphic.”
“Ah. But that cannot last forever.” Marber ran a slow hand over his face, tired. A fine black soot smoked up off him as he did so. “The glyphic is weak. Berghast has been using it for too long, draining it. You do know what it is he desires? Why he is doing all … this?” Marber gestured with a hand, as if their being in this chamber was Berghast’s doing. He lowered his voice. “Our good Mr. Coulton has already called on Mr. Fang. Therefore I know the weir-bents were in the possession of that nursemaid. I know you escorted her here to London and hid her away, even from Berghast. I know many things, Margaret, but most of all, I know you. What other object could you have acquired that would make you believe you could confront me?” He gave her a small unhappy smile. “And yet, even still … why would you risk it? That is what I do not understand.”
Mrs. Harrogate folded her arms, the long black knives glinting incongruously from under her elbows. “You flatter yourself,” she said. “We are not in London for you.”
But Marber continued on in his soft flat voice, his mind turning over itself like water. “I do not understand why Berghast would permit you to rush headlong into this. Unless time were of the essence.…”
“I come in vengeance, Jacob,” Mrs. Harrogate said, as if to settle the matter.
But he was unimpressed. “I think not. I think I am better disposed of now than later. Why?” He turned his intense black gaze on Mrs. Harrogate. Alice could feel the menace like a thrumming in her skin. Slowly, his eyes lit up. “Oh,” he murmured. “Surely not? Surely not … that?”
“Surely not what?” said Mrs. Harrogate, almost despite herself.
Marber gave Alice a superior look, as if it were a game, and he had solved a riddle. Then he turned back to Mrs. Harrogate. “It is because the glyphic is finally dying, isn’t it? Soon Cairndale will be defenseless. The orsine will rip itself open. There’ll be no closing it again.”
“You’re mad,” whispered Mrs. Harrogate.
Marber leaned forward. “Absolutely,” he whispered back.
But Alice could see it too, writ plain in the older woman’s face, the same thing Marber had seen: he was not wrong. Alice didn’t know what it meant, the dying glyphic, not really, but the intensity of it was clear. It was as if Mrs. Harrogate were just realizing it also, just putting it together in her mind, what Berghast had kept from her. She looked devastated.
Alice scanned the chamber. There was only the one way in; they were deep underground; Coulton was blocking their exit. The pain in her ribs flared as if in response to her fear. Suddenly it all made sense.
“It’s a trap,” she muttered. She stood, the clatter of her chair echoing in the gloom. “He knew we were coming. He lured us here, he wanted to be found.”
“Quite so,” said Mrs. Harrogate calmly.
In that same moment, Alice raised her gun.
She’d meant to shoot him through the eye. She had shot many men in her life; she was quick, and accurate, and deadly. But as she stepped backward to take her balance, she saw Marber’s expression change in a flicker, from malice, to puzzlement, to a sinister understanding.
And then something extraordinary happened. He flicked his wrist, just casually, just as if he were waving away a wasp, and Alice’s own wrist flicked in response. She felt herself stagger in shock—the force of it, the violation. Her revolver leaped away, skittering off into the darkness.
Marber was looking at her gravely. His own hand was still suspended. He turned his wrist and Alice’s wrist turned too. She felt it in horror, watched it happening, but it was like it was someone else’s wrist, like it was happening in a performance, on a stage. A sudden fierce revulsion filled her.
Marber seemed transfixed, mesmerized.
“How is this possible?” he whispered. He rose slowly, painfully, to his full height. He looked so pale, so unwell.
Coulton stood yet among the pillars, white, hairless, unmoving.
“Of course. The train. My dust.”
“Leave. Me. Alone!” With a great effort, clenching her jaw, Alice made her hand close into a fist, and she forced it down to her side. It felt as if she were pushing against a tremendous wall of air. She was trembling with the effort.
Slowly Marber’s own fist lowered in response, as if against his will. His expression darkened; all at once he released her, and the connection between them was severed.
She stumbled back, gasping, her head spinning.
“Interesting,” Marber whispered. He studied her. “What is that around your throat?”
Alice, suddenly afraid, put a hand to the leather cord, to the weir-bents there. Mrs. Harrogate began to speak but Marber just lifted a hand toward her and she fell silent. Her arms were stiff at her sides and she was arching her neck, turning her head in a halting circle, swallowing in discomfort, a black dust swirling around her.
“Alice,” he murmured. “What have you brought me?”
She saw Mrs. Harrogate, struggling to breathe. A thick rope of dust began twisting around her throat, holding her body tight, half lifting her onto her toes. Her fingers were scrabbling at her knives, unable to work them free.