As THE BLINDS CLOSED, and the image of her own younger self vanished, Constance felt a sensation of suffocation overwhelm her. She filled her lungs with air.
Meanwhile, Leng sauntered back to the desk. “There. Now you know not only that your young doppelganger is alive and well—but also that she is residing here... at least temporarily. I think that gesture is more than sufficient, given this formula of yours remains untested.” He flung back the tails of his coat and sat down once again. “And now—it’s getting late, and this stretch of the Post Road isn’t safe after dark. We shall meet again, once I’m certain this Arcanum is the genuine item.”
Constance stared at him, her breathing finally under control. She said, in a tone so low it might have been a whisper: “You will regret this.”
“I do not appreciate being threatened in my own house. As my minion Decla might say—get out.”
But Constance did not get out. She gazed around the room as her heartbeat slowed. Leng had extracted much from Ferenc, but her most important secret was not in his possession. Leng did not know that Constance had once been his own experimental subject. He did not know that he perfected the Arcanum by testing it on her. He did not know she had been raised in this very house. And, most crucially of all, he was unaware she knew his future.
She could not wait for the time when she could reveal those secrets: when her blade was embedded in his heart.
“I see murderous thoughts on your face,” Leng said. “I should point out that any effort to harm me, any attempt on my life, from you or your compatriots, will result in Binky’s instant death. She is my insurance policy as I test the Arcanum. Of course, she is too young to be a guinea pig—have no fear of that.”
Constance said nothing.
The doctor shook his head. “You are overstaying your welcome, Duchess. You are on foreign soil and your revetments are weak. This is my world, and I am well prepared to defend myself in it. Go back to whatever pestilential Pandemonium you call home.”
Another important secret he did not know: the portal was closed, possibly forever.
She finally spoke, in a voice so low Leng had to lean forward to hear. “If you knew what the future holds,” she said, “that would be the last thing you’d ever suggest. Because the next time you saw me, it would be with powers so formidable all your traps and your alley rats would be swept away like chaff. And you would have your own bespoke Room 101.”
“Room 101?” Leng’s brow knitted. “I have no idea what nonsense you speak of.”
She detected, for the first time, a note of uncertainty.
“That ‘nonsense’ will be your doom. Labere in gladio tuo.” And with this, she walked toward the exit. At the doorway to the library, she turned back. “Give Augustus Spragg, of the Natural History Museum’s Ornithology Department, my condolences—I understand the poor man hasn’t long to live.”
Before Leng could respond, Constance walked quickly across the rotunda and through the passage lined with armor. She pushed open the front door, stepped into the chill night, and—tightening the wrap more closely around her shoulders—descended the steps.
The young woman named Decla approached. “Lord blind me, it’s her ladyship!” she said. “You shouldn’t frown at your betters like that—you’ll be after a spanking, I reckon.” She looked around. “Line up for a spanking, boys—I get first go.”
Constance merely put out her hand, ignoring the ripple of mocking laughter that came from the darkness. “I’ll have my weapon back now.”
Decla looked at her in mock surprise. “You mean this?” She withdrew the handle of the stiletto from a vest pocket, so that the worked gold was visible. “It’s mine now—I’ve taken quite a fancy to the little rib-tickler.”
Constance did not reply. Her hand remained outstretched, unmoving. Slowly, Decla’s eyes moved up to hers. For a minute, perhaps more, the two women took the measure of each other. Then Decla broke eye contact. With a smirk, she drew the weapon out from her vest and, palming it, slowly reached out, turned her hand over, and let it drop into the waiting fingers of Constance.
“You can borrow it for a spell,” she said. “I’ll take it back when I’m ready.”
“In that case,” Constance said, “here’s a memento—until you’re ready.” She released the blade and at the same time, with a flick of her wrist, sliced open Decla’s outstretched palm.
The blade was so sharp that, for a moment, there was no blood—and, likely, no pain. As the surprised Decla looked down, however, a long, narrow line of crimson began welling up.
“Now you have a matching set,” Constance said.
There was a rustling sound. Within seconds, she found herself surrounded by the entire gang, weapons at the ready. They moved quickly, expertly tightening the circle. Constance’s eyes remained on Decla’s. For the briefest moment, she saw the woman glance over Constance’s shoulder. That would be the first attack: a stab in the back.
Instantly, she pivoted to find that a hulking gang member had crept up close behind her, knife arm raised. She lunged without hesitation, her blade catching him just below the cage of his larynx. It seemed the weapon, having just tasted blood, was now hungry for more: her hand swept earthward as if directed by it, the dagger point tracing a line of death from the trachea shallowly down the sternum and then plunging into his guts below the xiphoid process before slipping out again on encountering the buckle of his belt. The man made a wheezing, gargling sound, and Constance immediately turned to the youth beside him—armed with a heavy cobbler’s hammer—preparing to kill again.
There was a sudden, sharp clap from the door of the mansion. “Enough!” Leng cried, framed once again in the lighted doorway.
The gang hesitated—even as one of their own collapsed to the ground in ghastly slow motion.
“No more!” Leng continued sharply. “Allow her to pass.”
Decla’s eyes remained on Constance—a searing, feral stare. Constance glanced around at them all, frozen in various attitudes of fear and anger. Then she turned her gaze back to Leng and, raising her blade, placed her thumb and index finger against its finial; slid their tips quickly along from ricasso to point, flicking the accumulated blood from it with a quick, practiced gesture; then licked the two fingers, one after the other, while she sheathed the weapon. She spat in Leng’s direction, then turned and walked into the enveloping night, back to the carriage where Murphy waited impatiently.