Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

port glass to the side as she settled her dress. Miss Temple did not recognize her face, but she remembered the voice—in the coach to Harschmort, the woman who’d told the story of the two men undressing her. The scars on her face were fading—she’d been the one in the medical theatre talking of her changed existence, her newfound missions of power and pleasure…this was Mrs. Marchmoor…Margaret Hooke.

“I wondered if we would meet again,” Miss Temple said to her, somewhat icily, intending to alert the blonde woman to the obvious peril this newcomer presented to them both.

“You didn’t wonder at all, I am sure,” Mrs. Marchmoor replied. “You knew, because you knew you would be hunted down. The Comte tells me you are…of interest.” She turned to the masked woman in blue, who had drifted back to the table, though she had not resumed her seat. “What do you think, Lydia—from your observation, is Miss Temple a person worth the time? Is she worthy of our investment, or should she be destroyed?”

Lydia? Miss Temple looked at the blonde woman. Could this be the daughter of Robert Vandaariff, the fiancee of the Doctor’s drunken Prince, the heiress to the largest fortune imagined? The object of her gaze did not respond, save to search again for the decanter, this time catching it, pulling out the stopper, and pouring another glass.

Mrs. Marchmoor chuckled. Lydia Vandaariff downed the contents—her fifth glass?—and positively bleated, “Shut up. You’re late. What are the two of you talking about? Why am I talking to you two when it’s Elspeth I’m supposed to see? Or even more—the Contessa! And why are you calling her Temple? She said her name was Hastings.”

Miss Vandaariff wheeled to Miss Temple, squinting with suspicion. “Didn’t you?” She looked back to Mrs. Marchmoor. “What do you mean, ‘hunted down’?”

“She is making a poor joke,” said Miss Temple. “I have not been found—on the contrary, it is I who have come here. I am glad you spoke to the Comte—it saves me time explaining—”

“But who are you?” Lydia Vandaariff was becoming drunker by the minute.

“She is an enemy of your father,” answered Mrs. Marchmoor. “She is undoubtedly armed, and intends some mayhem or ransom. She killed two men the night of the ball—that we know of, there may be more—and her confederates have plans to assassinate your Prince.”

The blonde woman stared at Miss Temple. “Her? ”

Miss Temple smiled. “It is ridiculous, is it not?”

“But…you did say you were at Harschmort!”

“I was,” said Miss Temple. “And I have tried to be kind to you—”

“What were you doing at my masked ball?” Miss Vandaariff barked at her.

“She was killing people,” said Mrs. Marchmoor tartly.

“That soldier!” whispered Lydia. “Colonel Trapping! They told me—he seemed so fit—but why would anyone—why would you want him dead?”

Miss Temple rolled her eyes and exhaled through her teeth. She felt as if she had become marooned in a ridiculous play made up of one rambling conversation after another. Here she had before her a young woman whose father surely sat at the heart of the entire intrigue, and another who was one of its most subtle agents. Why was she wasting time confirming or denying their trivial questions, when it was in her own power to take control? So often in her life Miss Temple was aware of the frustration that built up when she allowed other people their own way of action when she very clearly knew that their intentions were absolutely not her own. It was a pattern followed endlessly with her aunt and servants, and again now as she felt herself a shuttlecock knocked between the two women and their annoyingly at-odds nattering. She thrust her hand into her bag and pulled out the revolver.

“You will be silent, both of you,” she announced, “except when answering my questions.”

Miss Vandaariff’s eyes snapped wide at the sight of the gleaming black pistol, which in Miss Temple’s small white hand seemed fearsomely large. Mrs. Marchmoor’s reaction was, on the contrary, to adopt an expression of placid calm, though Miss Temple doubted the depths of its serenity.

“And what questions would those be?” Mrs. Marchmoor replied. “Sit down, Lydia! And stop drinking! She has a weapon—do try and concentrate!”

Miss Vandaariff sat at once, her hands demurely in her lap. Miss Temple was surprised to see her so responsive to command, and wondered if such discipline had come to be the only kind of attention she recognized and thus, though her entire rambling rant would seem to contradict the idea, what she craved.

“I am looking for the Contessa,” she told them. “You will tell me where she is.”

“Rosamonde?” Miss Vandaariff began. “Well, she—” She stopped abruptly at a look from the end of the table. Miss Temple glared at Mrs. Marchmoor and then turned back to Lydia, who had placed a hand over her mouth.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Miss Temple.

“Nothing,” whispered Miss Vandaariff.

“I should like you to finish your sentence. ‘Rosamonde?’”

Miss Temple received no answer. She was particularly annoyed to see a small curl of satisfaction at the corner of Mrs. Marchmoor’s mouth. She turned back to the blonde woman with an exasperated snarl.

“Did you not just exclaim to me about the injustice of your position, the predatory nature of those around you, and around your father, the loathsome quality of your intended husband, and the degree to which you—despite your position—are accorded no respect? And here you defer to—to whom? One who has only these weeks shifted her employment from a brothel! One who is an utter minion of the very people you despise! One who quite obviously bears you no good will at all!”

Miss Vandaariff said nothing.

Mrs. Marchmoor’s expression devolved into a grim smile. “I believe the girl plays tricks upon us both, Lydia—it is well known she has been thrown over by Roger Bascombe, the prospective Lord Tarr, and no doubt it is some pathetic attempt to regain his affection that brings this person to our door.”

“I am not here for Roger Bascombe!” spat Miss Temple, but before she could continue, or wrench the conversation back into her control, the mention of Roger had prompted Miss Vandaariff to carom back to her pose of condescending superiority.

“Can it be any surprise he has dropped her? Just look at her! Pistols in a hotel restaurant—she’s a savage! The type that would do well with a whipping!”

“I cannot disagree,” replied Mrs. Marchmoor.

Miss Temple shook her head at this scarcely credible idiocy.

“This is nonsense! First you say I am a murderer—an agent in league against you —and now I am a deluded heartsick girl! Pray make up your mind so I can scoff at you with precision!” Miss Temple confronted Miss Vandaariff directly, her voice rising near to a shout. “Why do you listen to her? She treats you like a servant! She treats you like a child!” She wheeled again to the woman at the end of the table, who was idly twirling a lock of brown hair around a finger. “Why is Miss Vandaariff here? What did you intend for her? Your Process? Or merely the thralldom of debauchery? I have seen it, you know—I have seen you—and him—in this very room!”

Miss Temple thrust a hand into her green bag. She still had one of the Doctor’s glass cards—was it the right one? She took it out, glanced at it and stumbled to her feet—causing Mrs. Marchmoor to menacingly half-rise from the table. Miss Temple recovered her wits—pulling herself out of the blue depths—and brought the revolver to bear, motioning the woman back into her seat. It was the wrong card, with Roger and herself—still the sinister immersion itself might be enough. Miss Temple set the card in front of Miss Vandaariff.

“Have you seen one of these?” she asked.

The querulous blonde looked to Mrs. Marchmoor before answering and then shook her head.

“Pick it up and look into it,” said Miss Temple, sharply. “Be prepared for a shock! An unnatural insinuation into the very mind and body of another—where you are helpless, trapped by sensation, subject to their desires!”

“Lydia—do not,” hissed Mrs. Marchmoor.

Miss Temple raised the revolver. “Lydia…do.”

There was something curious, Miss Temple found, in the ease with which one could impose on another an experience that one knew—first hand—to be disquieting, or frightening, or repugnant, and at the grim satisfaction one took in watching the person undergo it. She had no idea of Miss Vandaariff’s intimate experience, but assumed, from her childish manner, that she had been generally sheltered, and while she was not thrusting her brusquely into the carnal union of Karl-Horst and Mrs. Marchmoor on the sofa—though she would have been happy to do so—she