Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

accompany a death derived from the indigo glass. Or such at least is my hope, for indeed, your Cardinal Chang was a singular opponent…truly, I could scarcely wish him ill, apart from wishing him dead.”

“Did you confirm your hypothesis by examining his trousers?” huffed the Comte. It was only after a moment that Miss Temple deduced he was laughing.

“There was no time.” The Contessa chuckled. “Life is full of regrets. But what are those? Leaves from a passing season—fallen, forgotten, and swept away.”

The specter of Chang’s death—one that despite the Contessa’s lurid suggestion she could not picture as anything but horrid, with bloody effusions from the mouth and nose—had spun Miss Temple’s thoughts directly to her own immediate fate.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I’m sure you must know,” answered the Contessa. “To Harschmort House.”

“What will be done to me?”

“Dreading what you cannot change serves no purpose,” announced the Comte.

“Apart from the pleasure of watching you writhe,” whispered the Contessa.

To this Miss Temple had no response, but after several seconds during which her attempts to glance out of the narrow windows—placed on either side of their seat, not hers, assumedly to make it easier for someone in her position to either remain unseen or, on a more innocent planet, fall asleep—revealed no clear sense of where in the city she might now be, she cleared her throat to speak again.

The Contessa chuckled.

“Have I done something to amuse you?” asked Miss Temple.

“No, but you are about to,” replied the Contessa. “‘Determined’ does not describe you by half, Celeste.”

“Very few people refer to me with such intimacy,” said Miss Temple. “In all likelihood, they can be counted on one hand.”

“Are we not sufficiently intimate?” asked the Contessa. “I would have thought we were.”

“Then what is your Christian name?”

The elegant woman chuckled again, and it seemed that even the Comte d’Orkancz curled his lip in a reluctant grimace.

“It is Rosamonde,” declared the Contessa. “Rosamonde, Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza.”

“Lacquer-Sforza? Is that a place?”

“It was. Now I’m afraid it has become an idea.”

“I see,” said Miss Temple, not seeing at all but willing to appear agreeable.

“Everyone has their own plantation, Celeste,…their own island, if only in their heart.”

“What a pity for them,” declared Miss Temple. “I find an actual island to be far more satisfactory.”

“At times”—the Contessa’s warm tone grew just perceptibly harder—“such is the only way those locations may be visited or maintained.”

“By not being real, you mean?”

“If that is how you choose to see it.”

Miss Temple was silent, knowing that she did not grasp the Contessa’s larger point.

“I don’t intend to lose mine,” she said.

“No one ever does, darling,” replied the Contessa.

They rode on in silence, until the Contessa smiled as kindly as before and said, “But you were going to ask a question?”

“I was,” replied Miss Temple. “I was going to ask about Oskar Veilandt and his paintings of the Annunciation, for you had another in your rooms. The Comte and I discussed the artist over tea.”

“Did you really?”

“In fact, I pointed out to the Comte that, as far as I am concerned, he seems to be suspiciously in this fellow’s debt.”

“Did you indeed?”

“I should say so.” Miss Temple did not fool herself that she was capable of angering or flattering either of these two to a point of distraction that might allow her to throw herself from the coach—a gesture more likely than anything to result in her death under the wheels of the coach behind them—and yet, the paintings were a topic that might well produce useful information about the Process that she might use to prevent her ultimate subversion. She would never understand the science or the alchemy—were science and alchemy the same thing?—for she had always been indifferent to theoretical learning, though she knew the Comte at least was not. What was more, Miss Temple knew he was sensitive about the question of the missing painter, and as a rule she was not above being a persistent nuisance.

“And how exactly is that?” asked the Contessa.

“Because,” Miss Temple responded, “the Annunciation paintings themselves are clearly an allegorical presentation of your Process, indeed of your intrigue as a whole— that the imagery itself is a brazen blasphemy is beside the immediate point, save to convey a scale of arrogance— as you see it, of advancement provoked by the effects of your precious blue glass. Of course,” she went on with a side glance at the unmoving Comte, “it seems that all of this—for on the back of the paintings are imprudently scrawled the man’s alchemical secrets—has been taken by the Comte for his own—taken by all of you—at the expense of the missing Mr. Veilandt’s life.”

“You said this to the Comte?”

“Of course I did.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He left the table.”

“It is a serious charge.”

“On the contrary, it is an obvious one—and what is more, after all the destruction and violence you have put into motion, such an accusation can hardly strike any of you as either unlikely or unprovoked. As the work itself is monstrous, and the murder of its maker even more so, I would not have thought the murderer himself so… tender.”

For an answer that perhaps too fully fulfilled Miss Temple’s hopes of agitation, the Comte d’Orkancz leaned deliberately forward and extended his open right hand until he could place it around Miss Temple’s throat. She uselessly pressed her body back into her seat and tried to convince herself that if he was going to hurt her out of anger he would have seized her more quickly. As the strong fingers tightened against her skin she began to have her doubts, and looked with dismay into the man’s cold blue eyes. His grip held her fast but did not choke her. At once she was assailed by hideous memories of Mr. Spragg. She did not move.

“You looked at the paintings—two of them, yes?” His voice was low and unmistakably dangerous. “Tell us… what was your impression?”

“Of what?” she squeaked.

“Of anything. What thoughts were provoked?”

“Well, as I have said, an allegorical—”

He squeezed her throat so hard and so suddenly she thought her neck would snap. The Contessa leaned forward as well, speaking mildly.

“Celeste, the Comte is attempting to get you to think.”

Miss Temple nodded. The Comte relaxed his grip. She swallowed.

“I suppose I thought the paintings were unnatural. As the woman in them has been given over to the angel —she is given over to—to sensation and pleasure—as if nothing else might exist. Such a thing is impossible. It is dangerous.”

“Why is that?” asked the Comte.

“Because nothing would get done! Because—because—there is no border between the world and one’s body, one’s mind—it would be unbearable!”

“I should have thought it delicious,” whispered the Contessa.

“Not for me!” cried Miss Temple.

With a swift rush of fabric the Contessa shifted across the coach next to Miss Temple, her lips pressed close to the young woman’s ear.