Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

The Comte snorted, then reached for the pocket watch again and frowned, stuffing it back behind the apron.

“There was a disturbance in the outer hallway—” Mrs. Stearne began.

“I am aware of it,” rumbled the Comte. “Nevertheless, this…lateness—the prospective adherents are sure to be waiting already. I begin to think it was a mistake not to send you—”

He turned at the sound of an opening door from the opposite rampway and strode to it.

“Have you an inkling of the time, Madame?” he roared into the darkness, and marched back to the table, crouching amidst the boxes beneath it. Behind him, stepping up from the darkened rampway, was the figure of a short curvaceous young woman with curling dark brown hair, a round face, and an eager smile. She wore a mask of peacock feathers and a shimmering pale dress the color of thin honey, sporting a silver fringe around her bosom and her sleeves. Her arms were bare, and in her hands she carried several dull, capped metal flasks. Miss Temple was sure she had seen her before—it was an evening for nagging suspicions—and then it came to her: this was Miss Poole, the third woman in the coach to Harschmort, initiated to the Process that night.

“My goodness, Monsieur le Comte,” Miss Poole said brightly. “I am perfectly aware of it, and yet I assure you there was no helping the delay. Our business became dangerously protracted—”

She stopped speaking as she saw Miss Temple.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Celeste Temple—I believe you have met,” snapped the Comte. “Protracted how?”

“I shall tell you later.” Miss Poole let her gaze drift to Miss Temple, indicating none too subtly the reason she preferred not to speak openly of her delay, then turned to wave girlishly at Mrs. Stearne. “Suffice it to say that I simply had to change my dress—that orange dust, don’t you know—though before you rail at me, it took no more time than Doctor Lorenz took to prepare your precious clay.”

Here she handed the flasks to the Comte and once again danced away from the man toward Miss Vandaariff, lighting up with another beaming smile.

“Lydia!” she squeaked, and took the heiress by the hands as Mrs. Stearne looked on with what to Miss Temple seemed a watchful, veiling smile.

“O Elspeth!” cried Miss Vandaariff. “I came to see you at the hotel—”

“I know you did, my dear, and I am sorry, but I was called away to the country —”

“But I felt so ill—”

“Poor darling! Margaret was there, was she not?”

Miss Vandaariff nodded silently and then sniffed, as if to say that she did not prefer to be soothed by Margaret, as Miss Poole was well aware.

“Actually, Miss Temple was there first,” observed Mrs. Stearne rather coolly. “She and Lydia had quite some time to converse before Mrs. Marchmoor was able to intervene.”

Miss Poole did not reply, but looked over to Miss Temple, weighing her as an adversary. Returning this condescending gaze, Miss Temple remembered the petty struggle in the coach—for it was Miss Poole’s eyes she had poked—and knew that humiliation would remain, despite the Process, in the woman’s mind like a whip mark turned to scar. For the rest of it, Miss Poole had just that sort of willfully merry temperament Miss Temple found plain galling to be around, as if one were to consume a full pound of sweet butter at a sitting. Both Mrs. Marchmoor (haughty and dramatic) and Mrs. Stearne (thoughtful and reserved) appeared to be informed by injuries in their lives, where Miss Poole’s insistence on gaiety seemed rather a shrill denial. And to Miss Temple’s mind all the more repellent, for if she posed as Lydia’s true friend, it was only to better ply their awful philtre.

“Yes, Lydia and I got on quite well,” Miss Temple said. “I have taught her how to poke the eyes of foolish ladies attempting to rise beyond themselves.”

Miss Poole’s smile became fixed on her face. She glanced back at the Comte—still occupied with the boxes and flasks and lengths of copper wire—and then called to Mrs. Stearne, loud enough for all to hear.

“You did miss so much of interest at Mr. Bascombe’s estate—or should I say Lord Tarr? Part of our delay involved the capture and execution of the Prince’s physician, Doctor—O what is his name?—a strange fellow, now quite dead, I’m afraid. The other part was one of our subjects; her reaction to the collection was averse but not fatal, and she ended up causing, as I say, rather an important problem—though Doctor Lorenz is confident it may be remedied…”

She glanced back to the Comte. He had stopped his work and listened, his face impassive. Miss Poole pretended not to notice and spoke again to Mrs. Stearne, a sly smile gracing the corners of her plump mouth.

“The funny thing, Caroline—and I thought you would be particularly interested—is that this Eloise Dujong—is tutor to the children of Arthur and Charlotte Trapping.”

“I see,” said Caroline, carefully, as if she did not know what Miss Poole intended with this comment. “And what happened to this woman?”

Miss Poole gestured to the darkened rampway behind her. “Why, she is just in the outer room. It was Mr. Crabbe’s suggestion that such spirited defiance be put to use, and so I have brought her here to be initiated.”

Miss Temple saw she was now looking at the Comte, pleased to be giving him information he did not have.

“The woman was intimate with the Trappings?” he asked.

“And thus of course the Xoncks,” Miss Poole said. “It was through Francis that she was seduced to Tarr Manor.”

“Did she reveal anything? About the Colonel’s death, or—or about—” With an uncharacteristic reticence, the Comte nodded toward Lydia.

“Not that I am aware—though of course it was the Deputy Minister who interrogated her last.”

“Where is Mr. Crabbe?” he asked.

“Actually, it is Doctor Lorenz you should be seeking first, Monsieur le Comte, for the damage the woman has done—if you will remember who else was attending our business at Tarr Manor—is such that the Doctor would very much appreciate your consultation.”

“Would he?” snarled the Comte.

“Most urgently.” She smiled. “If only there were two of you, Monsieur, for your expertise is required on so many fronts! I do promise that I will do my best to ferret out any clues from this lady—for indeed it seems that a good many people might have wished the Colonel dead.”

“Why do you say that, Elspeth?” asked Caroline.

Miss Poole kept her gaze on the Comte as she replied. “I only echo the Deputy Minister. As someone in between so many parties, the Colonel was well-placed to divine…secrets.”

“But all here are in allegiance,” said Caroline.

“And yet the Colonel is dead.” Miss Poole turned to Lydia, who listened to their talk with a confused half- smile. “And when it is a matter of secrets…who can say what we don’t know?”

The Comte abruptly snatched up his helmet and gloves. This caused him to step closer to Miss Poole—who quite despite herself took a small step backwards.

“You will initiate Miss Vandaariff first,” he growled, “and then Miss Temple. Then, if there is time—and only if there is time—you will initiate this third woman. Your higher purpose here is to inform those in attendance of our work, not to initiate per se.”

“But the Deputy Minister—” began Miss Poole.

“His wishes are not your concern. Mrs. Stearne, you will come with me.”

“Monsieur?”

It was quite clear that Mrs. Stearne had thought to remain in the theatre.

“There are more important tasks,” he hissed, and turned as two men in leather aprons and helmets came in dragging a slumped woman between them.

“Miss Poole, you will address our spectators, but do not presume to operate the machinery.” He called up to the dark upper reaches of the gallery. “Open the doors!”