Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

speak of it—I shot a man. I shot him dead.”

“But that is excellent, I’m sure,” replied Miss Temple. “I have not shot anyone, but I have killed one man outright and another by way of a cooperative coach wheel.” Eloise did not reply, so Miss Temple helpfully went on. “I actually spoke of it—well, as much as one speaks of anything—with Cardinal Chang, who you must understand is a man of few words—indeed, a man of mystery—the very first time I laid eyes upon him I knew it was so—granted, this was because he was wearing all red in a train car in the very early morning holding a razor and reading poetry—and wearing dark spectacles, for he has suffered injury to his eyes—and though I did not know him I did remark him, in my mind, and when I saw him again—when we became comrades with the Doctor—I knew who he was at once. The Doctor said something about him—about Chang—just now, I mean to say, in the theatre—I didn’t make sense of any of it for that abominable shouting and the smoke and the fire—and do you know, it is a queer thing, but I have noticed it, how at times the extremity of, well, information, assaulting one of our senses overwhelms another. For example, the smell and the sight of the smoke and flames absolutely inhibited my ability to hear. It is exactly the sort of thing I find fascinating to think on.”

They walked for a moment before Miss Temple recalled the original drift of her thought.

“But—yes—the reason I spoke to Cardinal Chang—well, you see, I must explain that Cardinal Chang is a dangerous man, a very deadly fellow—who has probably killed a man more often than I have purchased shoes—and I spoke to him about the men I had killed, and—well, honestly it was very difficult to talk about, and what he ended up telling me was exactly how someone like myself ought to use a pistol—which was to grind the barrel as tightly into the body of your target as you can. Do you see my point? He was telling me what to do as a way of helping me sort out how to feel. Because at the time, I had no idea how to talk of anything. Yet these things that have happened—they tell us what kind of world we are in, and what sort of actions we must be prepared to take. If you had not shot this fellow, would either yourself or the Doctor be still alive? And without the Doctor to take me off that table, would I?”

Eloise did not answer. Miss Temple saw her wrestling with her doubts and knew from experience that to overcome those doubts and accept what had occurred was to become a significantly less innocent person.

“But this was the Duke of Staelmaere,” Eloise whispered. “It is assassination. You do not understand—I will assuredly hang!”

Miss Temple shook her head.

“The men I killed were villains,” she said. “And I am sure this Duke was the same—most Dukes are simply horrid—”

“Yes, but no one will care—”

“Nonsense, for I care, as you care, as I am sure Doctor Svenson cared—it is the exact heart of the matter. What I do not give a brass farthing for is the opinion of our enemies.”

“But—the law—their word will be believed—”

Miss Temple gave her opinion of the law with a dismissive shrug.

“You may well have to leave—perhaps the Doctor can take you back to Macklenburg, or you can escort my aunt on a tour of Alsatian restaurants—but there is always a remedy. For example—look how foolish we are, waltzing along who knows where without a second’s thought!”

Eloise looked behind them, gesturing vaguely. “But—I thought—”

“Yes, of course.” Miss Temple nodded. “We will surely be pursued, but have either of us had the presence of mind to look through the Doctor’s pockets? He is a resourceful man—one never knows—my father’s overseer would not step foot from his door, as a rule, without a knife, a bottle, dried meat, and a twist of tobacco that could fill his pipe for a week.” She smiled slyly. “And who can say—in the process it may afford a glimpse into the secret life of Doctor Svenson…”

Eloise spoke quickly. “But—but I am sure there is no such thing—”

“O come, every person has some secrets.”

“I do not, I assure you—or at least nothing indecent—”

Miss Temple scoffed. “Decent? What are you wearing? Look at you—I can see your legs—your bare legs! What use is decency when we have been thrust into this peril—treading about without even a corset! Are we to be judged? Do not be silly—here.”

She reached out and took the Doctor’s coat, but then wrinkled her nose at its condition. The ruddy light might hide its stains but she could smell earth and oil and sweat, as well as the strongly unpleasant odor of indigo clay. She batted at it ineffectually, launching little puffs of dust, and gave up. Miss Temple dug into the Doctor’s side pocket and removed a cardboard box of cartridges for his revolver. She handed it to Eloise.

“There—we now know he is a man to carry bullets.”

Eloise nodded impatiently, as if this were against her wishes. Miss Temple met her gaze and narrowed her eyes.

“Miss Dujong—”

“Mrs.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Mrs. Mrs. Dujong. I am a widow.”

“My condolences.”

Eloise shrugged. “I am well accustomed to it.”

“Excellent. The thing is, Mrs. Dujong,” Miss Temple’s tone was still crisp and determined, “in case you had not noticed, Harschmort is a house of masks and mirrors and lies, of unscrupulous, brutal advantage. We cannot afford illusion—about ourselves least of all, for this is what our enemies exploit most of all. I have seen notorious things, I promise you, and notorious things have been done to me. I too have undergone —” She lost her way and could not speak, taken unawares by her own emotion, gesturing instead with the coat, shaking it. “This is nothing. Searching someone’s coat? Doctor Svenson may have given his life to save us—do you think he would scruple the contents of his pockets if they might help us further—or help us to save him? It is no time to be a foolish woman.”

Mrs. Dujong did not answer, avoiding Miss Temple’s gaze, but then nodded and held out her hands, cupping them to take whatever else might come from the coat pockets. Working quickly—despite the pleasure it gave her, Miss Temple was not one to continue with criticism once her point was made—she located the Doctor’s cigarette case, matches, the other blue card, an extremely filthy handkerchief, and a mixed handful of coins. They gazed at the collection and with a sigh Miss Temple began to restore them to their places in the coat—for that seemed the simplest way to carry them.

“After all of that, it appears you are right—I do not think we have learned a thing.” She looked up to see Eloise studying the silver cigarette case. It was simple and unadorned save for, engraved in a simple, elegant script, the words “Zum Kapitanchirurgen Abelard Svenson, vom C. S.”

“Perhaps it commemorates his promotion to Captain-Surgeon,” whispered Eloise.

Miss Temple nodded. She put the case back in its pocket, knowing they were both wondering at who had given it to him—a fellow officer, a secret love? Miss Temple draped the coat over her arm and shrugged—if the last initial was “S” it needn’t be interesting at all, most likely a dutiful token from some dull sibling or cousin.

They continued down the narrow red-lit passage, Miss Temple dispirited that the Doctor had not caught up, and a bit curious that no one else had pursued them either. She did her best not to sigh with impatience when she felt the other woman’s hand on her arm, and upon turning tried to present a tolerant visage.

“I am sorry,” Eloise began.

Miss Temple opened her mouth—the last thing she appreciated after berating a person was that they should then waste her time with apology. But Eloise touched her arm again and kept on speaking.

“I have not been thinking…and there are things that I must say—”

“Must you?”

“I was taken aboard the airship. They asked me questions. I do not know what I could have told them—in truth I know nothing that they cannot already know from Francis Xonck—but I do remember what they asked.”