Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

pressure as they squeezed the glass, her breath shot through with sighs, the silk robe sliding as she moved, soft and thin enough to show the stiffened tips of each breast, the barely perceptible rocking of her hips, one long leg stretched out to the carpet, its toes flexing against some hidden force, and on top of all of this, to Miss Temple’s discomforting attraction, was the fact that Eloise still wore her feathered mask—that, to some degree, Miss Temple felt she was not gazing at Eloise at all, but simply a Woman of Mystery, as she had made of herself in the Contessa’s Dutch mirror. She continued to stare as Eloise repeated the cycle of the card, Miss Temple now able to locate, at the same slight inhalation of breath, the moment of Mrs. Marchmoor pulling the Prince’s body into hers, hooking her legs around his hips and pressing him tight…and she wondered that she herself had been able to remove her attention from the card without difficulty—or without difficulty beyond her own embarrassment—where Eloise seemed quite trapped within its charms. What had she said about the book—about people being killed, about her own swooning? With a resolve that, as perhaps too often in her life, cut short her fascination, Miss Temple reached out and snatched the card from her companion’s hands.

Eloise looked up, quite unaware of what had happened and where she was, mouth open and her eyes unclear.

“Are you all right?” Miss Temple asked. “You had quite lost yourself within this card.” She held it up for Eloise to see. The widow licked her lips and blinked.

“My heavens…I do apologize…”

“You are quite flushed,” observed Miss Temple.

“I’m sure I am,” muttered Eloise. “I was not prepared—”

“It is the same experience as the book—quite as involving, if not as deep—for as there is not as much glass, there is not as much incident. You did say the book did not agree with you.”

“No, it did not.”

“The card seems to have agreed with you perhaps too well.”

“Perhaps…and yet, I believe I have discovered something of use—”

“I blush at what it must be.”

Eloise frowned, for despite her weakness she was not ready to accept the mockery of a younger woman so easily, but then Miss Temple smiled shyly and patted the woman’s knee.

“I thought you looked very pretty,” Miss Temple said, and then adopted a wicked grin. “Do you think Doctor Svenson would have found you even prettier?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” muttered Eloise, blushing again.

“I’m sure he doesn’t either,” answered Miss Temple. “But what have you discovered?”

Eloise took a breath. “Is that door locked?”

“It is.”

“Then you had best sit down, for we must reason.”

“As you know,” Eloise began, “my position is—or at least was—tutor to the children of Arthur and Charlotte Trapping, Mrs. Trapping being the sister of Henry and Francis Xonck. It is generally held that Colonel Trapping’s rapid advancement was due to the machinations of Mr. Henry Xonck, though I see now that in fact Mr. Francis Xonck manipulated it all to engineer—by way of his new allies—a way to wrest the family business from his brother, and all of it arranged—because the Colonel became privy to all sorts of useful government secrets—with that same brother’s blessing. The unwitting key to this had been Colonel Trapping, who would report faithfully back to Henry —passing on both the information and mis-information that Francis could supply. Further, it was Francis who persuaded me to visit Tarr Manor with whatever secrets I might supply—again, designed to give him the leverage of blackmail over his siblings. But this was made suddenly necessary exactly because the Colonel had been killed—do you see? He was killed despite the fact that, either willingly or in ignorance, he was serving the Cabal.”

Miss Temple nodded vaguely, perched on the arm of the chair, feet dangling, hoping that a larger point would soon emerge.

Eloise went on. “One wonders why precisely because the Colonel was so very unremarkable.”

“The Doctor did find the second blue card on the Colonel’s person,” replied Miss Temple, “the one drawn from the experience of Roger Bascombe. It was evidently sewn into the lining of his uniform. But you said you discovered—”

But Eloise was still thinking. “Was there anything within it that seemed particularly…secret? That would justify concealing it—protecting it—so?”

“I should say not, save for the part containing me—except—well, except the very final moment, where I am sure one can glimpse Lydia Vandaariff on an examination table with the Comte d’Orkancz—well, you know, examining her.”

“What?”

“Yes,” said Miss Temple. “I only realized it now—when I saw the tables, and then of course I remembered seeing Lydia—and at the time I saw the card I did not know who Lydia was—”

“But, Celeste”—Miss Temple frowned, as she was not entirely sure of her companion even now, and certainly not comfortable with being so familiar—“that the card remained sewn into the Colonel’s coat meant that no one had found it! It means that what he knew—what the card proved—died with him!”

“But it did not die at all. The Doctor has the card, and we the secret.”

“Exactly!”

“Exactly what?”

Eloise nodded seriously. “So what I’ve found may be even more important—”

Miss Temple could only bear this for so long, for she was not one who stinted from absolutely shredding the wrapping paper around a present.

“Yes, but you have not said what it is.”

Eloise pointed to the blue card on Miss Temple’s lap. “At the end of the cycle,” she said, “you will recall that the woman—”

“Mrs. Marchmoor.”

“Her head turns, and one sees spectators. Among them I have recognized Francis Xonck, Miss Poole, Doctor Lorenz—others I do not know, though I’m sure you might. Yet beyond these people…is a window—”

“But it is not a window,” said Miss Temple, eagerly, inching forward. “It is a mirror! The St. Royale’s private rooms are fitted with Dutch glass mirrors that serve as windows on the lobby. Indeed, it was recognizing the outer doors of the hotel through this mirror that sent the Doctor to the St. Royale in the first place—”

Eloise nodded impatiently, for she had finally reached her news.

“But did he note who was in the lobby? Someone who had quite obviously stepped out of the private room for a chance to speak apart from those remaining in it, distracted by the, ah, spectacle?”

Miss Temple shook her head.

“Colonel Arthur Trapping,” whispered Eloise, “speaking most earnestly…with Lord Robert Vandaariff!”

Miss Temple placed a hand over her mouth.

“It is the Comte!” she exclaimed. “The Comte plans to use Lydia—use the marriage, I can’t say exactly how—in another part of Oskar Veilandt’s alchemical scheme—”

Eloise frowned. “Who is—”

“A painter—a mystic—the discoverer of the blue glass! We were told he was dead—killed for his secrets—but now I wonder if he lives, if he might even be a prisoner—”

“Or his memories drained into a book!”

“O yes! But the point is—do the others know what the Comte truly intends for Lydia? More importantly, did her father know? What if Trapping found Roger’s card and recognized Lydia and the Comte? Is it possible that the Colonel did not understand the truth of his associates’ villainy and threatened them with exposure?”

“I am afraid you never met Colonel Trapping,” said Eloise.

“Not to actually exchange words, no.”