Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

their interests to one of our volumes, or otherwise demonstrated total allegiance…or such is our assumption. As I say…you will understand if we make sure.”

The Comte tugged the leash of Mrs. Marchmoor, who arched her back and swept her gaze across the crowd. The men and women before her were staggered and stunned, they went silent, they whimpered or cried, they lost their balance and fell—all as their minds were scoured for any deception. Miss Temple saw that the Comte had his eyes shut as well in concentration…could Mrs. Marchmoor be sharing with him what she saw? Then the Comte abruptly opened his eyes. One of the two men in the oyster grey riding cloaks had dropped to his knees. The Comte d’Orkancz gestured to Colonel Aspiche and two Dragoons dragged the fallen man, now sobbing with fear, without mercy from the room. The Comte shut his eyes again and Mrs. Marchmoor continued her silent inquisition.

After Mrs. Marchmoor came Miss Poole, moving just as remorselessly through her portion of the crowd, isolating two more men and a woman who were given swift cause to regret their decision to attend. For a moment Miss Temple wondered if these could be people like herself—desperate enemies of the Cabal’s villainy—but as soon as they were pulled from their places by the soldiers it was clear the exact opposite was the case. These were social climbers who had managed to forge an invitation or bluff their way into what they hoped was an especially exclusive soiree for the bright lights of society. As much as she was rattled by their pleas, she did not spare their fates another thought…for Miss Poole had finished, and the Comte had snapped the third woman’s leash.

The invisible wave of the woman’s scrutiny inched toward her like a fire, or like a burning fuse whose end must mean her death. Closer and closer; Miss Temple did not know what to do. She must be found out completely. Should she run? Should she try to push the woman over in hopes that she might shatter? Miss Temple’s exposure was but seconds away. She took a breath for courage and tensed herself as if for a blow. Caroline stood straight, also waiting, and glanced once quickly at Miss Temple, her face more pale—Miss Temple realized suddenly that Caroline was terrified. But then the woman’s gaze went past Miss Temple’s shoulder. There was a noise—the door?—and then the sudden sharp voice of Deputy Minister Crabbe.

“If you please, Monsieur le Comte, that is enough!”

Quite directly behind Miss Temple an astonishing party had entered the room. All around, people in the crowd lowered their heads with respect for the tall man, deathly pale with long iron-grey hair, with medals on his coat and a bright blue sash across his chest. He walked with great stiffness—he walked rather like the glass women, actually—with one hand clutching a black stick and the other the arm of a small, sharp-faced man with greasy hair and glasses who did not strike her as any kind of normal companion for a royal personage. Given the Deputy Minister’s speech she knew it must be the Duke of Staelmaere, a man who, if the rumors were true, only employed impoverished aristocrats as his servants, so much did he abhor the presence of common folk. What was such a man doing at so large—and so common—a gathering? Yet this was but the half of it, for walking directly next to the Duke—almost as if they were a bride and groom—was Lord Robert Vandaariff. Behind him, and supporting Lord Robert’s near arm, walked Roger Bascombe.

“I do not believe we had quite finished with the examinations,” said Francis Xonck, “which as you have said, Minister, are most crucial.”

“Indeed, Mr. Xonck.” Harald Crabbe nodded, and spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear him. “But this business cannot stay! We have before us the two most eminent figures in the land—perhaps the continent!—one of them our very host. It strikes me as prudent, as well as polite, to allow their urgent needs to trump our own.”

Miss Temple saw Francis Xonck glance once her way, and knew that he had been watching very closely for the results of her inquisition. She turned toward the new arrivals—as much as she did not want to see Roger she wanted to see Xonck and the Contessa even less—and realized, with the dull deliberate clonk of a brick hitting the floor, that Crabbe’s halt of the examinations had nothing to do with her at all, but these figures, for the glass woman’s scrutiny must have swept them up as well, revealing their inner minds to the waiting Comte d’Orkancz. But who was Harald Crabbe protecting? The Duke? Vandaariff? Or his own aide Bascombe—and the secret plans they’d hatched between them? And why had Caroline been so frightened? She wanted to stamp her foot with frustration at all she did not know—was Vandaariff the leader of the Cabal or not? Was he locked in a struggle with the Comte to save his daughter? Did Crabbe’s action—and Roger’s presence—indicate an allegiance with Vandaariff? But then what did she make of Roger being in the doorway just before Trapping must have been killed? Suddenly Miss Temple remembered her fiance’s appearance in the secret room, where the Contessa had tormented the Prince—could Roger have a secret allegiance of his own? If Roger had killed Trapping (her mind could scarcely accept it— Roger?) was it to serve the Contessa?

The Duke of Staelmaere began to speak, his voice halting and dry as a mouthful of cold cinders.

“Tomorrow I become head of the Queen’s Privy Council…the nation is in crisis…the Queen is unwell…the Crown Prince is without heir and without merit…and so he has this night been given the gift of his dreams, a gift which must ensnare his weakened soul…a glass book of wonders in which he will drown.”

Miss Temple frowned. This did not sound like any Duke she’d ever heard. She glanced carefully behind her and saw the glass woman’s attention fully fixed on the Duke, and behind her, his bearded lips moving ever so slightly with each word that issued from the Duke of Staelmaere’s mouth, the Comte d’Orkancz.

“The Privy Council will govern…our vision, my allies,…will find expression…will be written on the world. Such is my promise…before you all.”

The Duke then turned to the man next to him with a glacial nod.

“My Lord…”

While Robert Vandaariff’s voice was not so openly sepulchral as the Duke’s, it nevertheless served to further chill Miss Temple’s blood, for before he spoke a single word he turned to Roger and accepted a folded piece of paper, passed with all the deference of a clerk…yet the Lord had only turned at a squeeze from Roger on his arm. Vandaariff unfolded the paper and at another squeeze—she was watching for it—began to read, in a hearty voice that rang as hollow to her ear as footfalls in an empty room.

“It is not my way to make speeches and so I ask forgiveness that I rely upon this paper—yet tonight I send my only child, my Princess, Lydia, to be married to a man I have taken to my heart like a son.”

At a third subtle squeeze from Roger—whose face, she saw, was directed at the floor—Lord Robert nodded to the Prince and his daughter on the dais. Miss Temple wondered what emotions about her father remained beneath the girl’s mask…how the Process had rarefied her depthless need and her rage at being abandoned, and what effect these vacant formal words could have. Lydia bobbed in a curtsey and then curled her lips in a grin. Did she know her father was Roger Bascombe’s puppet? Could that be why she smiled?

Lord Robert turned back to the assembled guests, and located his place on the page. “Tomorrow it must be as if this night had never been. None of you will return to Harschmort House. None of you will acknowledge you have been here, any more than you will acknowledge each other, or news from the Duchy of Macklenburg as anything other than unimportant gossip. But the efforts here of my colleague the Duke will be mirrored in that land, and from that nation to nations beyond. Some of you will be placed among my agents, traveling where necessary, but before you leave tonight, all will be given instructions, in the form of a printed cipher book, from my chamberlain,…Mr. Blenheim.”

Vandaariff looked up, instructed here to point out Blenheim from the crowd…but Blenheim was not there. The pause drifted toward confusion as faces glanced back and forth, and there were frowns on the dais and sharp glances in the direction of Colonel Aspiche, who answered them with haughty shrugs of his own. With a deft—and therefore to Miss Temple equally galling and impressive—display of initiative, Roger Bascombe cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“In Mr. Blenheim’s absence, your instructive volumes can be collected from me in the chamberlain’s offices, directly after this gathering adjourns.”

He glanced quickly to the dais, and then whispered into Lord Robert’s ear. Roger returned to his place. Lord Robert resumed his speech.

“I am gratified to be able to aid this enterprise, as I am thankful to those who have most imagined its success. I beg you all to enjoy the hospitality of my home.”

Roger gently took the paper from his hands. The crowd erupted into applause for the two great men, who stood without any particular expression whatsoever, as if it were the rain and they insensible statues.