Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“I have no idea,” said the Colonel.

“You’re as bad as Blach!” scoffed Xonck. “Where is he anyway?”

The Comte d’Orkancz sighed heavily. “Major Blach is dead. Cardinal Chang.”

Xonck took this in, rolled his eyes, then shrugged. He turned back to Colonel Aspiche.

“Where is Bascombe now?”

“With Lord Robert,” said Caroline. “After Mr. Blenheim—”

“Where else ought he to be?” cried Crabbe, growing exasperated, “Where else? Distributing the message books—someone had to do it in Blenheim’s absence!”

“How fortunate he thought to step in,” said the Contessa icily.

“Mrs. Marchmoor is with him—surely you trust her as much as I trust Bascombe!” sputtered Crabbe. “Surely they have both proven their loyalty to us all!”

The Contessa turned to Smythe. “Captain, send two of your men to collect Mr. Bascombe as soon as he is finished. Bring him here, along with Lord Robert, if necessary.”

Smythe gestured immediately to his men, and the Dragoons clattered off.

“Where is Lydia?” asked Xonck.

“With the Prince,” answered Caroline, “saying good-bye to the guests.”

“Thank you, Caroline,” said the Contessa, “at least someone is paying attention.” She called to Smythe. “Have your men collect them as well.”

“Bring them to me,” rasped the Comte d’Orkancz. “Their part of our business is not finished.”

The Comte’s words hung balefully in the air, but the others remained silent, as if to speak at all would restart a now-settled disagreement. The Captain detailed two more Dragoons and returned to his place on the far wall, looking at his boots as if he could not hear a word.

“All this can be settled with ease,” announced the Deputy Minister, turning to the Comte d’Orkancz, “if we consult the book wherein Lord Robert’s thoughts have been stored. That book will make it perfectly clear that I have done what we agreed. It should contain a detailed account of the Lord’s participation in this entire affair—facts that only he could know.”

“At least one book was destroyed,” rasped the Comte.

“Destroyed how?” asked the Contessa.

“Chang.”

“Damn his bloody soul!” she snarled. “That really is the limit. Do you know which book it was?”

“I cannot know until I compare those remaining against the ledger,” said the Comte.

“Then let us do so,” said Crabbe waspishly. “I would be exonerated as soon as possible.”

“The books are in transit to the rooftop,” said the Comte. “As for the ledger, as you well know it remains in the possession of your assistant.”

“My goodness!” cried Xonck. “It seems Bascombe’s become a powerfully valuable fellow!”

“He will bring it with him!” protested Crabbe. “It will be settled. All of this is a ridiculous waste of our time—it has divided our efforts and created dangerous delays—and the most likely explanation for all these questions stands before us.” He thrust his chin toward Miss Temple.

“She and her comrades have caused no end of trouble! Who is to say it was not they who have killed Blenheim!”

“Just as Cardinal Chang slew Mr. Gray…,” observed Xonck quietly, turning his gaze to the Contessa. Crabbe took in his words, blinked and then, heartened by the shift of inquiry, nodded with agreement.

“Ah! Yes! Yes! I had forgotten it—it had been quite blown from my mind! Contessa?”

“What? As Chang is a murderer and Mr. Gray gone missing, I have no doubt the man was killed. I know not where—my instructions for Mr. Gray were to assist Doctor Lorenz with the Duke.”

“Yet Chang says they met underground—near the pipes!” cried Crabbe.

“I had not heard this…,” rasped the Comte d’Orkancz.

The Contessa looked up at him and pulled her spent cigarette from the holder, dropping it to the floor and stepping on the smoking butt while she screwed a new one in its place.

“You were occupied with your ladies,” she replied. Miss Temple perceived just a whisper of discomfort cross the Contessa’s face as she took in the small glass woman, standing placidly as a tamed leopard, careless of their bickering, her brilliant indigo color more striking for her proximity to the Comte’s dark fur. “Chang claimed Mr. Gray had been tampering with your works—at my instruction. The clearest evidence of this, of course, would be if something had gone wrong with your efforts—however, as far as I can tell, you have produced three successful transformations. As this is a process I quite freely admit I do not understand in the slightest, I offer your results as evidence that Cardinal Chang is a liar.”

“Unless he killed Gray before he could do his damage,” said Crabbe.

“Which is idle, baseless speculation,” growled the Contessa.

“Which does not mean it is not true—”

The Contessa swept to the Deputy Minister and her hand—apparently occupied with replacing her cigarette case in her bag—was now wrapped with the bright band. Its glittering spike was hard against Crabbe’s throat, digging at a visibly throbbing vein.

Crabbe swallowed.

“Rosamonde…,” began the Comte.

“Say it again, you bothersome little man,” hissed the Contessa, “and I will rip you open like a poorly sewn sleeve.”

Crabbe did not move.

“Rosamonde…,” said the Comte again. Her attention did not shift from Crabbe.

“Yes?”

“Might I suggest…the young lady?”

The Contessa moved two quick steps away from Crabbe—clear of any counter-stroke from a weapon of his own—and wheeled to Miss Temple. The woman’s face was flushed—with open pleasure, it seemed—and her eyes flared with excitement. Miss Temple doubted she had ever been in such peril.

“You underwent the Process in the theatre?” The Contessa smiled. “Is that it? Yes, directly after Lydia Vandaariff?”

Miss Temple nodded quickly.

“What a shame Miss Poole cannot confirm it. But here we are not helpless…let me see…orange for Harschmort…attendant whore…hotel, I suppose…and of course, doomed…”

The Contessa leaned forward and hissed into Miss Temple’s ear.

“Orange Magdalene orange Royale ice consumption!”

Miss Temple was taken by surprise, stammering for a response, then recalling—too late—the Prince in the secret room—

The Contessa took hold of Miss Temple’s jaw, wrenching her head so the women stared at each other. With a cold deliberate sneer the Contessa’s tongue snaked from her mouth and smeared its way across each of Miss Temple’s eyes. Miss Temple whimpered as the Contessa licked again, pressing her tongue flat over her nose and cheek, digging its narrow tip along her lashes. With a triumphant scoff the Contessa shoved Miss Temple stumbling into the waiting arms of Colonel Aspiche.

Miss Temple looked up to see the elegant lady wiping her mouth with her hand and mockingly smacking her lips.

“ ’Thirty-seven Harker-Bornarth, I should say…excellent vintage…shame to waste it on a savage. Get her out of here.”

She was dragged without ceremony down a nearby hallway and thrown, there was no other word for it, like a sack of goods into a dimly lit room guarded by two black-coated soldiers of Macklenburg. She sprawled to her knees and wheeled back to the open door, hair hanging in her eyes, in time to see Aspiche abruptly slam it shut. A moment later it was locked, and his bootsteps retreated into silence. Miss Temple sank back on her haunches and sighed. She dabbed at her face, still sticky with saliva and port, with the sleeve of her robe, and looked around her.