Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

power have left me helpless. I am only trying to save my own life.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“What information?” repeated Aspiche.

Miss Temple glanced behind him at the guards, who were staring with undisguised curiosity, and then leaned forward with a whisper.

“It is actually rather sensitive…”

Aspiche leaned forward in turn with a tight, put-upon expression. Miss Temple brushed his ear with her lips.

“Blue…Caesar…blue…Regiment…ice…consumption…”

She looked up and saw the Colonel’s eyes did not move, gazing at a point just beyond her shoulder.

“Perhaps we ought to be alone,” she whispered.

Aspiche wheeled on the guards with fury.

“Leave me with the prisoners!” he barked. The guards stumbled back, as Aspiche reached out with both hands and slammed the door. He turned back to Miss Temple, his face without any expression at all.

“Cardinal,…Doctor,…you may rise…”

She kept to her whisper, not wanting the guards to hear. Chang and Svenson stood slowly, staring at the Colonel with morbid curiosity.

“Everyone who undergoes the Process is instilled with some sort of control phrase,” Miss Temple explained. “I overheard the Contessa use one on the Prince, and again when she attempted to use one on me—to prove I had not been converted. I wasn’t able to work it all out—it was a guess—”

“You risked this on a guess?” asked Svenson.

“As it was a good guess, yes. The phrase has several parts—the first is a color, and I deduced that the color was about where the Process was administered. You remember that the different boxes had different colors of felt packing—”

“Orange at Harschmort,” said Chang. “Blue at the Institute.”

“And seeing as he was converted before they moved the boxes from the Institute, the color for the Colonel was blue.”

“What was the rest of the phrase?” asked Svenson.

“The second word is about their role, using a Biblical metaphor—I’m sure it is all part of the Comte’s ostentation. For the Prince it was Joseph—for he will be the father to someone else’s child, as poor Lydia must be Mary—for me it would have been Magdalene, as for all of the white-robed initiates—and for the Colonel, as the representative of the state, I guessed correctly it would be ‘Caesar’…the rest follows the same way—‘Regiment’ instead of ‘Palace’ or ‘Royale’—”

“Is he understanding this?” asked Svenson.

“I think so, but he is also waiting for instructions.”

“Suppose he should cut his own throat?” suggested Chang, with a moist chuckle.

“Suppose he tells us if they’ve captured Eloise,” said Svenson, and he spoke slowly and clearly to Colonel Aspiche. “Do you know the whereabouts of Mrs. Dujong?”

“Shut your filthy hole before I shut it for you!” Aspiche roared.

Svenson darted back a step, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Ah,” Miss Temple said, “perhaps only the person who speaks the phrase can command.” She cleared her throat. “Colonel, do you know where we can find Mrs. Dujong?”

“Of course I don’t,” snapped Aspiche, sullenly.

“All right…when did you last see her?”

The Colonel’s lips curled into an unabashed and wicked smile. “Aboard the airship. Doctor Lorenz asked her questions, and when she did not answer Miss Poole and I took turns—”

Doctor Svenson’s fist landed like a hammer on the Colonel’s jaw, knocking him back into the door. Miss Temple turned to Svenson—hissing with pain and flexing his hand—and then to Aspiche, sputtering with rage and struggling to rise. Before he could, Chang’s arm shot forth and snatched the Colonel’s saber from its sheath, a wheeling bright scythe that had Miss Temple scampering clear with a squeak. When she looked back, the Cardinal had the blade hovering dangerously in front of the man’s chest. Aspiche did not move.

“Doctor?” she asked quietly.

“My apologies—”

“Not at all, the Colonel is a horrid beast. Your hand?”

“It will do fine.”

She stepped closer to Aspiche, her face harder than before. She had known Eloise endured her own set of trials, but Miss Temple thought back to her own irritation at how the woman, drugged and stumbling, had slowed their progress in escaping the theatre. She was more than happy to expend the sting of her guilt and regret on the villain before her.

“Colonel, you will open this door and take us into the hall. You will order both of these guards into this room and then lock the door behind them. If they protest, you will do your level best to kill them. Do you understand?”

Aspiche nodded, his eyes wavering between her own and the floating tip of the saber.

“Then do it. We are wasting time.”

The Germans gave them no trouble, so inured were they to following orders. It was only a matter of moments before they stood again in the open foyer where the members of the Cabal had argued with one another. The Dragoons lining the corridor were gone, along with their officer.

“Where’s Captain Smythe?” she asked Aspiche.

“Assisting Mr. Xonck and the Deputy Minister.”

Miss Temple frowned. “Then what were you doing here? Did you not have orders?”

“Of course—to execute the three of you.”

“But why were you waiting in the corridor?”

“I was finishing my cigar!” snapped Colonel Aspiche.

Chang scoffed behind her.

“Every man reveals his soul eventually,” he muttered.

Miss Temple crept to the ballroom doors. The enormous space was empty. She called back to her prisoner.

“Where is everyone?” He opened his mouth to answer but she cut him off. “Where are each of our enemies— the Contessa, the Comte, Deputy Minister Crabbe, Francis Xonck, the Prince and his bride, Lord Vandaariff, the Duke of Staelmaere, Mrs. Stearne—”

“And Roger Bascombe,” said Doctor Svenson. She turned to him, and to Chang, and nodded sadly.

“And Roger Bascombe.” She sighed. “In an orderly manner, if you please.”

The Colonel had informed them—sullen twitches around his mouth evidence of a useless struggle against Miss Temple’s control—that their enemies had split into two groups. The first occupied themselves with a sweeping progress through the great house, gathering up their guests and collecting the stupefied luminaries whose minds had been drained into the glass books on the way, to send off the Duke of Staelmaere with ceremony suitable to his imminent coup d’etat. Accompanying the Duke’s progress would be the Contessa, the Deputy Minister, and Francis Xonck, as well as Lord Vandaariff, Bascombe, Mrs. Stearne, and the two glass women, Marchmoor and Poole. The second group, about which Aspiche could provide no information as to their errand, consisted of the Comte d’Orkancz, Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmarck, Lydia Vandaariff, Herr Flauss, and the third glass woman.

“I did not recognize her,” said Miss Temple. “By all rights the third subject ought to have been Caroline.”

“It is Angelique, the Cardinal’s acquaintance,” replied Doctor Svenson, speaking delicately. “The woman we searched for in the greenhouse. You were right—she did not perish there.”

“Instead, the Comte kept her alive to use as a test subject,” rasped Chang. “If his transformation failed, then he need not sacrifice the others—if it worked and made moot the issue of her damaged body, then all the better. All in all you see, it is an admirable expression of economy.”

Neither Miss Temple nor the Doctor spoke, letting Chang’s bitterness and anger have their sway. Chang