Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“Readying the airship,” replied Crabbe, “and surrounded by a host of soldiers. I would prefer to leave him be.”

“What of Bascombe?”

“He accompanies Lord Robert,” snorted the Contessa. “We will meet him with the trunk of books and his ledger—but he does not have a key either, and for any number of reasons I would prefer not to involve him.”

Crabbe rolled his eyes. “Mr. Bascombe is absolutely loyal to us all—”

“Where is your key?” the Comte asked, glaring pointedly at the Deputy Minister.

“It is not my key at all,” replied Crabbe somewhat hotly. “I do not believe I am even the last to have it—as the Contessa says, we were collecting the books, not exploring them—”

“Who was the last to have it?” cried the Comte, openly impatient. He shifted his grip on the repulsive metal device in his hand.

“We do not know,” snapped the Contessa. “I believe it was Mr. Crabbe. He believes it was Mr. Xonck. He believes it was Blenheim—”

“Blenheim?” scoffed the Comte.

“Not Blenheim directly,” said Xonck. “Trapping. I believe Trapping took it to look at one of the books—perhaps idly, perhaps not—”

“Which book?”

“We do not know,” said the Contessa. “We were indulging him—I am still not satisfied as to his death. Blenheim either took it from Trapping’s pocket when the body was moved, or he was given it by Lord Robert.”

“I take it Blenheim is still missing?”

The Contessa nodded.

“The question is whether he is dead,” said Crabbe, “or independent?”

“Perhaps we can query Lord Robert,” said the Comte.

“We could if he retained his memory,” observed Xonck. “But as you know it has been put into a book—a book we cannot find. If we did find it, we could not safely read it without a key! It is ridiculous!”

“I see…” said the Comte, his brooding face dark with thought. “And what has happened to Herr Flauss?”

“We do not know!” cried Crabbe.

“But don’t you think we should?” asked the Comte, reasonably. He turned to Angelique and clapped his hands. At once she stepped into the light like a tamed tiger, drawing the wary attention of every other person in the room.

“If there is someone hiding here,” the Comte said to her, looking up to the balconies, “find them.”

Miss Temple spun to Chang and Svenson, her eyes wide. What could they do? She searched around them— there was no other place to hide, to shield themselves! Doctor Svenson silently rolled back on his heels and pulled out the gun, his eyes measuring the distance to Angelique. Chang put a hand on the Doctor’s arm. The Doctor shrugged it off and eased back the hammer. Miss Temple felt the strange blue coldness approaching her mind. Any moment they would be found.

Instead, the pregnant silence in the room was broken by a crash from the opposite balcony, directly above Angelique. In an instant Xonck had the serpentine dagger in his hand and was sprinting to the narrow stairs. Miss Temple heard a scuffle and then a woman’s gasping protests as Xonck dragged her twisting body brusquely down the staircase and thrust her to her knees before the others. It was Eloise.

Miss Temple looked to Svenson and saw his frozen expression. Before he could do a thing she reached for his hand that held the pistol, gripping it tightly. This was no time for reckless impulse.

Xonck backed away from Eloise, indeed as did they all, for at a nod from the Comte Angelique stepped forward, her feet clicking against the stone floor like a new-shod pony’s. Eloise shook her head and looked up, utterly bewildered by the splendid, naked creature, and screamed. She screamed again—Miss Temple squeezing the Doctor’s arm as tightly as she could—but it died in her throat, as the expression of terror on her face faded to a quivering passivity. The glass woman had savagely penetrated her mind and was rummaging through its contents with pitiless efficiency. Again, Miss Temple saw the Comte d’Orkancz had closed his eyes, his face a mask of concentration. Eloise did not speak, her mouth open, rocking back and forth on her knees, staring helplessly into the cold blue eyes of her inquisitor.

Then it was done. Eloise dropped in a heap. The Comte came forward to stand over her, looking down.

“It is Mrs. Dujong,” whispered Crabbe. “From the quarry. She shot the Duke.”

“Indeed. She escaped from the theatre with Miss Temple,” said the Comte. “Miss Temple killed Blenheim—his body is in the trophy room. Blenheim did have the key—she herself wondered why. It is tucked in Mrs. Dujong’s shift, along with a silver cigarette case and a blue glass demonstration card. Both were acquired by way of Doctor Svenson.”

“A glass card?” asked the Contessa. Her gaze darted judiciously across the room. “What does it happen to show?”

Eloise was panting with exertion, groping to rise to her hands and knees. The Comte shoved his hand roughly into her shift, feeling for the objects he’d described. He stood again, peering at the cigarette case, all the time not answering the Contessa’s question. Xonck cleared his throat. The Comte looked up and tossed the silver case to him, which Xonck awkwardly managed to catch.

“Also Svenson’s,” he said, and glanced over at the Prince, who was still in his chair, watching it all through a veil of drunken bemusement. “The card is imprinted with an experience of Mrs. Marchmoor, within a room at the St. Royale…an encounter with the Prince. Apparently it made quite an impression on Mrs. Dujong.”

“Is that…all?” asked the Contessa, again rather carefully.

“No.” The Comte sighed heavily. “It is not.”

He nodded again to Angelique.

To the immediate dismay of the other members of the Cabal, the glass woman turned toward them. They shrank back, as Angelique began to walk forward.

“W-what are you doing? ” sputtered Crabbe.

“I am getting to the bottom of this mystery,” rasped the Comte.

“You cannot finish this without our help,” hissed Xonck. He waved a hand at the girl on the bed. “Haven’t we done enough for you—haven’t we all accommodated your visions?”

“Visions at the core of your profit, Francis.”

“I have never denied it! But if you think to turn me into a husk like Vandaariff—”

“I think nothing of the kind,” answered the Comte. “What I am doing is in our larger interest.”

“Before you treat us like animals, Oskar,…and make me your enemy,” said the Contessa, raising her voice and speaking quite fiercely, “perhaps you could explain what you intend.”

Miss Temple clapped a hand over her mouth, feeling like a fool. Oskar! Was it so stupidly obvious? The Comte had not stolen the works of Oskar Veilandt, the painter was no prisoner or mindless drone…the two men were one and the same! What had Aunt Agathe told her—that the Comte was born in the Balkans, raised in Paris, an unlikely inheritance? How was that incompatible with what Mr. Shanck had said of Veilandt—school in Vienna, studio in Montmartre, mysteriously disappeared—into respectability and wealth, she now knew! She looked over to Chang and Svenson, and saw Chang shaking his head bitterly. Svenson had eyes for nothing but Eloise’s slumped figure, glaring down at the poor woman with helpless agitation.

The Comte cleared his throat and held up the glass card.

“The encounter is attended by spectators—including you, Rosamonde, and you, Francis. But the clever Mrs. Dujong has perceived, through the viewing mirror, a second encounter, in the lobby…that of Colonel Trapping speaking most earnestly with Robert Vandaariff.”

This revelation was met with silence.

“What does that mean?” asked Crabbe.

“That is not all,” intoned the Comte.