Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“Yes?”

“Miss Temple? It is Minister Crabbe. I am wondering if you might open this door and join our conversation.”

“What conversation is that?” she answered.

“Why, it is the one where we decide your lives, my dear. It would be better had not through a door.”

“I am afraid we find the door convenient,” replied Miss Temple.

“Perhaps…yet I am forced to point out that Mrs. Dujong does not share your partition. Further, while I would prefer to avoid unpleasantness, the door is made of wood, and its lock must be subject to the force of bullets—it is in fact an illusory convenience. Surely there is much to discuss between us all—need this excellent oak panel be ruined for a conclusion you cannot dispute?”

Miss Temple turned to her companions. Svenson looked past her to the cabinet she leaned against. He stepped across and forced it open with a quick prying thrust of his dagger under its lock, but inside was merely a collection of blankets, ropes, candles, woolen coats, and a box of hats and gloves. He turned back to Chang, who leaned against the doorframe and shrugged.

“We cannot go out the window,” Svenson said.

“You have the only weapon,” said Chang, nodding to the Doctor’s dagger, for he had dropped his own to throw Miss Temple on the gangway, “perhaps it were best stowed away.”

“I agree, but surely by you.”

Svenson passed the blade to Chang, who stuffed it in his coat. The Doctor reached for Miss Temple’s hand, squeezed it once, and nodded to Chang, who unlocked the door.

The next room was the largest of the three in the dirigible’s cabin, and was ringed with cabinets and inset settees, now occupied by the various members of the Cabal, all watching their entrance quite closely. On one side sat the Prince, Harald Crabbe, and Roger Bascombe, on the other the Comte, the Contessa, and in the far doorway, a saber in his hand, blood spoiling his once-white shirt, stood Francis Xonck. Beyond him lurked other figures and movement, and Miss Temple tried to deduce who was missing. Had more of them been brought down in the final struggle? Her questions were answered a moment later by the appearance of Lydia Vandaariff, changed from her robes to a brilliant blue silk dress, bobbing under Xonck’s arm and stepping—still unsteadily—toward the Prince, prompting Roger to leave his place to make room. Emerging directly after Lydia—no doubt helping with her stays —was the ever-attentive Caroline Stearne, who slipped to an empty seat next to the Comte.

“I assume Doctor Lorenz pilots our craft?” asked Chang.

“He does,” answered Harald Crabbe.

“Where is Mrs. Dujong?” asked Doctor Svenson.

Xonck nodded vaguely to the room behind him. “She is quite secure…something of a return to form, I’m told.”

Svenson did not reply. Aside from Xonck, no one brandished any weapon—though, given Xonck’s prowess and the small size of the room, Miss Temple doubted whether anyone else needed one. Yet if their immediate dispatch was not their enemies’ intent, Miss Temple was mystified as to what their plan then was.

At the same time, simply where they sat revealed divisions among them: on one side Crabbe and Roger, and under their arm the Prince (though the Prince would go with whoever was ascendant), and on the other the Comte and Contessa, with Caroline under their sway (though how much she counted, Miss Temple had no clue—did she, Lorenz, and Roger make up a second tier of the Cabal, or were they simply three more drones of the Process?)— and then in the middle and unallied to either, Francis Xonck, his capacity for slaughter quite balancing, especially in these close quarters, the cunning of Crabbe, the knowledge of the Comte, and the provocative charm of the Contessa.

Crabbe looked across to the Contessa and raised his eyebrows in question. She nodded in agreement—or did she grant permission?—and Crabbe cleared his throat. He indicated a cabinet next to Mrs. Stearne.

“Before we start, would any of you care for some refreshment? You must be tired—I know I am tired, and the mere sight of you three—well, it amazes that you can stand. Caroline can get it—there is whisky, brandy, water—”

“If you are drinking,” said Chang, “by all means.”

“Excellent—of course, drinks all round—and my apologies, Caroline, for turning you into a barmaid—Roger, perhaps you will assist. Perhaps for simplicity it can be brandy for everyone.”

There followed an awkward near silence where by tacit agreement all conversation paused until the business of pouring and handing out glasses was accomplished. Miss Temple watched Roger step to Chang and Svenson with a glass in each hand, his face a mask of professional diffidence that never once glanced her way. Her study was broken by Caroline’s touch on her arm, as she was offered her own glass. Miss Temple shook her head, but Caroline pressed the glass hard into her hand, leaving Miss Temple the choice to hold on or let it drop. She looked down at the amber liquid and sniffed, detecting the familiar biting scent she associated with so much that was tiresome and foul.

The entire scene was strange—especially following the rooftop carnage, for she had braced herself for a second deadly struggle, yet here they stood, as sociably arrayed as any dinner party—save the men and women were drinking together—and all of it so patently false that Miss Temple narrowed her eyes. With an audible snort she set her glass on a nearby shelf and wiped her hands.

“Miss Temple?” asked Crabbe. “Would you prefer something else?”

“I would prefer you state your business. If Mr. Xonck will kill us, then let him try.”

“Such impatience.” Crabbe smiled, unctuous and knowing. “We will do our best to satisfy. But first, I give you all the Prince of Macklenburg and his bride!”

He raised his glass and tossed off the contents, as the others followed suit amidst mutters of “the Prince!” and “Lydia!” The Prince smiled heartily and Lydia grinned, her small white teeth showing over her glass as she too drank, but then erupted into a fit of coughing to rival Cardinal Chang. The Prince patted her shoulder as she strove to breathe, her stomach now heaving unpleasantly with the stress. Roger stepped forward and offered a handkerchief which the young lady hurriedly snatched and held before her mouth, spitting into it wetly. The fit finally subsided and, face pale and out of breath, Lydia returned the cloth to Roger with an attempt at a smile. Roger deftly refolded the handkerchief before returning it to his pocket…but not before Miss Temple noticed the fresh, brilliant blue stain.

“Are you quite well, my dear?” asked the Prince.

Before Lydia could speak, Chang threw back his glass and gargled loudly before swallowing the brandy. Doctor Svenson poured his glass on the floor. Crabbe took all this in and exhaled sadly.

“Ah well…one cannot always please. Caroline?” Mrs. Stearne collected their glasses. Crabbe cleared his throat and gestured vaguely at the room around them.

“So we begin.”

“Through your determined efforts at destruction, we are no longer able to easily determine what you know of our plans, or in whom you might have confided. Mrs. Marchmoor is well on her way to the city, Angelique and poor Elspeth are no more.” He held up his hand. “Please know that I am speaking to you as the one most able to control my rage—if it were any of my associates, a recitation of even these facts would result in your immediate deaths. While it is true we could subject you to the Process, or distill your memories within a book, both of these endeavors demand time we do not have, and facilities beyond this craft. It is also true we could do both these things upon arrival in Macklenburg, yet our need for your knowledge cannot wait. Upon arrival we must know where we stand, and if…within our ranks…there is a Judas.”

He held out his glass to Roger for more brandy, and continued speaking as it was poured.

“This latest confrontation on the rooftop—wasteful and distressing, I trust, to all —only reinforces our earlier decision that we would have been best served with your talents incorporated to our cause—via the Process. Thank you, Roger.” Crabbe drank. “Do not bother to protest—we no longer expect any such conversions, nor—given the grief you have inflicted—would they now be accepted. The situation could not be clearer. We hold Mrs. Dujong. You will answer our questions or she will die—and I’m sure you can imagine the sort of death I mean, the time it will take, and how distressing such prolonged screams will be in such an enclosed place