Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

striking the wall and then seeming to retreat within his own body, meeting her gaze but flinching, for her eyes were empty of affection.

“Rosamonde,” rasped the Comte. “If we question him together—”

But then the Contessa darted forward, sharp as a striking cobra, to whisper in Roger’s ear. Miss Temple could only catch the odd word, but when she heard the first—“blue”—she knew the Contessa was whispering Roger’s own control phrase, and that by speaking it before any of the others, the woman had made sure Roger must answer her questions alone. The Contessa stepped away and Roger sank down to sit on the floor, his expression empty and his eyes dulled.

“Rosamonde—” Crabbe tried again, but again the Contessa ignored him, speaking crisply down to Roger, his head at the level of her thighs.

“Roger…is what Doctor Svenson tells us true?”

“Yes.”

Before Crabbe could speak the Contessa pressed Roger again.

“Were Lord Robert’s memories distilled into a book?”

“No.”

“They were written down.”

“Yes.”

“And those papers are on board?”

“Yes. I transferred them to the Prince’s bag to hide them. Flauss insisted on managing the Prince’s bag and realized what they were.”

“So you shot him.”

“Yes.”

“And in all of this, Roger,…who did you serve? Who gave the orders?”

“Deputy Minister Crabbe.”

Crabbe said nothing, his mouth open in shock, his face drained of any color. He looked helplessly to the Comte, to Xonck, but could not speak. Still facing Roger, the Contessa called behind her.

“Caroline, would you be kind enough to ask Doctor Lorenz exactly where we are on our route?”

Caroline, whose gaze had been fixed on Roger Bascombe’s slumped form, looked up with surprise, stood at once, and left the cabin.

“I say,” muttered the Prince, aggrieved. “He put those papers in my bag? And shot my man because of it? Damn you, Crabbe! Damn your damned insolence!” Lydia Vandaariff patted her fiance’s knee.

“Your Highness,” hissed Crabbe urgently, “Bascombe is not telling the truth—I do not know how—it could be any of you! Anyone with his control phrase! Anyone could order him to answer these questions—to implicate me —”

“And how would that person know what these questions were to be?” snarled the Contessa, and then pointed toward the captives. “At least one of them has been provided by Doctor Svenson!”

“For all any of us know, whoever has tampered with Bascombe’s mind could be in league with these three!” cried Crabbe. “It would certainly explain their persistent survival!”

The Contessa’s eyes went wide at the Deputy Minister’s words.

“Bascombe’s mind! Of course—of course, you sneaking little man! You did not halt the examinations in the ballroom for Lord Robert or the Duke—you did it because Roger was suddenly forced to accompany Vandaariff! Because otherwise the Comte would have seen inside his mind—and seen all of your plotting against us plain as day!” She wheeled to the Comte, and gestured to Bascombe on the floor. “Do not believe me, Oskar—ask your own questions, by all means—some questions I will not have anticipated! Or you, Francis—help yourself! For myself I am satisfied, but do go on! Roger—you will answer all questions put to you!”

The Comte’s face betrayed no particular expression, but Miss Temple knew he was already suspicious of the Contessa and so perhaps was genuinely curious, unsure which—or was it both? Or all?—of his confederates had betrayed him.

“Francis?” he rasped.

“Be my guest.” Xonck smiled, not even moving his eyes as he spoke.

The Comte d’Orkancz leaned forward. “Mr. Bascombe,…to your knowledge, did Deputy Minister Crabbe have anything to do with the murder of Colonel Arthur Trapping?”

The Contessa spun to the Comte, her expression wary and her violet eyes dauntingly sharp.

“Oskar, why—”

“No,” said Roger.

The Comte’s next question was interrupted by Caroline Stearne, whose return had brought Doctor Lorenz into the doorway.

“Contessa,” she whispered.

“Thank you, Caroline—would you be so good as to fetch the Prince’s bag?” Caroline took in the tension of the room, her face pale, bobbed her head once and darted from the cabin. The Contessa turned to Lorenz.

“Doctor, how good of you to come—though I do trust someone remains at the wheel?”

“Do not trouble yourself, Madame—I have two good men aloft,” he answered, smiling at his nautical reference. The Doctor’s smile faded as he took in that it was Bascombe on the floor being questioned, and not the prisoners.

“Our position?” the Contessa asked him crisply.

“We are just over the sea,” Lorenz replied. “From here, as you know, there are different routes available— remaining over water, where there is less chance of being seen, or crossing straight to shadow the coast. In this fog it may not matter—”

“And how long until we reach Macklenburg proper?” asked the Comte.

“With either route it will be ten hours at the least. More if the wind is against us…as it presently is…” Lorenz licked his thin lips. “May I ask what is going on?”

“Merely a disagreement between partners,” called Xonck, over his shoulder.

“Ah. And may I ask why they are still alive?”

The Contessa turned to look at them, her eyes settling at last upon Miss Temple. Her expression was not kind.

“We were waiting for you, Doctor. I would not have any bodies found on land. The sea will take them—and if one does happen to wash up on a beach, it will only be after days in the water. By that time even the lovely Miss Temple will be as grey and shapeless as a spoiled milk pudding.”

Caroline appeared again, the bag in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.

“Madame—”

“Excellent as always, Caroline,” said the Contessa. “I am so glad you retain your flesh. Can you read them?”

“Yes, Madame. They are Lord Vandaariff’s writings. I recognize his hand.”

“And what does he write about?”

“I cannot begin—the account is exhaustive—”

“I suppose it would be.”

“Madame—would it not be better—”

“Thank you, Caroline.”

Caroline bobbed her head and remained in the doorway with Lorenz, both of them watching the room with nervous fascination. The Comte frowned darkly, beads of sweat had broken out on Xonck’s forehead, and Crabbe’s face had gone so pale as to seem bloodless. Only the Contessa smiled, but it was a smile that frightened Miss Temple more than all the others rolled to one, for above her scarlet lips and sharp white teeth the woman’s eyes glittered like violet knife-points. She realized that the Contessa was pleased, that she looked forward to what would come with the bodily hunger of a mother embracing her child.

The Contessa drifted to Xonck, placing her face next to his.

“What do you think, Francis?” she whispered.