Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“Two men,” Miss Temple said. “Two horrible men.”

She could not for the moment say more. On impulse she removed a handkerchief from her bag, moistened a corner and leaned forward to dab at a thin line of blood etched across the Doctor’s face. He muttered apologies and took the cloth from her, stepping away, and stabbed vigorously at his face. After a moment, he pulled it away and folded it over, offering it back. She motioned for him to keep it, smiling grimly and offhandedly wiping her eye.

“Let me see the other card,” said Miss Temple. “You have another in your pocket.”

Svenson blanched. “I—I do not think, the time—”

“I do insist.” She was determined to learn more about Roger’s inner life—who he had seen, the bargains with Crabbe, his true feelings for her. Svenson was blathering excuses—did he want some kind of exchange?

“I cannot allow—a lady—please—”

Miss Temple handed him the first card. “The country house belongs to Roger’s uncle, Lord Tarr.”

“Lord Tarr is his uncle?”

“Of course Lord Tarr is his uncle.”

Svenson did not speak. Miss Temple pointedly raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“But Lord Tarr has been murdered,” said Svenson.

Miss Temple gasped.

“Francis Xonck spoke of this Bascombe’s inheritance,” said Svenson, “that he would soon be important and powerful—my thought—when Crabbe says ‘decision’—”

“I’m afraid that is quite impossible,” snapped Miss Temple.

But even as she spoke, her mind raced. Roger had not been his uncle’s heir. While Lord Tarr (a gouty difficult man) had no sons, he did have daughters with male children of their own—it had been quite clearly and bitterly explained to her by Roger’s mother. Moreover, as if to confirm Roger’s peripheral status, on their sole visit to Tarr Manor, its ever-ailing Lord proved disinclined to see Roger, much less make the acquaintance of Roger’s provincial fiancee. And now Lord Tarr had been murdered, and Roger somehow acclaimed as his heir to lands and title? She could not trust it for a minute—but what other inheritance could Roger have? She did not think Roger Bascombe a murderer—all the more since having herself recently met several of the species— but she knew he was weak and tractable, despite his broad shoulders and his poise, and she suddenly felt cold…the people he had fallen in with, the demonstration he had willingly witnessed in the operating theatre…within her vow to ruin him, her utter and complete disdain for all things Bascombe, it was with a tinge of sorrow that Miss Temple felt oddly certain that he was lost. Just as she had wondered, in the operating theatre at Harschmort, if Roger had truly understood with whom or what he had become entangled—and in that wondering felt a pang at being unable to protect him from his own blindness when it came to the powerful and rich—so Miss Temple felt suddenly sure that, one way or another and without it being his intention, these events would be his doom.

She looked up at Svenson. “Give me the other card. Either I am your ally or I am not.”

“You have not even told me your name.”

“Haven’t I?”

“No, you have not,” said the Doctor.

Miss Temple pursed her lips, then smiled at him graciously and offered her hand, along with her standard explanation.

“I am Miss Temple, Celestial Temple. My father enjoyed astronomy—I am fortunate not to be named for one of Jupiter’s moons.” She hesitated, then exhaled. “Though if we are to be true allies, then—yes—you must call me Celeste. Of course you must—though I am quite unable to call you, what is it—Abelard? You are older, foreign, and it would in any case be ridiculous.” She smiled. “There. I am so very pleased to have made your acquaintance. I am sure I have never before met an officer of the Macklenburg Navy, nor a captain-surgeon of any kind.”

Doctor Svenson took her hand awkwardly. He bent over to kiss it. She pulled it away, not unkindly.

“You needn’t do that. It is not Germany.”

“Of course…as you say.” Miss Temple saw with some small satisfaction that Doctor Svenson was blushing.

She smiled at him, her gaze pointedly drifting to the pocket that held the second card. He noted this and hesitated, quite awkwardly. She did not see the difficulty—she had already seen the other—she would not be disoriented a second time.

“Perhaps you would prefer to view it in a more private room—”

“I would not.”

Svenson sighed and fished out the card. He handed it to her with an evident wave of trepidation. “The man— it is not Bascombe—is my Prince—also a rake. It is the St. Royale Hotel. Perhaps you will know the woman—I know her as Mrs. Marchmoor…or the…ah…spectators. In this glass card—the, ah, vantage of experience—lies with the lady.” He stood and turned away from her, making a fuss of finding and lighting another cigarette, refusing to meet her eye. She glanced at the desk clerks, who were still watching with interest, despite being unable to hear the intense conversation, then to Svenson, who she saw had discreetly stepped away and turned to study the leaves of a large potted plant. Her curiosity was thoroughly piqued. She looked into the card.

When she lowered the card some minutes later, Miss Temple’s face was flushed and her breathing rapid. She looked nervously around her, met the idly curious eye of the desk clerk and immediately turned away. She was relieved and somewhat touched to see that Doctor Svenson still had his back to her—for he clearly knew what she had been experiencing, if only by virtue of another woman’s body. She could not believe what had just happened— what had not happened, despite the intimacy, the utterly persuasive intimacy of the equally disquieting and delicious sensations. She had just—she could not believe—in public, for the first time, without warning!—and felt ashamed that she had so insisted, that she had not taken the Doctor’s strong hint to withdraw—and so had been—a man she did not know, nor had feelings for—though she had sensed the lady’s feelings for him, or for the experience—could those be separated? She shifted in her seat and straightened her dress, feeling to her dismay an undeniable, insistent itching tickle between her legs. If her aunt had at that moment asked again about her virtue, how should she answer? Miss Temple looked down at the glass rectangle in her hands, and marveled at the vast and thoroughly disquieting possibilities residing in such a creation.

She cleared her throat. Doctor Svenson turned at once, his gaze flickering across her, refusing for a moment to meet her eyes. He stepped closer to the settee. She handed him the glass card and smiled up at him quite shyly.

“My goodness…”

He returned it to his pocket, touchingly mortified. “I am desperately sorry—I’m afraid I did not make clear —”

“Do not trouble yourself—please, it is I who should apologize—though in truth I should prefer not to speak of it further.”

“Of course—forgive me—it is vulgar of me to go on so.”

She did not answer—for she could not answer without prolonging what she herself had just expressed a desire to curtail. There followed a pause. The Doctor looked at her with an uncomfortable expression. He had no idea what to say next. Miss Temple sighed.

“The lady, whose—as you say, whose vantage is conveyed—do you know her?”

“No, no—but did you…perhaps…recognize anyone?”

“I could not be sure—they were all masked, but I think the lady—”

“Mrs. Marchmoor.”

“Yes. I believe I have seen her before. I do not know her name, nor even her face, for I have only seen her so masked.”

She saw Doctor Svenson’s eyes widen. “At the engagement party?” He paused. “At—at Lord Vandaariff’s!”

Miss Temple did not answer at once, for she was thinking. “Indeed, at…ah—what is the name of his house?”

“Harschmort.”

“That’s right—it was once some kind of ruin?”