Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“Are they coming here?”

He shook his head.

“Do you have plans to meet them?”

Chang nodded. Rosamonde sighed.

“Well, I’m not going to spend all my time guessing where…you spoke to Xonck. He is suspicious—of me in particular?”

Chang nodded.

“Did Bascombe hear you speak?”

Chang shook his head. She smiled.

“Then there is ample time…it is true that Francis Xonck carries some of his older brother’s great power, but only a very little, for he is so rebellious and rakish that there is no intimacy of friendship between them, and little prospect of inheritance. But of course I am a friend to Francis no matter what—so he truly has nowhere else to go. So, enough of that—imagine, you trying to scare me—what about what you know, from your investigations…do you know who killed Colonel Trapping?”

Chang shook his head.

“Do you know why we have chosen Macklenburg?”

Chang shook his head.

“Do you know of Oskar Veilandt?”

Chang nodded.

“Really? Good for you. Do you know of the blue glass?”

Chang nodded.

“Ah…not so good—for your survival, I mean. What have you seen…wait, were you at the Institute?”

Chang nodded.

“Breaking in—that was you, when that idiot dropped the book—or did you perhaps cause him to drop the book?”

Chang nodded.

“Incredible—you’re an unstoppable force. He’s dead, you know—and then of course what happened to the Comte’s girl because of it—but I don’t suppose that would bother you?”

In the prison of his mind Chang was wrenched by the confirmation that his actions had doomed Angelique. He nodded. Rosamonde cocked her head.

“Really? Not for the man. Wait—wait, the girl…she was from the brothel—I did not think you so chivalrous— but wait, could you know her?”

Chang nodded. Rosamonde laughed.

“It is the coincidence of a novel for ladies. Let me guess…did you love her terribly?”

Chang nodded. Rosamonde laughed even louder.

“Oh, that is priceless! Dear, dear Cardinal Chang…I believe you have just given me the nugget of information I require to make friends again with Mr. Xonck—an unintended prize.” She attempted to compose her face but was still grinning. “Have you seen any glass other than the broken book?”

Chang nodded.

“I am sorry, for your sake. Was it—yes of course, the Prince had one of the Comte’s novelty cards, didn’t he? Has there ever been a man who likes more to watch himself? Did the Doctor find it?”

Chang nodded.

“So the Doctor and Miss Temple know of the blue glass as well?”

Chang nodded.

“And they know of the Process—never mind, of course they do—she saw it for herself, and the Doctor examined the Prince…do you know the significance of Lydia Vandaariff’s marriage?”

Chang shook his head.

“Have you been to Tarr Manor?”

Chang shook his head. Her eyes narrowed.

“Miss Temple has been there, I expect, with Roger…but so long ago it would not signify. All right. One last question for the moment…am I the most exquisite woman you’ve ever known?”

Chang nodded. She smiled. Then, slowly, like a sunset slipping over the horizon, her smile faded and she sighed. “It is a sweet thought to end on, perhaps for both of us. The end itself is regrettable. You are an exotic dish for me…quite raw…and I would have preferred to linger over you. I am sorry.” She reached into the tiny pocket of her fitted silk jacket and came up with another dose of fine blue powder on the tip of her gloved finger. “Think of it as a way to join your lost love…”

She blew the powder into his face. Chang’s mouth was closed but he could feel it enter through his nose. His head felt as if it was freezing then and there, his blood stiffening, splitting the veins within his skull. He was in agony but could not move. His ears echoed with an audible crack. His eyes swam. He was staring at the floor tiles. He had fallen. He was blind. He was dead.

The chandelier was formed of three concentric large iron rings, each ring set with forged-metal sockets to hold candles…in all three rings perhaps a hundred sockets. Chang looked up to the high ceiling above him and saw perhaps eight of them still lit. How much time had passed? He had no idea. He could barely think. He rolled over to be sick and found that he had already done so, perhaps many times. The discharge was blue and—even to him— stinking. He rolled in the other direction. He felt as if someone had cut off his head and packed it in ice and straw.

It was his nose that had saved him, he was sure. The damage inside, the scars, the blockages—somehow the powder, or enough of the powder to kill, had not fully penetrated. He wiped his face—blue smears of mucus ran from his mouth and each nostril. She had intended to kill him with an overdose but his scarred passages had prevented the fatal concentration from taking effect, absorbing the vile chemicals more slowly and allowing him the time to survive. How long had it taken? He looked up at the round windows. It was after nightfall. The room was cold, with wax spattered on the floor in a sloppy ring where it had dripped to the floor. He tried to sit up. He could not. He curled up away from the vomit and shut his eyes.

He woke feeling distinctly better, if still only slightly more spry than a slaughtered pig on a hook. He rolled to his knees, working his tongue in his mouth with revulsion. He dug for a handkerchief and wiped his face. There did not seem to be any water in the room. Chang stood, shutting his eyes. The darkness weaved about him, but he did not fall. He saw the teapot, on its side on the floor. He picked it up and shook it gently—the dregs were still there sloshing. Taking care not to cut himself on the broken spout, he poured the bitter tea into his mouth, worked it around and then spat it on the floor. He took another sip and swallowed, then set the broken pot on the tea tray. With no small feeling of wonder, he saw his stick underneath the table. He understood that leaving it was a gesture of contempt—mainly so his body would be found with a weapon. As weak and sick as he felt, Chang was more than willing to make them regret it.

The room had a lantern and, after some minutes of search, matches to light it. The door opened into darkness as before, but now Chang was able to navigate clearly, if not with any knowledge of where he should go. He wandered for some minutes, finding no other person, nor hearing any noise, through various storage rooms, meeting rooms, and hallways. He did not see any of the rooms he remembered passing through with Bascombe and Xonck, and instead simply forged ahead, alternating left and right turns in an attempt to keep a straight line. This eventually brought him to a dead end: a large door without lock or knob. It would not budge. It was either sealed or barred from the other side. Chang shut his eyes. He felt sick again, his weakened body overtaxed by the walking. In frustration, he pounded on the door.

A muffled voice answered him from the other side. “Mr. Bascombe?”

Instead of calling out, Chang pounded again on the door. He heard the bar being shifted. He did not know what to prepare for—whether he should fling the lantern, ready his stick, or retreat. He was without the energy for any of them. The door was pulled back. Chang was faced with a red-coated Dragoon private.

He took in Chang. “You’re not Mr. Bascombe.”

“Bascombe’s gone,” said Chang. “Hours ago—you didn’t see him?”