Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“I am alive,” muttered Crabbe. “Has Doctor Lorenz finished his work?”

“He has.”

“And your charges?”

“As you can see, quite well—enthusiastic to protect you and avenge the Duke.”

Crabbe sighed. “Perhaps it is best this way, perhaps it can be better worked. You will need to prepare his body.”

Miss Poole nodded, and then looked up beyond Svenson to Eloise. “It seems we have underestimated you, Mrs. Dujong!”

“You left me to die!” shouted Eloise.

“Of course she did,” called Crabbe, rubbing his jaw. “You failed your test—it seemed as if you would die, like the others. It cannot be helped—you are wrong to place blame with Elspeth. Besides, look at you now—so bold!”

“Do you think we were hasty with our decision, Minister?” asked Miss Poole.

“Indeed I do. Perhaps Mrs. Dujong will be joining our efforts after all.”

“Join you?” cried Eloise. “Join you? After—after all—”

“You forget,” called Miss Poole. “Even if you do not remember why you came, I remember it quite well—every noisome little secret you offered up in exchange for your advancement.”

Eloise stood, her mouth open, looking to Svenson, then back at Miss Poole. “I did not—I cannot—”

“You wanted it before,” said Miss Poole. “And you want it still. You’ve proven yourself quite bold.”

“There’s barely a choice, my dear,” observed Crabbe with a sigh.

Svenson saw the confusion on Eloise’s face and jabbed the gun hard into Crabbe’s ear, stopping the man’s speech. “Did you not hear what I said? We will be going at once!”

“O yes, Doctor Svenson, you were heard quite clearly,” Crabbe muttered, wincing. He looked up at Miss Poole. “Elspeth?”

The woman retained her icy smile. “Such chivalry, Doctor. First it is Miss Temple, and now Mrs. Dujong—a veritable collector of hearts you seem, I never would have thought it.”

Svenson ignored her, and yanked Crabbe back toward the stairs.

“We will be taking our leave—”

“Elspeth!” the Deputy Minister croaked.

“You will not,” Miss Poole announced.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Svenson.

“You will not. How many shots remain in your gun?”

Aspiche called back to her from below, a disembodied voice. “She fired three times, and it is a six-shot cylinder.”

“So there you are,” continued Miss Poole, indicating the crowd of men around her. “Three shots. We are at least ten, and you at the very most can shoot three. We will take you.”

“But the first I shoot shall be Minister Crabbe.”

“It is more important that our work proceed, and your escape may endanger it. Do you agree, Minister?”

“Unfortunately, Svenson, the woman is correct—”

Svenson cracked him sharply on the head with the gun butt. “Stop talking!”

Miss Poole spoke to the gang of men behind her. “Doctor Svenson is a German agent. He has succeeded in causing the death of the Queen’s own noble brother—”

Doctor Svenson looked up at Eloise, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Run now,” he told her. “Escape—I will hold them off—”

“Do not bother, Mrs. Dujong,” called Miss Poole. “We cannot allow either of you to leave—really we can’t. And I do promise, Doctor, however much time your bravery does buy your ally, she will not in that dress outrun these gentlemen across three miles of open road.”

Svenson was at a loss. He did not believe they would sacrifice Crabbe so easily—yet could he risk Eloise’s life on the chance? But, if he were to surrender—impossible, surely—what hope would they have of surviving? None! They’d be ash in Lorenz’s oven—it was an appalling thought, unconscionable—

“Doctor…Abelard…” Eloise whispered to him from above. He looked up at her, helpless, sputtering.

“You will not join them—you will not stay—”

“What if she wants to stay?” asked Miss Poole, wickedly.

“She does not—she cannot—be quiet!”

“Doctor Svenson!” It was Lorenz, shouting from below. Svenson edged closer to the rail—pulling his hostage with him—and looked down. The man had walked over to the large conglomeration of tarps, covering the hidden train car. “Perhaps this will convince you of our great purpose!”

Lorenz pulled on a rope line and the tarps were released. At once the great shape beneath them rose some twenty feet in a lurch, thrusting up clear of the covering. It was an enormous cylindrical gasbag, an airship, a dirigible. As it ascended to the limits of its tethering cables, he could see propellers, engines, and the large cabin underneath. The entire thing was even larger than he’d thought, expanding like an insect coming out of its cocoon, an iron skeleton of supporting struts snapping into place as it rose—and the whole painted to perfectly match the deepest midnight sky. Traveling at night the craft would be near invisible.

Before Svenson could say a word, Eloise screamed. He wheeled to see her off balance, a man’s hand incongruously holding onto her leg through the gap in the stairs—an arm in a red sleeve, Aspiche, reaching up from below while he’d been distracted by Lorenz’s spectacle like a gullible fool. Svenson watched helplessly as she tried to pull herself free, to step on his wrist with her other foot—it was all that was needed for the spell to be broken. The men around Miss Poole surged forward, cutting Svenson off from Eloise. Crabbe dropped into a ball on the planking, pulling Svenson off balance. Before he could re-position the pistol the men were upon him—a fist across his jaw, a forearm clubbing him across the head and he staggered back into the rail. Eloise screamed again—they were all around her—he had failed her completely. The men scooped him up bodily and threw him over the rail.

He came to his senses with the cloudless black night sky in motion above him and the steady bumping of gravel and dirt beneath his skull. He was being dragged by his feet. It took the Doctor a moment to realize that his arms were over his head and his greatcoat tangled up behind, scooping up loose earth like a rake as he was pulled along. Toward the oven, he knew. He craned his head and saw a man at each leg, two of Lorenz’s fellows. Where was Eloise? He felt the pain in his neck and aches everywhere, but nowhere the sharp jarring agony that must mean a broken bone—and the way they carried his legs and his arms dragged, he would certainly know. His hands were empty—what had happened to his revolver? He cursed his pathetic attempts at heroism. Rescued by a woman only to betray her trust with incompetence. As soon as the men saw he was awake they would simply dash his brains out with a brick. And what could he possibly do, unarmed, against both of them? He thought of everyone he had failed…how would this be any different?

The men dropped his legs without ceremony. Svenson blinked, still groggy, as one of them looked back at him with a knowing smile, and the other stepped to the oven.

“He’s awake,” said the smiling one.

“Hit him with the shovel,” called the other.

“I will at that,” said the first, and began to look around him for it.

Svenson tried to sit up, to run, but his body—awkward, aching, stiff—did not respond. He rolled onto his side and forced his knees up beneath him, pushing off and then up into a stumbling tottering attempt to walk away.

“Where do you think you’re going, then?” called the laughing voice behind him. Svenson flinched, fearing any moment to feel the shovel slicing across the back of his skull. His eyes searched for some answer, some idea—but only saw the dirigible hovering across the quarry and above it a pitiless black sky. Could this be the finish? So pedestrian and brutal, cut down like a beast in a farmyard? With a sudden impulse Svenson spun around to face the man, extending his open hand.

“A moment, I beg of you.”

The man had indeed picked up the shovel and held it ready to swing. His companion stood some feet behind him, with a metal hook he’d clearly just used to pry open the oven hatch—even this far from the glowing furnace Svenson could feel the increase in heat. They smiled at him.