The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

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?”
    “So I am told,” said Svenson, “a coastal fortification—Norman, perhaps—and then after that, with some expansion—”
    Miss Temple recalled the plain, thick, forbidding walls and risked a guess. “A prison?”
    “Exactly so—and then Lord Vandaariff’s own home, purchased from the Crown and completely re-made at some great expense.”
    “And the night before last—”
    “The engagement party, for the Prince and Miss Vandaariff! But—but—you were there?”
    “I confess…I was.”
    He was looking at her with intense curiosity—and she knew that she herself was keenly hungry for more information, particularly after the revelations about Roger and his uncle—and even now, the prospect of another person’s narrative of the masked ball was desperately appealing. But Miss Temple also saw the extreme fatigue in the face and frame of her newfound ally, and—especially as he persisted in glancing suspiciously out of the window to the street—thought it by far the wiser course to procure for him a place to rest and recover, so that once they had agreed on a course of action, he would be capable of following it. Also, she had to admit, she wanted more time to go through the newspapers—now she had a better sense of what to look for—so that, once they did fully hash through each other’s stories, she could present herself as less a foolish girl. She felt that her own experiences ought not to be undermined by the absence of a handful of place names and perfectly obvious—once one thought of them—hypotheses. She stood up. In an instant, his automatic politeness somehow dog-like, Svenson was on his feet.
    “Come with me,” she said, rapidly collecting her papers and books. “I have been shamefully negligent.” She marched across toward the hotel desk, her arms full, looking back at Doctor Svenson, who followed a step behind her, vague protests hovering about his mouth. “Or are you hungry?” she asked.
    “No, no,” he sputtered, “I—moments ago—in the street—coffee—”
    “Excellent. Mr. Spanning?” This was to the sleek man behind the desk, who at once gave Miss Temple his every attention. “This is Doctor Svenson. He will need a room—he has no servants—a sleeping room and a sitting room should suffice. He will want food—some sort of broth, I expect—he is not completely well. And someone to clean his coat and boots. Thank you so much. Charge my account.” She turned to face Svenson and spoke over his incoherent protest. “Do not be a fool, Doctor. You need help—there is an end to it. I am sure you will help me in your turn. Ah, Mr. Spanning, thank you so much. Doctor Svenson has no baggage—he will take the key himself.”
    Mr. Spanning held out the key to Svenson, who took it without a word. Miss Temple heaved her papers onto the counter, quickly signed the chit the clerk had placed in front of her, and then re-gathered her load. With a last crisp smile at Spanning—openly daring the man to find anything in the transaction to assail propriety or sully her reputation in the slightest—she led the way up the main curving flight of stairs, a small industrious figure, with the lanky Doctor bobbing uncertainly in her wake. They reached the second floor and Miss Temple turned to the right, down a wide, red-carpeted corridor.
    “Miss Temple!” whispered Svenson. “Please, this is too much—I cannot accept such charity—we have much to discuss—I am content to find a less expensive room in an unobtrusive lodging house—”
    “That would be most inconvenient,” answered Miss Temple. “I am certainly not inclined to seek you out in such a place, nor—if your furtive looks are anything to judge—ought you to be wandering the streets until we fully understand our danger, and you have had some sleep. Really, Doctor, it is quite sensible.”
    Miss Temple was proud of herself. After so many experiences that seemed almost designed to demonstrate the profound degree of Miss Temple’s ignorance and incapacity, the exercise of such decisive action was highly satisfying. She was also—though she had only known him for a matter of minutes—pleased with herself for making the choice to accept Doctor Svenson, and to extend what aid she could. It was as if the more she was able to do, the farther she removed