The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

herself from the painful isolation of her time at Harschmort.
    “Ah,” she said, “number 27.” She stopped to the side of the door, allowing Svenson to open it. He did so and peered inside, then indicated that she should enter before him. She shook her head. “No, Doctor. You must sleep. I will return to my own rooms, and when you have restored yourself, alert Mr. Spanning and he will send word, and the two of us can properly confer. I assure you I am looking toward that time with great impatience, but until you are fully rested—”
    She was interrupted by the sound of a door opening farther down the corridor. Out of habit she glanced toward the sound and then returned her gaze to Svenson…and then—her eyes widening in surprise, the words dying on her lips—turned back to the guest who had just stepped into the hallway from his room. The man stood watching her, his eyes shifting quickly between her and Svenson. Miss Temple saw the Doctor’s own expression was one of shock, even as she felt him groping in the pocket of his greatcoat. The man in the corridor walked slowly toward them, his footsteps absorbed by the thick carpet. He was tall, his hair black, his deep red coat reaching nearly down to the floor. He wore the same round dark glasses she had seen on the train. His movements were gracefully muscular, like a cat’s, exuding ease and menace equally. She knew she should be reaching in her bag for the revolver, but instead calmly placed her hand over the Doctor’s, stilling his movement. The man in red stopped perhaps a yard or two away. He looked at her—she could not see his eyes—then looked at the Doctor, and then at the open door between them.
    He whispered, conspiratorially. “No blood. No princes. Shall we send for tea?”

    The man in red shut the door behind him, his masked, depthless eyes fixed on Miss Temple and the Doctor as they stood in the small sitting room. Each had managed to secure a firm grip on their respective weapons. For a long moment, all three glanced back and forth between each other in silence. Finally, Miss Temple spoke to Doctor Svenson.
    “I take it you know this man?”
    “We have not spoken…perhaps it is better to say that we overlapped. His name—correct me if I am wrong, Sir—is Chang.”
    The man in red nodded in acknowledgment. “I do not know your name, though the lady…it’s a pleasure to formally meet the famous Isobel Hastings.”
    Miss Temple did not answer. Beside her, she could feel Svenson sputtering. He pulled away from her, his eyes goggling.
    “Isobel Hastings? But you—you were with Bascombe!”
    “I was,” said Miss Temple.
    “But…how did they not know you? I am sure he is looking for you as well!”
    “She looks very different in the…daylight.” Chang chuckled.
    Svenson stared at her, taking in the bruises, the red line traced by the bullet.
    “I’m a fool….” he whispered. “But…how—I beg your pardon—”
    “He was on the train,” she said to Svenson, her gaze fixed on Chang. “On my return from Harschmort. We did not speak.”
    “Did we not?” asked Chang. He looked to Svenson. “Did
we
not speak? You and I? I think we did. A man like me. A woman covered in blood—did she tell you that? A man brazening his way into and then away from a pack of enemies with a pistol. I think there was, in each instance…recognition.”
    No one spoke for a moment. Miss Temple took a seat on the small sofa. She looked up at the Doctor and indicated the armchair. He wavered, but then sat in it. They both looked at Chang, who drifted to the remaining chair, across from them both. It was only then that Miss Temple realized that something bright was tucked within his hand—his razor. From the way he moved, she had no doubt that he was far more dangerous with the razor than the two of them with their pistols put together—and if that was the case, then something entirely else was called for. She cleared her throat and very deliberately brought her hand out of her green clutch bag. She then took the bag from her lap and placed it to the side on the sofa. A moment later, Chang abruptly shoved the razor into his pocket. After another few seconds, Svenson removed his hand from his coat pocket.
    “Were you in earnest about the tea?” Miss Temple asked. “I should like some very much. It is always best when discussing serious matters to do so around a teapot. Doctor—you are nearest—if you would be so kind as to ring the