The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Miss Temple swept in and was silent as her mistress examined her purchases.
    Miss Temple was extremely pleased, going even so far as to give Marie a congratulatory smile. Marie then pointed out the box of cartridges that sat by the mirror, and gave Miss Temple the receipts and leftover money. Miss Temple quickly scrutinized the figures and, satisfied, gave Marie an extra two coins for her efforts. Marie bobbed in surprise at the coins and again as Miss Temple motioned her out of the room. The door shut behind her, Miss Temple smiled again and turned to her purchases. The silk felt delicious between her fingers. She was happy to see that Marie had been smart enough to select a green that matched the dress she was wearing, and her boots. In the mirror, Miss Temple saw her own beaming face and blushed, looking away. She composed herself, cleared her throat, and called for her maids.
    After the two young women had taken apart her dress and corset, helped her into the green silk undergarments, and then restored her outer layers, Miss Temple—her entire body tickling with enjoyment—carried the box of cartridges to the main table. With all the casual efficiency she could muster, recalling each step of Chang’s instruction, she struck up a conversation with her aunt, and as she spoke, spun the cylinder, snapped it open, and smoothly loaded each empty chamber with a shell.
    “I have been reading the newspapers, Aunt,” she began.
    “It seems you have enough of them.”
    “And do you know what I have learned? I saw the most astonishing announcement about Roger Bascombe’s uncle, Lord Tarr.”
    Aunt Agathe pursed her lips. “You should not be bothering with—”
    “Did you see the announcement?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Perhaps?”
    “There is so much that I do not remember, my dear—”
    “That he has been
murdered,
Aunt.”
    Her aunt did not reply at once. When she did, it was merely to say, “Ah.”
    “Ah,” echoed Miss Temple.
    “He was quite gouty,” observed her aunt, “something dire was bound to happen. I understand it was wolves.”
    “Apparently not. Apparently the wound was altered to
implicate
wolves.”
    “People will do anything,” muttered Agathe.
    She reached to pour more tea. Miss Temple slapped the cylinder back into position and spun it. At the noise, her aunt froze in position, eyes wide in alarm. Miss Temple leaned forward and spoke as deliberately and patiently as she could.
    “My dear Aunt, you must accept that the money you need is in my possession, and thus, despite our difference in age, that I am your mistress. These are facts. Your position will not be helped by frustrating me. On the contrary, the more we work in concert, the more I promise your situation will improve. I have no wish to be your enemy, but you must see that your previous sense of what was best—my marriage to Roger Bascombe—is no longer appropriate.”
    “If you were not so
difficult
—” her aunt burst out, stopping herself just as quickly.
    Miss Temple glared at her with unmitigated rage. Aunt Agathe recoiled as if from a snake.
    “I am sorry, my dear,” whispered the frightened woman, “I merely—”
    “I do not care.
I do not care!
I am not asking about Lord Tarr because I
care
! I am asking because—though you do not know it—others have been murdered as well, and Roger Bascombe is in the thick of it—and now he will be the next Lord Tarr! I do not know how Roger Bascombe has become his uncle’s heir. But you do, I am sure—and you are going to tell me this minute.”

    Miss Temple stalked down the corridor toward the stairwell, the clutch bag around her wrist, heavy with the revolver and an extra handful of cartridges. She snorted with annoyance and tossed her head—
difficult
—and cursed her aunt for a small-minded old fool. All the woman thought of was her pension and her propriety, and the number of parties she might be invited to as the relation of a rising Ministry official like Roger. Miss Temple wondered why she should even be surprised—her aunt had only known her for three months, but had been acquainted with the Bascombes for years. How long she must have planned, and how sharp had been her disappointment, Miss Temple sneered. But that her aunt held
her
at fault stung to the quick.
    Yet under pressure she had answered her niece’s questions, though her answers just added to the mystery. Roger’s cousins—the over-fed Pamela and the younger but no less porcine