The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

exhaled and stood.
    “We must assume that the clerk who pointed the way to the Doctor’s room has been paid to inform on us further. We must distract him while my aunt and the maids depart. The men in the street will not be looking for them, or at least not without some signal. Once you do leave,” she said to her aunt, “you must go directly in a coach to the railway station, and from there to the shore, the southern shore—to Cape Rouge, there must be many inns—and I will send a letter to you, to the post office, once we are secure.”
    “What of yourself?” asked Agathe.
    “Oh, we shall shift ourselves easily enough,” she said, forcing a smile. “And this business will soon be over.” She looked over to Svenson and Chang for confirmation, but neither man’s expression would have convinced a credulous child. She called sharply for the maids to finish and gather their coats.

    Miss Temple knew that she herself must go to Mr. Spanning, for the others would more profitably assist with the luggage—as well as best remaining concealed. She looked back to see them making their way to the rear stairs, Chang and Svenson each with an end of her aunt’s clothes trunk, the maids on either side of Agathe, one hand on their own small bags, the other steadying the aged lady. Miss Temple herself made for the main staircase carrying a large satchel and the green purse, wearing as carefree an expression as she could produce and nodding cheerfully at the other guests she passed. At the second floor her path opened onto a large gallery above the splendid lobby and then to the great curve of the main stairs. She glanced over the railing and saw no black-coated soldiery, but directly outside the doors were two men in brown cloaks. She continued down the wide steps and saw Mr. Spanning behind his counter, his gaze snapping up to hers as she descended into view. She smiled brilliantly at him. Spanning’s eyes darted about the lobby as she neared, and so before he could make any signal she gaily called to him.
    “Mr. Spanning!”
    “Miss Temple?” he answered warily, his normally sleek manner caught between distrust and pride in his own cunning.
    She crossed to the desk—from the corners of her eyes seeing that no one lurked under the stairs—while watching the front door in the mirror behind Spanning’s desk. The cloaked men had seen her, but were not coming in. Quite apart from her habit, Miss Temple stood on her toes and leaned her elbows playfully on the counter.
    “I’m sure you know why I have come.” She smiled.
    “Do I?” replied Spanning, forcing an obsequious grin that did not suit him.
    “O yes.” She batted her eyes.
    “I’m sure I do not…”
    “Perhaps you have been so set upon by business that it has slipped your mind…” She looked around the vacant lobby. “Though it does not appear so. Tell me, Mr. Spanning,
have
you been so set upon with pressing duties?” She was still smiling, but a hint of steel had crept into her otherwise honeyed tone.
    “As you know, Miss Temple, my
normal
duties are very—”
    “Yes, yes, but you haven’t had to bother with anyone
else
?”
    Spanning cleared his throat with suspicion. “May I ask—”
    “Do you know,” continued Miss Temple, “I have always meant to inquire as to your brand of pomade, for I have always found your hair to be so very…
managed
. And slick—managed
and
slick. I have wanted to impart such grooming to any number of other men in the city, but have not known what to recommend—and always forget to ask!”
    “It is Bronson’s, Miss.”
    “
Bronson’s
. Excellent.” She leaned in with a suddenly serious expression. “Do you never worry about fire?”
    “Fire?”
    “Leaning too close to a candle? I should think—you know—
whoosh
!” She chuckled. “Ah, it is so pleasant to laugh. But I
am
in earnest, Mr. Spanning. And I do require an answer—no matter how you strive to charm me!”
    “I assure you, Miss Temple—”
    “Of what, Mr. Spanning? Of what do you—this day—
assure
me?”
    She was no longer smiling, but looking directly into the man’s eyes. He did not reply. She brought the green bag onto the counter top, allowing its weight to land with a
thump.
Its contents were not usual for a lady’s purse. Spanning saw her deftly angle the bag in his direction and take hold of it through the fabric—her manner still casual but unaccountably menacing.
    “How precisely may I help you?” he asked