The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

to him. “More than were inside—Chang thinks they are
gathering
.”
    Svenson nodded. He was digging out another cigarette.
    “You consume those at quite a rate, don’t you?” she said affably. “We shall have to find you more.”
    “That will be difficult,” he said, smiling. “They are from Riga, from a man I know in a Macklenburg shop—I cannot get them otherwise
there,
and doubt anyone could find them
here
. I have a cedar box of them in my room at the compound—for all the good it does me.”
    Miss Temple narrowed her eyes. “Without them…will you become peevish and ill?”
    “I will not,” said Svenson. “What is more, the effects of tobacco are entirely beneficial to me—a restorative that both soothes and awakens.”
    “It is the chewing and spitting of tobacco I dislike,” said Miss Temple. “Such usage is common where I come from, and fully abhorrent. Besides, tobacco of any kind stains the teeth most awfully.” She noticed the Doctor’s teeth were stained the color of new-cut oak.
    “Where are you from?” asked Svenson, pressing his lips together self-consciously.
    “An island,” Miss Temple answered simply. “Where it is
warmer,
and one may eat fresh fruit on a regular basis. Ah, here is Chang.”
    “I can see soldiers in the main streets,” he said, walking up to them, “but not at the alley. There is a chance we can go through this rooftop”—here he pointed to an undoubtedly locked door that led into the town house—“and out to the alley. I do not, however, see how we can hope to leave the alley itself, for each end of it will lead us to them.”
    “Then we are trapped,” said Svenson.
    “We can hide downstairs,” said Chang.
    They turned to Miss Temple for her opinion—which in itself was gratifying—but before she could answer, there was the sound of trumpets, echoing to the rooftops.

    She turned to the sound, its clear call seemingly answered by a crisp low rumbling. “Horses,” she said, “a great many of them!” All three, Miss Temple steadying the Doctor’s arm, crept carefully to look over the main avenue. Below them, filling the street, was a parade of mounted soldiers in bright red tunics and shining brass helmets, each draped with a black horse’s tail.
    “Are they coming for us?” she cried.
    “I do not know,” said Chang. She saw him share a look with Svenson, and wished they would not do this so often, or at least so openly.
    “The 4th Dragoons,” said the Doctor, and he pointed to an important-looking figure whose epaulettes dripped with gold fringe. “Colonel Aspiche.”
    Miss Temple watched the man ride by, officers to either side, lines of troopers in front and behind—a stern figure, gaze unwavering, his finely groomed horse immaculately controlled. She tried to count his men but they moved too quickly—at least a hundred, perhaps more than twice that. Then there was a gap between the lines of horsemen, and Miss Temple squeezed Doctor Svenson’s arm. “Carts!”
    It was a train of some ten carts each driven by uniformed soldiers.
    “The carts are empty,” said Svenson.
    Chang nodded toward the Boniface. “They are going past the hotel. This has nothing to do with us.”
    It was true. Miss Temple saw the red mass of uniforms continuing past the hotel and then winding toward Grossmaere.
    “What is in that direction?” she asked. “The St. Royale is the other way.”
    Doctor Svenson leaned forward. “It is the Institute. They are going to the Institute with
empty
carts—the glass machinery—the—the—what did you say, both of you—the
boxes
—”
    “Boxes in carts were delivered to Harschmort,” said Chang. “Boxes were all over their Institute laboratory.”
    “The boxes at Harschmort were lined with orange felt, and had numbers painted on them,” said Miss Temple.
    “At the Institute…the linings were not orange,” said Chang. “They were blue.”
    “I would bet my eyes they are collecting more,” said Svenson. “Or relocating their workplace, after the death at the Institute.”
    Below them the trumpets sounded again—Colonel Aspiche was not one for a demure passage. Svenson tried to speak over them but the words were lost to Miss Temple. He tried again, leaning closer to them, pointing down. “Major Blach’s men have entered the hotel.” Miss Temple saw that he was right—a stream of black figures, just visible along the edges of the red horsemen, scurrying toward the Boniface like rats for an