The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

open culvert. “If I might suggest,” the Doctor said, “it seems an excellent time to attempt to leave through the alley.”

    As they made their way down a luxuriously carpeted stairway, Miss Temple wondered that anyone thought themselves immune to housebreaking or burglary at all. It had taken Chang but a moment to effect their entry into a dwelling whose owners she was sure prided themselves on inviolable security. They were fortunate not to find anyone at home on the upper stories (for the servants who lived in those rooms were at work), and were able to creep quietly past the floors where they heard footsteps or clinking crockery or even in one case an especially repellent huffing. Miss Temple knew that the ground floor and the rear entrance itself would be the most likely places for a confrontation—these
would
be occupied by servants, if no one else—and so as they stepped free of the staircase she made a point to thrust herself in front of Chang and Svenson despite their looks of surprise. She knew full well that she could offer an appearance that was unthreatening but nevertheless imperious, where each of them would invite the outrage sparked by any interloping man. From the corner of her eye she saw a young housemaid stacking jars who out of instinct bobbed into a curtsey at her passing. Miss Temple acknowledged the girl with a nod and strode on into the kitchen, which held at least three servants hard at work. She smiled at them crisply. “Good afternoon. My name is Miss Hastings—I require your rear door.” She did not pause for their reply. “I expect it is this way? I am obliged to you. What a well-kept room—the teapots are especially fine—” Within moments she was beyond them and down a short flight of stairs to the door itself. She stepped aside for Chang to open it, for behind him and over the Doctor’s shoulder she saw the crowd of curious faces that had followed. “Have you seen the parade of cavalry?” she called. “It is the Prince’s Own 4th Dragoons—my goodness, they are splendid! Such trumpets, and so many fine animals—remarkable. Good day!” She followed the Doctor through the door and exhaled with relief as Chang closed it behind them.
    The sound of hoofbeats was fainter—the parade was already passing by. As they ran toward the alley’s end, Miss Temple noted with alarm that Chang had drawn his long double-edged knife and Svenson his revolver. Miss Temple groped at her green bag, but needed one hand to hold up her dress to run and could not successfully open it with the other. If she was a cursing sort of girl she would have been cursing then, for the obvious urgency with which her companions treated the situation had caught her unawares. They were at the street. Svenson took hold of her arm as they walked rapidly away from the Boniface. Chang loped a pace or two behind, his eyes searching for enemies. There were no cries, no shots. They reached the next street and Svenson wheeled her around the corner. They pressed themselves against the wall and waited for Chang to follow a moment later. He shrugged, and the three of them continued away as quickly as they could. It seemed incredible to be free so easily, and Miss Temple could not help but smile at their success.
    Before either of the men could set a path, Miss Temple picked up her pace so that they would be forced to follow her. They rounded the corner into the next broad avenue—Regent’s Gate—where ahead of them, Miss Temple spotted a familiar awning. She steered them toward it. She’d had an idea.
    “Where are you going?” asked Chang, brusquely.
    “We must strategize,” answered Miss Temple. “We cannot do it in the street. We cannot do it in a café—the three of us would be much talked of—”
    “Perhaps a private room—” suggested Svenson.
    “Then we would be even
more
talked of,” interrupted Miss Temple. “But there is a place where no one will comment on our strange little band.”
    “What place?” asked Chang with suspicion.
    She smiled at her cleverness. “It is an art gallery.”

    The artist presently exhibited was a Mr. Veilandt—a painter from somewhere near Vienna—whose work Roger had taken her to see as a way of showing favor to a visiting group of Austrian bankers. Miss Temple had been alone among the party to pay the art itself any attention—in her case, a negative interest, for she found the paintings unsettling and presumptuous. Everyone else had ignored them in