The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Doctor, we will need to know who has
bought
this painting!”

    The gallery agent, a Mr. Shanck, was happy to oblige them with information (after the Doctor had thoroughly inquired as to prices and delivery procedures for several of the larger paintings, in between mutters about wall space in the Macklenburg Palace), but unfortunately what Mr. Shanck knew was little: Veilandt himself was a mystery, school in Vienna, sojourns in Italy and Constantinople,
atelier
in Montmartre. The paintings had come from a dealer in Paris, where he understood Veilandt had died. He glanced toward the opulent compositions and tendered that he did not doubt it was due to consumption or absinthe or some other such destructive mania. The present owner wished to remain anonymous—in Mr. Shanck’s view because of the
oeuvre
’s scandalous nature—and Shanck’s only dealings were with his opposite number at a gallery in the Boulevard St. Germain. Mr. Shanck clearly relished the patina of intrigue around the collection, as he relished sharing his privileged information with those he deemed discerning. His expression faltered into suspicion however when Miss Temple, in a fully casual manner, wondered who had purchased the “odd little painting”, and if he might have any others like it for purchase. She quite fancied it, and would love another for her home. In fact, he outright blanched.
    “I…I assumed—you mentioned the wedding—the Prince—”
    Miss Temple nodded in agreement, dispelling none of the man’s sudden fear.
    “Exactly. Thus my interest in buying one for myself.”
    “But none are available for purchase at all! They never were!”
    “That seems no way to run a gallery,” she said, “and besides,
one
has been sold—”
    “Why—why else would you come?” he said, more to himself than to her, his voice fading as he spoke.
    “To see the paintings, Mr. Shanck—as I told you—”
    “It was not even
bought
,” he sputtered, waving at the small canvas. “It was given,
for
the wedding. It is a gift for Lydia Vandaariff. The entire exhibition has been arranged for no other reason than to reunite each canvas with the others in a single collection! Anyone acquainted with the gallery—anyone suitable to be
informed
—surely, the union of the artist’s themes…religion…morality…appetite…mysticism…you must be aware…the forces at work—the
dangerous
…”
    Mr. Shanck looked at them and swallowed nervously. “If you did not know
that
—how did you—who did you—”
    Miss Temple saw the man’s rising distress and found she was instinctively smiling at him, shaking her head—it was all a misunderstanding—but before she could actually speak, Chang stepped forward, immediately menacing and sharp, and took up a fistful of Mr. Shanck’s cravat, pulling him awkwardly over his desk. Shanck bleated in futile protest.
    “I know nothing,” he cried. “People use the gallery to meet—I am paid to allow it—I say nothing—I will say nothing about any of you—I swear it—”
    “Mr. Shanck—” began Miss Temple, but Chang cut her off, tightening his grip on the man with a snarl.
    “The paintings have been gathered together you say—by
whom
?”
    Shanck sputtered, utterly outraged and afraid—though not, it seemed to her, of them. “By—
ah!
—by her
father
!”

    Once released, the man broke away and fled across the gallery into a room Miss Temple believed actually held brooms. She sighed with frustration. Still, it gave them a moment to speak.
    “We must leave at once,” she said. There were noises from beyond the distant doorway. She reached out an arm and prevented Chang from investigating. “We did not yet decide—”
    Chang cut her off. “This greenhouse. It may be dangerous enough that numbers will help our entry. It is also nearby.”
    Miss Temple bristled with irritation at Chang’s peremptory manner, but then perceived a flicker of emotion cross his face. Though she could not, with his eyes so hidden, guess what feelings were at work, the very fact of their presence piqued her interest. Chang seemed to her then like a kind of finely bred horse whose strengths were at the mercy of any number of infinitesimal tempests at work in the blood—a character that required a very particular sort of managing.
    “I agree,” replied Svenson.
    “Excellent,” said Miss Temple. She noted with alarm a growing clamor from amongst the brooms. “But I suggest we leave.”
    “Wait…,”