The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

longer anchored to her heart. Who else had so punctured her happiness?
    Chang cursed himself for a fool and walked as quickly as he could to the St. Royale Hotel.
    He ignored the front and instead went directly to the rear alley, where white-jacketed men from the night kitchen were dragging out metal bins heaped with the evening’s scraps and refuse. He strode to the nearest, gestured to the growing collection of bins and snapped at him. “Who told you to leave these here? Where is your manager?”
    The man looked up at him without comprehension—clearly they
always
put the bins there—but stuttered when faced with Chang’s harsh, strange demeanor. “M-Mr. Albert?”
    “Yes! Yes—where is Mr. Albert? I will need to speak to him at once!”
    The man pointed inside. By this time the others were watching. Chang turned to them. “Very well. Stay here. We’ll see about this.”
    He stalked inside along a service corridor, taking the first turn he could find away from the kitchen and Mr. Albert. This led him, as he had hoped, to the laundry and storage rooms. He hurried on until he found what he wanted: a uniformed porter loafing with a mug of beer. Chang stepped in—amidst mops and buckets and sponges—and shut the door behind him. The porter gulped with surprise, backing up instinctively into a clattering array of broom-handles. Chang reached out and took him by the collar, speaking quickly and low.
    “Listen to me. I am in haste. I must get a message—in person, discreetly—to the rooms of the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. You know her?” The man nodded. “Good. Take me there now, by the rear stairs. We cannot be seen. It is to preserve the lady’s reputation—she must have my news.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin. The man saw it, nodded, and then in one movement Chang pocketed the coin and pulled the man out of the room. He’d get it once they were there.
    It was on the third floor, in the rear, which made sense to a suspicious mind like Chang’s—too high to climb to or jump from, and away from the crowds on the avenue. The porter knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. There was no answer. Chang pulled him away from the door, and gave him the coin. He took out a second piece of silver. “We have not met,” he said, and flipped the coin into the porter’s hand, doubling his fee. The porter nodded, and backed away. After a few steps—Chang staring at him fiercely—he turned and ran from sight. Chang took out his ring of keys. The bolt snapped clear and he turned the knob. He was in.
    The suite was everything that Celeste’s suite at the Boniface had not been—exuding the excess that defined the St. Royale, from the carpets to the crystal, the monstrously over-carved furniture, the profusion of flowers, the luxurious draperies, the painfully delicate pattern of the wallpaper, to the truly expansive size of the suite itself. Chang shut the door behind him and stood in the main parlor. The suite seemed empty of life. The gaslight had been lowered, but the dim glow was enough for him to see. He smiled wryly at another difference. Clothes—admittedly, laces and silks—were strewn haphazardly over the arms of the chairs and sofas, even on the floor. It was impossible for him to imagine such a thing under the tight scrutiny of Aunt Agathe, but here, the occupant’s decadent experience extended a casual disregard for so naïve a sense of order. He stepped to a lovingly fashioned writing desk cluttered with empty bottles and took its equally elegant wooden chair back to the front door, wedging it under the handle. He did not want to be interrupted as he searched.
    He turned up the gaslight and returned to the main parlor. There were open doorways to either side and a closed door at the far end. He quickly glanced to each side—maids’ rooms and second parlor, equally strewn with clothing and in the case of the parlor, glasses and plates. He stepped to the closed door, and pushed it open. It was dark. He fumbled for the gaslight sconce and illuminated another elegant sitting room, this with a handsome pair of chaise longues and a mirror-topped tray full of bottles. Chang stopped where he stood, a twinge of dread at his heart. Under one chaise was a tumbled pair of green ankle boots.

    His gaze swept the room for any other signs. The drinks tray held four glasses, some half-empty and smeared with lipstick, and there were two more glasses on the floor