The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

stairs.
    The room was simple, the price fair. After a moment of looking at it—a narrow bed, a stand with a basin, a hard chair, a mirror—Svenson said it would do well and asked where he might find some food. Once more, the man muttered, “This way…” and led him back down to the fire. The other two were still there—it could only have been two minutes—and continued to watch him as he removed his greatcoat and sat at the small table his host indicated before disappearing through a door behind the bar, into what Svenson assumed was the kitchen. That there was no discussion of what the food might be did not trouble him. He was used to traveling in the country and doing with what he could find. But when had he last eaten—tea at the Boniface with Miss Temple and Chang? And before that? His bread and sausage the night before…two sparse meals in as many days. It was no way to manage an adventure.
    The two men were still studying him, now with the barest pretense of manners.
    “Was there something you wanted to say?” he asked.
    They shuffled and muttered and cleared their throats to no great purpose. It was his turn to stare at them, so he did. Beyond the room he could hear gratifying noises of pots and crockery. Fortified by the mere prospect of a meal, Svenson spoke again.
    “I take it you are here to meet a traveler from the 3:02 train from Stropping Station. I also take it that you do not know the traveler you are meeting. Thus, I take your habit of studying my person as if I were a zoo animal to be not so much a personal affront as an admission of your own foolish predicament. Or—you must tell me, please—am I in error? Is there an offense that, as gentlemen”—he lowered his voice meaningfully—“we need to settle out-of-doors?”
    Svenson was not normally given to such arrogant posturing, but he felt sure that the two were not men of violence—that indeed, they were educated and accustomed to clean cuffs and uncalloused hands…rather like himself, actually. Perhaps Chang was rubbing off on him. After a moment the one who had spoken first, who was taller and with a sharper nose, held up his open palm.
    “We are sorry to have disturbed you—it was never our intent. It is merely that such a uniform—and accent—is understandably rare around these parts—”
    “You are
from
these parts?” asked Svenson. “I would find that a surprise. I would think it much more likely that you came today on the train—on the 2:52 train, though I suppose you could have come earlier. The person you now seek was supposed to travel with you, but did not appear. You then hoped he would appear on the next train. That you at all entertained the possibility it might be me confirms, as I say, that you have never met this person. One cannot help wondering if the purpose of the meeting is entirely savory.”
    At this, the door to the kitchen banged open and their host appeared carrying a wooden platter with both hands, loaded with several plates—roasted meat, thick bread, steaming boiled potatoes, a pot of gravy, and a plate of buttered mashed turnips. He laid it down on Svenson’s table, his hand then drifting half-heartedly toward the bar.
    “Drink…” he muttered.
    “A mug of beer, if you will.”
    “He does not have beer,” announced the second man, whose hair was receding and brushed hopefully forward in the old Imperial fashion.
    “Wine then,” said Svenson. The innkeeper nodded and stepped behind the bar. Doctor Svenson returned to the two men. He breathed in the smells of the food before him, feeling the intensity of his hunger. “You have not answered my…hypothesis,” he said.
    The two men exchanged one quick look, set their wineglasses on the hearth, and strode abruptly from the King Crow without another word.

    The clock in the entryway of the King Crow chimed seven. Doctor Svenson lit the first of his remaining cigarettes, inhaled deeply, and then slowly blew smoke across the remains of his meal. He swirled the contents and tossed off the last of his second glass of wine—a meaty, country claret—then set down his glass and stood. The innkeeper was behind the bar, reading a book. Svenson shrugged on his greatcoat and called to the man.
    “I should like to take a walk across the green. Will there be any difficulty getting back inside? When do you retire?”
    “Doors are not locked in Tarr Village,” the man replied, and went back to his book. Svenson saw he was to get no further