The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

to the house with the others.”
    “The light.” Svenson gestured behind him to the windows. “A blue flash, just moments ago—”
    “Yes!” The man’s eyes lit up. “Isn’t it splendid? You really are just in time!”
    He took another drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the stone porch and ground it beneath his shoe. Svenson’s gaze went to the wrench—it was perhaps as long as the man’s forearm. The man noticed his look and chuckled, hefting the hunk of iron as if it were a prize. “They are letting us help with the works, you see—it really is just as engaging as I hoped! Come, everyone will be delighted to see you!”
    He turned and went into the church, holding the door open for Svenson to follow. The blue flash made him think of d’Orkancz and the Institute. He’d given this man a false name—but any member of the Cabal, if present, would know him instantly. Further—his mind raced, gesturing for the man to go first, and closing the door behind them—were the women at Tarr Manor? What other house could be meant? If that was so, there was no hiding the connection of this group—the black books, the Puritan brimstone—with Bascombe and his Cabal. But—he must decide, he must do something (even then the man was leading him into a dressing vestibule hung with church robes). Lord Tarr had been killed to gain control of the quarry and the deposits of indigo clay. What did that have to do with this religious nonsense? And what religious ceremony involved that size of…wrench?
    The man abruptly stopped, one hand on Doctor Svenson’s chest, the other—with the wrench, which could not but look foolish—held over his mouth to indicate silence. He nodded ahead of them at an open door, and then stepped quietly ahead until they could see into the next room. Svenson followed, apprehensive and curious in equal measure, craning his head over the man’s shoulder.
    They were to the side of the altar, looking past it into the nave of the church, where the pews had been pushed away and stacked against either side wall. In the center of the open floor was an impromptu table made of stacked wooden boxes…boxes like those Chang described from the Institute, or that Colonel Aspiche’s men had taken away in carts that morning. Atop the table was a…machine—an interlocking conglomeration of metal parts sticking out of a central casket not unlike a visored medieval helmet, and trailing bright twists of copper wire that ran into an open box on the floor (which Svenson could not see into). The air was sharp with that same mechanical smell—ozone, cordite, burnt rubber, oil—that he’d known on the bodies of Trapping and Angelique and the man in Crabbé’s kitchen, only now so intense that his nostrils wrinkled in protest, even from this far away. Around the machine, in a circle, was a collection of men—the same mix of classes and types he’d seen on the train, including the tall horse-ish fellow from his first compartment. Most had taken off their coats and rolled up their sleeves, some held tools, some oily rags, some merely rested their hands on their hips with satisfaction, and all of them gazed lovingly at the machine between them. At the circle’s head was another man, in an unkempt but elegantly cut black coat, his streaked hair pushed back behind his ears, his sharp face dominated by a pair of dark goggles, and his hands magnified—like a giant’s—by a pair of padded leather gauntlets that went up to his elbows. It was Doctor Lorenz.

    Svenson stepped away from the door. His companion felt him move and turned with a look of concern. Svenson held up his hand and began to silently gag, motioning that there was some trouble with his breathing, with his throat—he took another step back and waved the man forward, as if this would only take a moment, he would be right with him. Instead of going ahead, the man stepped after him—forcing Svenson to gag still more theatrically—and then to the Doctor’s dismay turned to the room, as if to call for help. Svenson took hold of the man’s arm and tugged him along back toward the rear door of the church. They reached the far side of the dressing room before Svenson allowed himself to audibly cough and gag.
    “Captain Blach, are you all right? Are you unwell? I’m sure Doctor Lorenz—”
    Svenson charged through the rear door and bent over on the paved portico, hands on his knees, sucking in great gasps of air. The man followed him outside,