The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

the men around him and asked, with an even-toned curiosity, “Where is Mr. Coates?”

    Svenson wheeled from sight, his back against the wall. In two long silent strides he was through the dressing room and then, now running, out of the church entirely. He crossed the empty lot and ducked behind the next building, back to the cobbled road and across it onto the common. He did not stop until he had reached the trunk of the oak tree, running low and as quietly as he could, where he knelt and finally looked back, his heart pounding. There were men standing in the grassy lot, and one who had walked as far as the front of the church, looking across its steps and onto the common. Svenson ducked back. Had they seen him running? With any luck, their discovery of the unfortunate Coates slowed any pursuit long enough for him to make his way. Of course, given the high spirits of the group, it could just as well fire them up for immediate vengeance. Would Coates revive? What could he tell them? Svenson dared not risk running across the open ground to the King Crow. He glanced above him. Any other man might cleverly climb the tree and rest undetected. Svenson shuddered. He was not Cardinal Chang.
    The man in front of the church gave another long look to the grassy common and then retreated back to the rear door, collecting the men in the lot on his way. Svenson heard the rear door close. Now was the time for him to dash to cover, but he remained behind his tree, watching. It was another fifteen minutes of gnawing cold before the door opened again, and a line of men emerged, carrying the boxes between them. Last of all came Lorenz, no longer with the gauntlets and goggles, holding his cloak closely about him. The line vanished from Svenson’s view, along the same road the coach had followed earlier. He could only assume it went to Tarr Manor.
    Svenson gave them another two minutes before leaving the oak tree and walking back to the church. He had no idea what he thought to find, but anything was better than another ignorant walk in the dark. Coates was no longer in the corner where he placed him—hopefully he’d been able to walk away upon being revived—and Svenson picked his way through the dressing room into the darkened church. Moonlight still poured in through the windows, but without the machine’s blue glow the room had a different feel, more mournful and abandoned—though the pews had been hastily restored to their places. Svenson glanced over to the altar, which had acquired a peculiar shadow beneath it. He looked at the windows but did not see what could be blocking the light—some kind of smudge or deposit on the glass—soot from the machine? He crossed to the altar itself and saw his mistake. The shadow was a pool. Svenson pulled back the white cloth and saw, beneath it, the crumpled figure of Mr. Coates, whose throat had been quite cleanly cut.
    Svenson bit his lip. He dropped the cloth and turned, reaching into his pocket for the service revolver. He checked the cartridges and the hammer, spun the chamber, and stuffed it away. He looked around him with a rising urge to kick over the pews and forced himself to breathe evenly. He could do nothing for Coates except remember him as affable and attentive. He walked out of the church and made for the road.

    Because the line of men carried the boxes of machinery, Svenson half-thought he might overtake them—or at least come within sight—on the way, but he had walked a mile on the country road, briar hedges to his left and barren winter fields to his right, without doing so. At the mile marker the road forked, and he stood under the moonlight trying to decide. There was no delineating sign, and each road seemed equally traveled. Looking ahead, the left fork sloped up a gentle rise, which made him recall Coates’s reference to a climb. With nothing else to go on, Svenson turned his steps that way.
    At the top, he saw that the road dipped and then continued to rise in a gentle winding path around an escalating series of scrubbish hills. As he crested each new height, the Doctor saw his destination more clearly, and by the time he faced it directly—still without trace of the men—he could see an estate house of such size that it must be Tarr Manor: orchards in the surrounding fields, a tall windbreak of leafless poplars, and fronted by an old-fashioned stone fence and high iron gate. The out-buildings were few and small, and the house itself, though nothing