The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

fully.
    “You said that Miss Poole had a book…”
    “She laid it on the table, after I’d told them what I thought they wanted to hear. It was wrapped in silk, like—like some kind of Bible, or the Jewish Torah—and when she revealed it—”
    “It was made of blue glass.”
    She gasped at the word. “It was! And you had mentioned glass on the train—and I hadn’t known, but then—I thought of you—and I knew I did not understand my situation—and just at that moment I had the most vivid recollection of the chill of Mr. Francis Xonck’s eyes—and then Miss Poole opened the glass book…and I read…or should I say that it read me. That makes no sense—but
it
made no sense at all. I fell into it like a pool, like falling into another person’s body, only it was more than one—there were dreams, desires, such thrills that I blush to recall them—and such visions…of power…and then—Miss Poole—she must have placed my hand on the book, for I remember her laughing…and then…I cannot convey it…I was deep…so deep, and so cold, drowning—holding my breath but finally I had to breathe and gulped in—I don’t know what—freezing liquid glass. It…felt like dying.” She paused and wiped her eyes and glanced back at the hatch. “I woke up there. I am lucky—I know that I am lucky. I know I should have perished like the others, my skin glowing blue.”

    “Can you walk?” he asked.
    “I can.” She stood, and smoothed out her dress, still holding his hand, and reached down to replace her shoes. “After all the trouble to gather me here they have cast me aside without a care, with so little thought! If you had not come, Captain Blach—I shudder to think—”
    “Do not,” said Svenson. “We must leave this house. Come…the next floors are dark—the house seems to be abandoned, at least for now. I have followed the party of men, who I believe went elsewhere on the estate. Perhaps Miss Poole and the other ladies have gone to join them.”
    “Captain Blach—”
    He stopped her. “My name is Svenson. Abelard Svenson, Captain-Surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy, attached to the service of a very foolish young Prince who I, also a fool, yet retain a hope of saving. As you say, there is not enough time to tell the necessary tale. Arthur Trapping is dead. Earlier this morning Francis Xonck tried to sink me in the river, in the same iron casket as Colonel Trapping’s corpse. It may well be that he schemes to undo both of his siblings as his own part of these machinations—and indeed, damn it all, there is too much to say—we have no time—they could return. The man you sat with on the train, Mr. Coates—”
    “I did not know—”
    “His name, no, nor he yours—but he is dead. They have killed him for as little cause as can be imagined. They are all dangerous, without scruple. Listen to me—I do recognize you, I have seen you among them—I must say this—at Harschmort House, not two nights past—”
    Her hand went to her mouth. “You! You brought word of the Prince to Lydia Vandaariff! But—but it wasn’t about that at all, was it? It was Colonel Trapping—”
    “Found dead, yes—murdered, for what and by whom I’ve no idea—but what I am saying, what—I am deciding to trust you, despite your connection to the Xonck family, despite—”
    “But you have seen them try to kill me—”
    “Yes—though apparently some among them are happy to kill each other—no matter, please, what I need to tell you—should we escape, as I hope we shall, but if we are separated…Oh, this is ridiculous—”
    “What? What?”
    “There are two people you may trust—though I don’t know how you should find them. One is the man I described on the train—in red, dark glasses, very dangerous, a rogue—Cardinal Chang. I am to meet him tomorrow at noon under the clock at Stropping Station.”
    “But why—”
    “Because…Elöise…if the last days have taught me anything it is that I do not know where I shall be tomorrow at noon. Perhaps you will be there instead…perhaps we have met one another for just that purpose.”
    She nodded. “And the other? You said two people.”
    “Her name is Celeste Temple. A young woman, very…
determined,
chestnut hair, of small stature—she is the ex-fiancée of Roger Bascombe—a Ministry official who figures in this—who owns this house! Oh, this is foolish, there is no time. We must be off.”

    Svenson led her by the hand down the