The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“
Join
you? After—after all—”
    “You forget,” called Miss Poole. “Even if you do not remember why you came,
I
remember it quite well—every noisome little secret you offered up in exchange for your
advancement.
”
    Elöise stood, her mouth open, looking to Svenson, then back at Miss Poole. “I did not—I cannot—”
    “You wanted it before,” said Miss Poole. “And you want it still. You’ve proven yourself quite bold.”
    “There’s barely a choice, my dear,” observed Crabbé with a sigh.
    Svenson saw the confusion on Elöise’s face and jabbed the gun hard into Crabbé’s ear, stopping the man’s speech. “Did you not hear what I said? We will be going at once!”
    “O yes, Doctor Svenson, you were heard quite clearly,” Crabbé muttered, wincing. He looked up at Miss Poole. “Elspeth?”
    The woman retained her icy smile. “Such
chivalry,
Doctor. First it is Miss Temple, and now Mrs. Dujong—a veritable collector of hearts you seem, I never would have thought it.”
    Svenson ignored her, and yanked Crabbé back toward the stairs.
    “We will be taking our leave—”
    “Elspeth!” the Deputy Minister croaked.
    “You will not,” Miss Poole announced.
    “I beg your pardon?” asked Svenson.
    “You will not. How many shots remain in your gun?”
    Aspiche called back to her from below, a disembodied voice. “She fired three times, and it is a six-shot cylinder.”
    “So there you are,” continued Miss Poole, indicating the crowd of men around her. “Three shots. We are at least ten, and you at the very most can shoot three. We will take you.”
    “But the first I shoot shall be Minister Crabbé.”
    “It is more important that our work proceed, and your escape may endanger it. Do you agree, Minister?”
    “Unfortunately, Svenson, the woman is correct—”
    Svenson cracked him sharply on the head with the gun butt. “Stop talking!”
    Miss Poole spoke to the gang of men behind her. “Doctor Svenson is a
German
agent. He has succeeded in causing the death of the Queen’s own noble brother—”
    Doctor Svenson looked up at Elöise, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Run now,” he told her. “Escape—I will hold them off—”
    “Do not bother, Mrs. Dujong,” called Miss Poole. “We cannot allow either of you to leave—really we can’t. And I do promise, Doctor, however much time your bravery does buy your ally, she will not in that dress outrun these gentlemen across three miles of open road.”

    Svenson was at a loss. He did not believe they would sacrifice Crabbé so easily—yet could he risk Elöise’s life on the chance? But, if he were to surrender—impossible, surely—what hope would they have of surviving? None! They’d be ash in Lorenz’s oven—it was an appalling thought, unconscionable—
    “Doctor…Abelard…” Elöise whispered to him from above. He looked up at her, helpless, sputtering.
    “You will not join them—you will not stay—”
    “What if she wants to stay?” asked Miss Poole, wickedly.
    “She does not—she cannot—be quiet!”
    “Doctor Svenson!” It was Lorenz, shouting from below. Svenson edged closer to the rail—pulling his hostage with him—and looked down. The man had walked over to the large conglomeration of tarps, covering the hidden train car. “Perhaps this will convince you of our great purpose!”
    Lorenz pulled on a rope line and the tarps were released. At once the great shape beneath them rose some twenty feet in a lurch, thrusting up clear of the covering. It was an enormous cylindrical gasbag, an airship, a dirigible. As it ascended to the limits of its tethering cables, he could see propellers, engines, and the large cabin underneath. The entire thing was even larger than he’d thought, expanding like an insect coming out of its cocoon, an iron skeleton of supporting struts snapping into place as it rose—and the whole painted to perfectly match the deepest midnight sky. Traveling at night the craft would be near invisible.
    Before Svenson could say a word, Elöise screamed. He wheeled to see her off balance, a man’s hand incongruously holding onto her leg through the gap in the stairs—an arm in a red sleeve, Aspiche, reaching up from below while he’d been distracted by Lorenz’s spectacle like a gullible fool. Svenson watched helplessly as she tried to pull herself free, to step on his wrist with her other foot—it was all that was needed for the spell to be broken. The men around Miss