The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Poole surged forward, cutting Svenson off from Elöise. Crabbé dropped into a ball on the planking, pulling Svenson off balance. Before he could re-position the pistol the men were upon him—a fist across his jaw, a forearm clubbing him across the head and he staggered back into the rail. Elöise screamed again—they were all around her—he had failed her completely. The men scooped him up bodily and threw him over the rail.

    He came to his senses with the cloudless black night sky in motion above him and the steady bumping of gravel and dirt beneath his skull. He was being dragged by his feet. It took the Doctor a moment to realize that his arms were over his head and his greatcoat tangled up behind, scooping up loose earth like a rake as he was pulled along. Toward the oven, he knew. He craned his head and saw a man at each leg, two of Lorenz’s fellows. Where was Elöise? He felt the pain in his neck and aches everywhere, but nowhere the sharp jarring agony that must mean a broken bone—and the way they carried his legs and his arms dragged, he would certainly know. His hands were empty—what had happened to his revolver? He cursed his pathetic attempts at heroism. Rescued by a woman only to betray her trust with incompetence. As soon as the men saw he was awake they would simply dash his brains out with a brick. And what could he possibly do, unarmed, against both of them? He thought of everyone he had failed…how would this be any different?
    The men dropped his legs without ceremony. Svenson blinked, still groggy, as one of them looked back at him with a knowing smile, and the other stepped to the oven.
    “He’s awake,” said the smiling one.
    “Hit him with the shovel,” called the other.
    “I will at that,” said the first, and began to look around him for it.
    Svenson tried to sit up, to run, but his body—awkward, aching, stiff—did not respond. He rolled onto his side and forced his knees up beneath him, pushing off and then up into a stumbling tottering attempt to walk away.
    “Where do you think you’re going, then?” called the laughing voice behind him. Svenson flinched, fearing any moment to feel the shovel slicing across the back of his skull. His eyes searched for some answer, some idea—but only saw the dirigible hovering across the quarry and above it a pitiless black sky. Could this be the finish? So pedestrian and brutal, cut down like a beast in a farmyard? With a sudden impulse Svenson spun around to face the man, extending his open hand.
    “A moment, I beg of you.”
    The man had indeed picked up the shovel and held it ready to swing. His companion stood some feet behind him, with a metal hook he’d clearly just used to pry open the oven hatch—even this far from the glowing furnace Svenson could feel the increase in heat. They smiled at him.
    “Will he offer us money, do you reckon?” said the one with the hook.
    “I will not,” said the Doctor. “First, because I have none, and second, because whatever money I have will be yours in any case, once you knock me on the head.”
    At this the men nodded, grinning that he had guessed their unstoppable plan.
    “I cannot offer you anything. But I can ask you—while I have breath—for I know you will be curious, and it would pain me to leave such honest fellows—for I know you merely do what you must—in such very, very grave danger.”
    They stared at him for just a moment. Svenson swallowed.
    “What danger’s that?” asked the man with the shovel, shifting his grip in anticipation of swinging it rather hard into Svenson’s face.
    “Of course—of course, no one has told you. Never mind—I’m not one to interfere—but if you would, for the sake of my conscience—promise to throw this, this
article
straight into the oven after—well, after
me
—” His hand reached into a pocket and pulled forth his remaining blue card—he’d no idea which—and held it out for them to see. “It seems a mere bit of glass, I know—but you must, for your own safety, put it straight into the fire. Do it now—or let me do it—”
    Before he could say another word the one with the shovel stepped forward and snatched the card from Svenson’s hand. He took two steps back, eyeing the Doctor with a sullen suspicion, and then looked down into the card. The man went still. His companion looked at him, then at Svenson, and then lunged over the other man’s shoulder to look at the card, reaching for it with a large calloused