The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

“No, I will not answer your questions. I have been interrogated once, at Harschmort, and that was more than enough. If you want to talk to me, we will do so on my terms. And if not, then please feel free to leave—for you will find out why I am here only exactly when I have planned to show you.” She speared the last slice of mango without waiting for his reply and took a bite, licking her lips to catch the juice. She could not help but smile at the exquisite taste of it.
    “Do you know,” she asked, swallowing just enough of the fruit to speak clearly, “this is quite nearly as delicious as the mangos one can find in the garden of my father’s house? The difference—though this is very good—is due, I should think, to the different quality of sunlight, the very positioning of the planet. Do you see? There are great forces at play around us, each day of our lives—and who are we? To what do we pretend? To which of these masters are we in service?”
    “I applaud your metaphorical thought,” said the Comte dryly.
    “But do you have an answer?”
    “Perhaps I do. What about…art?”
    “Art?”
    Miss Temple was not sure what he meant, and paused in her chewing, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. Could he have followed her to the art gallery (and if so, when? During her visit with Roger? More recently? Had he been contacted so quickly by the gallery agent, Mr. Shanck?), or did he mean something else…but what? To Miss Temple, art was a curiosity, like a carved bone or shrunken head one found at a village market—a vestige of unknown territories it did not occur to her to visit.
    “Art,” repeated the Comte. “You are acquainted with it…with the
idea
?”
    “What idea in particular?”
    “Of art as alchemy. An act of transformation. Of re-making and rebirth.”
    Miss Temple held up her hand. “I’m sorry, but do you know…this merely prompts me to ask about your relations with a particular painter, a Mr. Oskar Veilandt. I believe he is also from Paris, and most well known for his very large and provocative composition on the theme of the Annunciation. I understand—perhaps it is merely a cruel rumor—that this expressive
masterwork
was cut up into thirteen pieces and scattered across the continent.”
    The Comte took another drink of coffee.
    “I’m afraid I do not know him. He is from Paris, you say?”
    “At some point, like so very many people one finds disagreeable.”
    “Have you seen his work?” he asked.
    “O yes.”
    “What did you think of it? Were you provoked?”
    “I was.”
    He smiled. “
You?
How so?”
    “Into thinking you had caused his death. For he
is
dead, and you seem to have stolen a great deal from him—your ceremonies, your Process, and your precious indigo clay. How odd for such things to come from a painter, though I suppose he was also a mystic and an
alchemist
—strange you should just mention
that
too—though I am told it is the usual way of things in that garret-ridden, absinthe-soaked community. You carry yourself so boldly, and yet one wonders, Monsieur, if you have ever had an original thought at all.”

    The Comte d’Orkancz stood up. With his cigar in his right hand he extended his left to her and as a matter of instinctive response Miss Temple allowed her own hand to be taken—her other groping for purchase on the pistol butt. He raised her hand up to kiss it, an odd moist, brushing whisper across her fingers, released her hand, and stepped back.
    “You leave abruptly,” she said.
    “Think of it as a reprieve.”
    “For which one of us?”
    “For you, Miss Temple. For you will persist…and such persistence will consume you.”
    “Will it indeed?” It was not much of a tart reply as those things go, but the way his eyes glowered it was the best she could do in the moment.
    “It will. And that’s the thing,” he said, placing both hands on the table and leaning close to her face, whispering. “When it comes, you will submit of your own accord. Everyone does. You think you battle monsters—you think you battle us!—but you only struggle with your fear…and that fear will shrivel before desire. You think I do not sense your hunger? I see it clearly as the sun. You are already mine, Miss Temple—just waiting for the moment when I choose to take you.”
    The Comte stood again and stuck the cheroot in his mouth, his tongue flashing wet and pink against the black tobacco. He blew smoke through the side of his mouth and turned without