The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

all. Miss Temple wheeled, her pistol quite thrust at the woman’s smiling face.
    “Do not move!”
    Mrs. Marchmoor chuckled again. “Will you shoot me? Here in a crowded hotel? You will be taken by the law. You will go to prison and be hanged—we will make sure of it.”
    “Perhaps—though you shall die before me.”
    “Poor Miss Temple—for all your boldness, still you comprehend nothing.”
    Miss Temple scoffed audibly. She had no idea why Mrs. Marchmoor would feel empowered to say such a thing, and thus took refuge in defiant contempt.
    “What are you talking about?” whined Lydia. “Where are more of these
things
?”
    “Look at that one again,” said Mrs. Marchmoor soothingly. “If you practice you can make the card go more slowly, until it is possible to suspend yourself within a single moment as long as you like. Imagine
that,
Lydia—imagine what moments you can drink in again and again and again.”
    Mrs. Marchmoor raised her eyebrows at Miss Temple and cocked her head, as if to urge her to give up the card—the implication being that once the heiress was distracted the two of them—the adults in the room—could converse in peace.
    Against all her better instincts, perhaps only curious to see if what Mrs. Marchmoor had just said might be true, Miss Temple reached into her bag and withdrew the card, feeling as her fingers touched its slick cool surface the urge to look into it herself. Before she could fully resolve not to, Miss Vandaariff snatched it from her grasp and scuttled away to her seat, eyes fixed on the blue rectangle cupped reverently in her hands. Within moments Lydia’s tongue was flicking across her lower lip…her mind riveted elsewhere.
    “What has it done to her?” Miss Temple asked with dismay.
    “She will barely hear us, and we can speak clearly,” answered Mrs. Marchmoor.
    “She seems not to care about her fiancé.”
    “Why should she?”
    “Do
you
care for him?” she demanded, referring to the explicit interaction held fast within glass. Mrs. Marchmoor laughed and nodded at the blue card.
    “So
you
are held within that card…and on another
I
am…
encaptured
with the Prince?”
    “Indeed you are—if you think to deny it—”
    “Why should I? I can well imagine the situation, though I confess I don’t remember it—it is the price one pays for immortalizing one’s experience.”
    “You do not
remember
?” Miss Temple was astonished at the lady’s decadent disregard. “You do not remember—
that
—with the Prince—before
spectators
—”
    Mrs. Marchmoor laughed again. “O Miss Temple, it is obvious you would benefit from the clarity of the Process. Such foolish questions should nevermore pass your lips. When you spoke to the Comte, did he ask that you join us?”
    “He did not!”
    “I am surprised.”
    “He in fact threatened me—that I should submit to you, being so defeated—”
    Mrs. Marchmoor shook her head with impatience. “But that is the same. Listen, you may wave your pistol but you will not stop me—for I am no longer of such a foolish mind to be so occupied with
grievance
—from asking again that you recognize the inevitable and join our work for the future. It is a better life, of freedom and action and satisfied desire. You
will
submit, Miss Temple—I can promise you it is the case.”
    Miss Temple had nothing to say. She gestured with the revolver. “Get up.”

    If Mrs. Marchmoor had convinced her of one thing, it was that the private room was too exposed. It had served her purpose to pursue her inquiries but was truly no place to linger—unless she was willing to risk the law. With the revolver and the card both in her bag, she drove the women before her—Mrs. Marchmoor cooperating with a tolerant smile, Miss Vandaariff, still masked, making furtive glances that revealed her flushed face and glassy eyes—up the great staircase and along to the Contessa Lacquer-Sforza’s rooms. Mrs. Marchmoor had answered the inquiring look of the desk clerk with a saucy wave and without any further scrutiny they passed into the luxurious interior of the St. Royale.
    The rooms were on the third floor, which they reached by a second only slightly less grand staircase, the rods and banisters all polished brass, that continued the curve of the main stair up from the lobby. Miss Temple realized that the winding staircases echoed the red and gold carved ribbons around the hotel’s supporting pillars, and found herself gratified by the