The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Miss Temple knew he was
sensitive
about the question of the missing painter, and as a rule she was not above being a persistent nuisance.
    “And how exactly is that?” asked the Contessa.
    “
Because,
” Miss Temple responded, “the
Annunciation
paintings themselves are clearly an allegorical presentation of your Process, indeed of your intrigue as a whole—that the imagery itself is a brazen blasphemy is beside the immediate point, save to convey a scale of arrogance—as you see it, of
advancement
provoked by the effects of your precious blue glass. Of course,” she went on with a side glance at the unmoving Comte, “it seems that all of this—for on the back of the paintings are imprudently scrawled the man’s alchemical secrets—has been taken by the Comte for his own—taken by all of you—at the expense of the missing Mr. Veilandt’s life.”
    “You said this to the Comte?”
    “Of course I did.”
    “And how did he respond?”
    “He left the table.”
    “It
is
a serious charge.”
    “On the contrary, it is an obvious one—and what is more, after all the destruction and violence you have put into motion, such an accusation can hardly strike any of you as either unlikely or unprovoked. As the work itself is monstrous, and the murder of its maker even more so, I would not have thought the murderer himself so…
tender.
”

    For an answer that perhaps too fully fulfilled Miss Temple’s hopes of agitation, the Comte d’Orkancz leaned deliberately forward and extended his open right hand until he could place it around Miss Temple’s throat. She uselessly pressed her body back into her seat and tried to convince herself that if he was going to hurt her out of anger he would have seized her more quickly. As the strong fingers tightened against her skin she began to have her doubts, and looked with dismay into the man’s cold blue eyes. His grip held her fast but did not choke her. At once she was assailed by hideous memories of Mr. Spragg. She did not move.
    “You looked at the paintings—two of them, yes?” His voice was low and unmistakably dangerous. “Tell us…what was your
impression
?”
    “Of what?” she squeaked.
    “Of
anything.
What thoughts were provoked?”
    “Well, as I have said, an allegorical—”
    He squeezed her throat so hard and so suddenly she thought her neck would snap. The Contessa leaned forward as well, speaking mildly.
    “Celeste, the Comte is attempting to get you to
think.
”
    Miss Temple nodded. The Comte relaxed his grip. She swallowed.
    “I suppose I thought the paintings were unnatural. As the woman in them has been given over to the angel—she is given over to—to sensation and pleasure—as if nothing else might exist. Such a thing is impossible. It is dangerous.”
    “Why is that?” asked the Comte.
    “Because nothing would get done! Because—because—there is no border between the world and one’s body, one’s mind—it would be unbearable!”
    “I should have thought it delicious,” whispered the Contessa.
    “Not for me!” cried Miss Temple.
    With a swift rush of fabric the Contessa shifted across the coach next to Miss Temple, her lips pressed close to the young woman’s ear.
    “Are you sure? For I have seen you, Celeste,…I have seen you through the mirror, and I have seen you bent over the book…and do you know?”
    “Do I know what?”
    “That when you were in my room…kneeling over so sweetly…I could
smell
you…”
    Miss Temple whimpered but did not know what she could do.
    “Think of the book, Celeste,” hissed the Contessa. “You remember what you saw! What you did, what was done to you—what you
became
!—through what exquisite realms you traveled!”
    At these words Miss Temple felt a burning in her blood—what was happening to her? She sensed her memories of the book like a stranger’s footprints in her mind. They were everywhere! She did not want them! But why could she not thrust them aside?
    “You are wrong!” Miss Temple shouted. “It is not the same!”
    “Neither are you,” snarled the Comte d’Orkancz. “You’ve already taken the first step in your
process
of transformation!”
    The coach had become too warm. The Contessa’s hand found Miss Temple’s leg and then quickly vanished beneath her dress, the knowing fingers climbing up her inner thigh. Miss Temple gasped. These were not the blunt, stabbing, rude fingers of Spragg but—if still invasive—playful, teasing, and insistent. No one