The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

turned to face them.
    “Miss Vandaariff shall be first,” he announced, his voice again sounding crafted of rough minerals, “for she must take her place in the celebration, and to do so must be sufficiently recovered from her
initiation
. I promise you, my dear, it is but the first of many pleasures on your card for this gala evening.”
    Miss Vandaariff swallowed and did her best to smile. Where a few moments ago her spirits had been gay, the combination of the room and the Comte’s dark manner had obviously rekindled her worry. Miss Temple thought they would have kindled worry in the iron statue of a saint.
    “I did not know this room was here,” Lydia Vandaariff said, her voice quite small. “Of course there are so many rooms, and my father…my father…is most occupied—”
    “I’m sure he did not think you’d an interest in science, Lydia.” Mrs. Stearne smiled. “Surely there are storerooms and workrooms you’ve never seen as well!”
    “I suppose there must be.” Miss Vandaariff nodded. She looked out beyond the lights to the empty gallery, hiccuped unpleasantly and covered her mouth with one hand. “But will there be people watching?”
    “Of course,” said the Comte. “You are an example. You have been such all your life, my dear, in the service of your father. Tonight you serve as one for our work and for your future husband, but most importantly, Miss Vandaariff, for your
self
. Do you understand me?”
    She shook her head meekly that she did not.
    “Then this is still more advantageous,” he rasped, “for I do assure you…you
will
.”
    The Comte reached under his leather apron and removed a silver pocket watch on a chain. He narrowed his eyes and tucked the timepiece away.
    “Mrs. Stearne, will you stand away with Miss Vandaariff?”
    Miss Temple took a breath for courage as Caroline released her hand and ushered Lydia to the table. The Comte looked past them to nod at the two Macklenburg soldiers.
    Before Miss Temple could move the men shot forward and held her fast, raising her up so she stood on the very tips of her toes. The Comte removed his leather gauntlets, tossing them one after the other into the upturned brass helmet. His voice was as deliberate and menacing as the steady strop of a barber’s razor.
    “As for you, Miss Temple, you will wait until Miss Vandaariff has undergone her trial. You will watch her, and this sight will increase your fear, for you have utterly, utterly lost your very self in this business. Your self will belong to me. And worse than this, and I tell you now so you may contemplate it fully, this
gift,
of your autonomy to my keeping, will be made willingly, happily…
gratefully
…by you. You will look back with whatever memories you keep at the willful gestures of these last days and they will seem the poor antics of a child—or not even, the actions of a disobedient lap-dog. You will be
ashamed
. Trust this, Miss Temple, you will be reborn in this room, contrite and wise…or not at all.”
    He stared at her. Miss Temple did not—could not—reply.

    The Comte snorted, then reached for the pocket watch again and frowned, stuffing it back behind the apron.
    “There
was
a disturbance in the outer hallway—” Mrs. Stearne began.
    “I am aware of it,” rumbled the Comte. “Nevertheless, this…
lateness
—the prospective adherents are sure to be waiting already. I begin to think it was a mistake not to send
you
—”
    He turned at the sound of an opening door from the opposite rampway and strode to it.
    “Have you an
inkling
of the time, Madame?” he roared into the darkness, and marched back to the table, crouching amidst the boxes beneath it. Behind him, stepping up from the darkened rampway, was the figure of a short curvaceous young woman with curling dark brown hair, a round face, and an eager smile. She wore a mask of peacock feathers and a shimmering pale dress the color of thin honey, sporting a silver fringe around her bosom and her sleeves. Her arms were bare, and in her hands she carried several dull, capped metal flasks. Miss Temple was sure she had seen her before—it was an evening for nagging suspicions—and then it came to her: this was Miss Poole, the third woman in the coach to Harschmort, initiated to the Process that night.
    “My goodness, Monsieur le Comte,” Miss Poole said brightly. “I am perfectly aware of it, and yet I assure you there was no helping the delay. Our business became dangerously