The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

last.”
    “Where is Mr. Crabbé?” he asked.
    “Actually, it is Doctor Lorenz you should be seeking first, Monsieur le Comte, for the
damage
the woman has done—if you will remember who else was attending our business at Tarr Manor—is such that the Doctor would very much appreciate your consultation.”
    “Would he?” snarled the Comte.
    “Most urgently.” She smiled. “If only there were two of you, Monsieur, for your expertise is required on so many fronts! I do promise that I will do my best to ferret out any clues from this lady—for indeed it seems that a good many people might have wished the Colonel dead.”
    “Why do you say that, Elspeth?” asked Caroline.
    Miss Poole kept her gaze on the Comte as she replied. “I only echo the Deputy Minister. As someone in
between
so many parties, the Colonel was well-placed to divine…secrets.”
    “But all here are in allegiance,” said Caroline.
    “And yet the Colonel is dead.” Miss Poole turned to Lydia, who listened to their talk with a confused half-smile. “And when it is a matter of
secrets
…who can say what we don’t know?”

    The Comte abruptly snatched up his helmet and gloves. This caused him to step closer to Miss Poole—who quite despite herself took a small step backwards.
    “You will initiate Miss Vandaariff first,” he growled, “and then Miss Temple. Then, if there is time—and
only
if there is time—you will initiate this third woman. Your higher purpose here is to inform those in attendance of our work, not to initiate
per se
.”
    “But the Deputy Minister—” began Miss Poole.
    “His wishes are not your concern. Mrs. Stearne, you will come with me.”
    “Monsieur?”
    It was quite clear that Mrs. Stearne had thought to remain in the theatre.
    “There are more
important
tasks,” he hissed, and turned as two men in leather aprons and helmets came in dragging a slumped woman between them.
    “Miss Poole, you will address our spectators, but do not presume to operate the machinery.” He called up to the dark upper reaches of the gallery. “Open the doors!”
    He wheeled and was at the rampway in two strides and was gone.
    Mrs. Stearne looked once at Miss Temple and then to Lydia, her expression tinged with concern, and then met the smiling face of Miss Poole whose dashing figure had just—in her own opinion at least—somehow turned Mrs. Stearne, in her plain severe dark dress, from her place.
    “I’m sure we shall speak later,” said Miss Poole.
    “Indeed,” replied Mrs. Stearne, and she swept after the Comte.
    When she was gone Miss Poole flicked her hand at the Comte’s two men. Above them all the door had opened and people were flowing into the gallery, whispering at the sight below them on the stage.
    “Let us get dear Lydia on the table. Gentlemen?”

    Throughout Miss Vandaariff’s savage ordeal the two soldiers from Macklenburg held Miss Temple quite firmly between them. Miss Poole had stuffed a plug of cotton wadding into Miss Temple’s mouth, preventing her from making a sound. Try as she might to shift the foul mass with her tongue, her efforts only served to dislodge moistened clots at the back of her mouth that she then worried she might swallow and choke upon. She wondered if this Dujong woman had been with Doctor Svenson at the end. At the thought of the poor kind man Miss Temple blinked away a tear, doing her best not to weep, for with a sniffling nose she’d have no way to breathe. The Doctor…dying at Tarr Manor. She did not understand it—Roger had been on the train to Harschmort, he was not
at
Tarr Manor. What was the point of anyone going there? She thought back to the blue glass card, where Roger and the Deputy Minister had been speaking in the carriage…she had assumed Tarr Manor was merely the prize with which Roger had been seduced. Was it possible it was the other way around—that the need for Tarr Manor necessitated their possession of Roger?
    But then another nagging thought came to Miss Temple—the last seconds of that card’s experience—metal-banded door and the high chamber…the broad-shouldered man leaning over the table, on the table a woman…that very card had come from Colonel Trapping. The man at the table was the Comte. And the woman…Miss Temple could not say.
    These thoughts were driven from her head by Lydia’s muffled screams, the shrieking machinery, and the truly unbearable smell. Miss Poole stood below the table, describing each step of the Process