The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

politeness.
    “You will do it at once,” he answered.
    Miss Temple looked about the room. Its ceilings were high and painted with scenes of nature—jungles and waterfalls and expansively dramatic skies—that she assumed must represent someone’s idea of Africa or India or America. On each wall were display cases of weapons and artifacts and animal trophies—stuffed heads, skins, teeth, and claws. The floors were thickly carpeted and the furniture heavily upholstered in comfortable leather. The room smelled of cigars and dust, and Miss Temple saw behind Mr. Blenheim an enormous sideboard bearing more bottles than she thought were made in the civilized world, and reasoned that, given the exploratory nature of the decor, there must among them be many liquors and potions from the dark depths of primitive cultures. Mr. Blenheim cleared his throat pointedly, and with a deferent nod she placed her bottle where he had indicated. She glanced to Elöise and met the woman’s questioning expression. Miss Temple merely reached out and took hold of Elöise’s hand—the hand that held the blue glass card—effectively covering it with her own.
    “So, you’re Mr. Blenheim?” she asked, not having the slightest idea what this sentence might imply.
    “I am,” the man answered gravely, an unpleasant tang of self-importance clinging to his tone.
    “I had wondered”—nodded Miss Temple—“having heard your name so many times.”
    He did not reply, looking at her closely.
    “
So
many times,” added Elöise, striving to push her voice above a whisper.
    “I am the manager of this household. You are causing trouble in it. You were in the master’s passage just now, spying on what you shouldn’t have been like the sneaks you are—do not bother to deny it. And now I’ll wager you’ve disrupted things in the tower—as well as having made a mess of my floor!”
    Unfortunately for Mr. Blenheim, his litanies—for he was clearly a man whose authority depended on the ability to catalog transgression—were only damning to those who felt any of this was a source of guilt. Miss Temple nodded to at least acknowledge the man’s concerns.
    “In terms of management, I should expect a house this size is rather an involving job. Do you have a large staff? I myself have at various times given much thought to the proper size of a staff in relation to the size of a house—or the ambition of the house, as often a person’s social aim outstrips their physical resources—”
    “You were
spying
. You broke into the master’s inner passage!”
    “And a wicked inner passage it is,” she replied. “If you ask me, it is your
master
you should call a sneak—”
    “What were you doing there? What did you hear? What have you stolen? Who has paid you to do this?”
    Each of Mr. Blenheim’s questions was more vehement than the one before, and by the last his face was red, quite accentuating the amount of white hair in his grizzled whiskers, making him appear to Miss Temple even more worth mocking.
    “My goodness, Sir—your complexion! Perhaps if you drank less gin?”
    “We were merely lost,” Elöise intervened smoothly. “There was a fire—”
    “I am aware of it!”
    “You can see our faces—my dress—” and here Elöise helpfully drew his eyes to the blackened silk that fell about her shapely calves.
    Blenheim licked his lips. “That means nothing,” he muttered.

    But to Miss Temple it meant a great deal, for the fact that the man had not by this time delivered them to his master told her that Mr. Blenheim had ideas of his own. She indicated the animal heads and the display cases of weapons with a vague wave and a conspiratorial smile.
    “What a curious room this is,” she said.
    “It is not curious at all. It is the trophy room.”
    “I’m sure it must be, but that is to say it is a room of men.”
    “And what of that?”
    “We are women.”
    “Is that of consequence?”
    “
That,
Mr. Blenheim”—here she batted her eyes without shame—“is surely our question to you.”
    “What are your names?” he asked, his mouth a tightly drawn line, his eyes flicking quickly as he stared. “What do you know?”
    “That depends on who you serve.”
    “You will answer me directly!”
    Miss Temple nodded sympathetically at his outburst, as if his anger were at the uncooperative weather rather than herself. “We do not want to be difficult,” she explained. “But neither do we want to offend. If you are, for