The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

cinders.
    “Tomorrow I become head of the Queen’s Privy Council…the nation is in crisis…the Queen is unwell…the Crown Prince is without heir and without merit…and so he has this night been given the gift of his dreams, a gift which must ensnare his weakened soul…a
glass book of wonders
in which he will drown.”
    Miss Temple frowned. This did not sound like any Duke she’d ever heard. She glanced carefully behind her and saw the glass woman’s attention fully fixed on the Duke, and behind her, his bearded lips moving ever so slightly with each word that issued from the Duke of Stäelmaere’s mouth, the Comte d’Orkancz.
    “The Privy Council will govern…our
vision,
my allies,…will find expression…will be written on the world. Such is my promise…before you all.”
    The Duke then turned to the man next to him with a glacial nod.
    “My Lord…”
    While Robert Vandaariff’s voice was not so openly sepulchral as the Duke’s, it nevertheless served to further chill Miss Temple’s blood, for before he spoke a single word he turned to Roger and accepted a folded piece of paper, passed with all the deference of a clerk…yet the Lord had only turned at a squeeze from Roger on his arm. Vandaariff unfolded the paper and at another squeeze—she was watching for it—began to read, in a hearty voice that rang as hollow to her ear as footfalls in an empty room.
    “It is not my way to make speeches and so I ask forgiveness that I rely upon this paper—yet tonight I send my only child, my Princess, Lydia, to be married to a man I have taken to my heart like a son.”
    At a third subtle squeeze from Roger—whose face, she saw, was directed at the floor—Lord Robert nodded to the Prince and his daughter on the dais. Miss Temple wondered what emotions about her father remained beneath the girl’s mask…how the Process had rarefied her depthless need and her rage at being abandoned, and what effect these vacant formal words could have. Lydia bobbed in a curtsey and then curled her lips in a grin. Did she know her father was Roger Bascombe’s puppet? Could that be why she smiled?
    Lord Robert turned back to the assembled guests, and located his place on the page. “Tomorrow it must be as if this night had never been. None of you will return to Harschmort House. None of you will acknowledge you have been here, any more than you will acknowledge each other, or news from the Duchy of Macklenburg as anything other than unimportant gossip. But the efforts here of my colleague the Duke will be mirrored in that land, and from that nation to nations beyond. Some of you will be placed among my agents, traveling where necessary, but before you leave tonight, all will be given instructions, in the form of a printed cipher book, from my chamberlain,…Mr.
Blenheim
.”
    Vandaariff looked up, instructed here to point out Blenheim from the crowd…but Blenheim was not there. The pause drifted toward confusion as faces glanced back and forth, and there were frowns on the dais and sharp glances in the direction of Colonel Aspiche, who answered them with haughty shrugs of his own. With a deft—and therefore to Miss Temple equally galling and impressive—display of initiative, Roger Bascombe cleared his throat and stepped forward.
    “In Mr. Blenheim’s absence, your instructive volumes can be collected from
me
in the chamberlain’s offices, directly after this gathering adjourns.”
    He glanced quickly to the dais, and then whispered into Lord Robert’s ear. Roger returned to his place. Lord Robert resumed his speech.
    “I am
gratified
to be able to aid this enterprise, as I am
thankful
to those who have most imagined its success. I beg you all to enjoy the hospitality of my home.”
    Roger gently took the paper from his hands. The crowd erupted into applause for the two great men, who stood without any particular expression whatsoever, as if it were the rain and they insensible statues.
    Miss Temple was astonished. There was no struggle between Vandaariff and the Comte at all—Lord Robert had been utterly overcome. Trapping’s news had never reached him, and Lydia’s fate—whatever hideous design had been in motion—was sealed. It did not matter if Oskar Veilandt was prisoner in the house, just as it no longer mattered who had killed Trapping—but then Miss Temple frowned. If Vandaariff was their creature, then why had Crabbé stopped the examinations? If the members of the Cabal themselves did not know