The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Robert, if necessary.”
    Smythe gestured immediately to his men, and the Dragoons clattered off.
    “Where is Lydia?” asked Xonck.
    “With the Prince,” answered Caroline, “saying good-bye to the guests.”
    “Thank you, Caroline,” said the Contessa, “at least
someone
is paying attention.” She called to Smythe. “Have your men collect them as well.”
    “Bring them to me,” rasped the Comte d’Orkancz. “Their part of our business is not finished.”
    The Comte’s words hung balefully in the air, but the others remained silent, as if to speak at all would restart a now-settled disagreement. The Captain detailed two more Dragoons and returned to his place on the far wall, looking at his boots as if he could not hear a word.

    “All this can be settled with ease,” announced the Deputy Minister, turning to the Comte d’Orkancz, “if we consult the book wherein Lord Robert’s thoughts have been stored. That book will make it perfectly clear that I have done what we agreed. It should contain a detailed account of the Lord’s participation in this entire affair—facts that only he could know.”
    “At least one book was destroyed,” rasped the Comte.
    “Destroyed
how
?” asked the Contessa.
    “Chang.”
    “Damn his bloody soul!” she snarled. “That really is the
limit
. Do you know which book it was?”
    “I cannot know until I compare those remaining against the ledger,” said the Comte.
    “Then let us do so,” said Crabbé waspishly. “I would be
exonerated
as soon as possible.”
    “The books are in transit to the rooftop,” said the Comte. “As for the ledger, as you well know it remains in the possession of your assistant.”
    “My goodness!” cried Xonck. “It seems Bascombe’s become a powerfully valuable fellow!”
    “He will bring it with him!” protested Crabbé. “It will be settled. All of this is a ridiculous waste of our time—it has divided our efforts and created dangerous delays—and the most likely explanation for all these questions stands before us.” He thrust his chin toward Miss Temple.
    “She and her comrades have caused no end of trouble! Who is to say it was not
they
who have killed Blenheim!”
    “Just as Cardinal Chang slew Mr. Gray…,” observed Xonck quietly, turning his gaze to the Contessa. Crabbé took in his words, blinked and then, heartened by the shift of inquiry, nodded with agreement.
    “Ah! Yes! Yes! I had forgotten it—it had been quite blown from my mind! Contessa?”
    “What? As Chang is a murderer and Mr. Gray gone missing, I have no doubt the man was killed. I know not where—my instructions for Mr. Gray were to assist Doctor Lorenz with the Duke.”
    “Yet Chang says they met underground—near the pipes!” cried Crabbé.
    “I had not heard this…,” rasped the Comte d’Orkancz.

    The Contessa looked up at him and pulled her spent cigarette from the holder, dropping it to the floor and stepping on the smoking butt while she screwed a new one in its place.
    “You were occupied with your
ladies,
” she replied. Miss Temple perceived just a whisper of discomfort cross the Contessa’s face as she took in the small glass woman, standing placidly as a tamed leopard, careless of their bickering, her brilliant indigo color more striking for her proximity to the Comte’s dark fur. “Chang claimed Mr. Gray had been tampering with your works—at my instruction. The clearest evidence of this, of course, would be if something had gone wrong with your efforts—however, as far as I can tell, you have produced three successful transformations. As this is a process I quite freely admit I do not understand
in the slightest,
I offer your results as evidence that Cardinal Chang is a liar.”
    “Unless he killed Gray
before
he could do his damage,” said Crabbé.
    “Which is idle, baseless speculation,” growled the Contessa.
    “Which does not mean it is not true—”
    The Contessa swept to the Deputy Minister and her hand—apparently occupied with replacing her cigarette case in her bag—was now wrapped with the bright band. Its glittering spike was hard against Crabbé’s throat, digging at a visibly throbbing vein.
    Crabbé swallowed.
    “Rosamonde…,” began the Comte.
    “Say it again, you bothersome little man,” hissed the Contessa, “and I will rip you open like a poorly sewn sleeve.”
    Crabbé did not move.
    “Rosamonde…,” said the Comte again. Her attention did not shift from