The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Crabbé.
    “Yes?”
    “Might I suggest…the young lady?”
    The Contessa moved two quick steps away from Crabbé—clear of any counter-stroke from a weapon of his own—and wheeled to Miss Temple. The woman’s face was flushed—with open pleasure, it seemed—and her eyes flared with excitement. Miss Temple doubted she had ever been in such peril.
    “You underwent the Process in the theatre?” The Contessa smiled. “Is that it? Yes, directly after Lydia Vandaariff?”
    Miss Temple nodded quickly.
    “What a shame Miss Poole cannot confirm it. But
here
we are not helpless…let me see…orange for Harschmort…attendant whore…hotel, I suppose…and of course, doomed…”
    The Contessa leaned forward and hissed into Miss Temple’s ear.
    “Orange Magdalene orange Royale ice consumption!”
    Miss Temple was taken by surprise, stammering for a response, then recalling—too late—the Prince in the secret room—
    The Contessa took hold of Miss Temple’s jaw, wrenching her head so the women stared at each other. With a cold deliberate sneer the Contessa’s tongue snaked from her mouth and smeared its way across each of Miss Temple’s eyes. Miss Temple whimpered as the Contessa licked again, pressing her tongue flat over her nose and cheek, digging its narrow tip along her lashes. With a triumphant scoff the Contessa shoved Miss Temple stumbling into the waiting arms of Colonel Aspiche.
    Miss Temple looked up to see the elegant lady wiping her mouth with her hand and mockingly smacking her lips.
    “ ’Thirty-seven Harker-Bornarth, I should say…excellent vintage…shame to waste it on a savage. Get her out of here.”

    She was dragged without ceremony down a nearby hallway and thrown, there was no other word for it, like a sack of goods into a dimly lit room guarded by two black-coated soldiers of Macklenburg. She sprawled to her knees and wheeled back to the open door, hair hanging in her eyes, in time to see Aspiche abruptly slam it shut. A moment later it was locked, and his bootsteps retreated into silence. Miss Temple sank back on her haunches and sighed. She dabbed at her face, still sticky with saliva and port, with the sleeve of her robe, and looked around her.
    It was, as she had speculated earlier, the exact sort of dusty, disused parlor where she had met Spragg and Farquhar, but with a cry Miss Temple saw that she was not alone. She leapt to her feet and lunged at the two figures sprawled facedown on the floor. They were warm—both warm and—she whimpered with joy—they breathed! She had been reunited at last with her comrades! With all her available strength, she did her best to turn them over.
    Miss Temple’s face was wet with tears, but she smiled as Doctor Svenson erupted into a fearsome spate of coughing, and she did her best to wedge her knees under his shoulders and help him to sit up. In the dim light she could not see if there was blood, but she could smell the pungent odors of the indigo clay infused throughout his clothing and his hair. She shoved again and swiveled his body so he could lean back against a nearby settee. He coughed again and recovered so far as to cover his mouth with a hand. Miss Temple brushed the hair from his eyes, beaming.
    “Doctor Svenson—” she whispered.
    “My dear Celeste—are we dead?”
    “We are not, Doctor—”
    “Excellent—is Chang?”
    “No, Doctor—he is right here—”
    “Are we still at Harschmort?”
    “Yes, locked in a room.”
    “And your mind remains your own?”
    “Oh yes.”
    “Capital…I am with you in a moment…beg pardon.”
    He turned away from her and spat, took a deep breath, groaned, and heaved himself to a full sitting position, his eyes screwed tightly shut.
    “My suffering Christ…,” he muttered.
    “I have just been with our enemies!” she said. “Absolutely everything is going on.”
    “Imagine it must be…pray forgive my momentary lapse…”
    Miss Temple had scuttled to the other side of Cardinal Chang, doing her best not to cry at the spectacle he presented. If anything, the noxious smell was even more intense, and the dried crusts of blood around his nose and mouth and his collar, and the deathly paleness of his face, made clear the extremity of his health. She began to wipe his face with her robe, her other hand holding his head, when she realized that his dark glasses had come off as she’d rolled him over. She stared at the truly vicious scars across each eye and bit her lip at the poor