The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

this door and take us into the hall. You will order both of these guards into this room and then lock the door behind them. If they protest, you will do your level best to kill them. Do you understand?”
    Aspiche nodded, his eyes wavering between her own and the floating tip of the saber.
    “Then do it. We are wasting time.”
    The Germans gave them no trouble, so inured were they to following orders. It was only a matter of moments before they stood again in the open foyer where the members of the Cabal had argued with one another. The Dragoons lining the corridor were gone, along with their officer.
    “Where’s Captain Smythe?” she asked Aspiche.
    “Assisting Mr. Xonck and the Deputy Minister.”
    Miss Temple frowned. “Then what were
you
doing here? Did you not have orders?”
    “Of course—to execute the three of you.”
    “But why were you waiting in the corridor?”
    “I was finishing my cigar!” snapped Colonel Aspiche.
    Chang scoffed behind her.
    “Every man reveals his soul eventually,” he muttered.

    Miss Temple crept to the ballroom doors. The enormous space was empty. She called back to her prisoner.
    “Where is everyone?” He opened his mouth to answer but she cut him off. “Where are each of our enemies—the Contessa, the Comte, Deputy Minister Crabbé, Francis Xonck, the Prince and his bride, Lord Vandaariff, the Duke of Stäelmaere, Mrs. Stearne—”
    “And Roger Bascombe,” said Doctor Svenson. She turned to him, and to Chang, and nodded sadly.
    “And Roger Bascombe.” She sighed. “In an orderly manner, if you please.”
    The Colonel had informed them—sullen twitches around his mouth evidence of a useless struggle against Miss Temple’s control—that their enemies had split into two groups. The first occupied themselves with a sweeping progress through the great house, gathering up their guests and collecting the stupefied luminaries whose minds had been drained into the glass books on the way, to send off the Duke of Stäelmaere with ceremony suitable to his imminent
coup d’état.
Accompanying the Duke’s progress would be the Contessa, the Deputy Minister, and Francis Xonck, as well as Lord Vandaariff, Bascombe, Mrs. Stearne, and the two glass women, Marchmoor and Poole. The second group, about which Aspiche could provide no information as to their errand, consisted of the Comte d’Orkancz, Prince Karl-Horst von Maasmärck, Lydia Vandaariff, Herr Flaüss, and the third glass woman.
    “I did not recognize her,” said Miss Temple. “By all rights the third subject ought to have been Caroline.”
    “It is
Angelique,
the Cardinal’s acquaintance,” replied Doctor Svenson, speaking delicately. “The woman we searched for in the greenhouse. You were right—she did not perish there.”
    “Instead, the Comte kept her alive to use as a test subject,” rasped Chang. “If his transformation failed, then he need not sacrifice the others—if it worked and made moot the issue of her damaged body, then all the better. All in all you see, it is an admirable expression of
economy
.”
    Neither Miss Temple nor the Doctor spoke, letting Chang’s bitterness and anger have their sway. Chang rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and sighed.
    “The question is what they are doing, and which group we ought to follow. If we agree that stopping the Duke and the Prince’s marriage are both vital, it is of course possible that we split up—”
    “I should prefer not to,” said Miss Temple quickly. “In either place we shall find enemies
en masse
—it seems there is strength in numbers.”
    “I agree,” said the Doctor, “and my vote is to go after the Duke. The rest of the Cabal journeys to Macklenburg—the Duke and Lord Vandaariff are their keys to maintaining power here. If we can disrupt that, it may upset the balance of their entire plot.”
    “You mean to kill them?” asked Chang.
    “Kill them
again,
in the case of the Duke,” muttered the Doctor, “but yes, I am for assassinations all round.” He sighed bitterly. “It is exactly my plan for Karl-Horst, should his neck ever come within reach of my two hands.”
    “But he is your charge,” said Miss Temple, a little shocked by Svenson’s tone.
    “My charge has become their creature,” he answered. “He is no more than a rabid dog or a horse with a broken fetlock—he must be put down, preferably
before
he has a chance to sire an heir.”
    Miss Temple put her hand over her mouth. “Of course! The Comte