The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

is using his alchemy to impregnate Lydia—it is the height of
his
part of this plan—it is Oskar Veilandt’s alchemical
Annunciation
made flesh! And they are doing it tonight—even now!”
    Doctor Svenson sucked on his teeth, wincing, looking back and forth between Miss Temple and Chang.
    “I still say we stop the Duke. If we do not—”
    “If we do not, mine and Miss Temple’s lives in this city are ruined,” said Chang.
    “And after that,” asked Miss Temple, “the Prince and Lydia?”
    Svenson nodded, and then sighed. “I’m afraid they are already doomed…”
    Chang abruptly cackled, a sound as pleasant as a gargling crow. “Are we so different, Doctor? Save some of your pity for us!”
    At Miss Temple’s command Aspiche led them toward the main entrance of the house, but it became quickly clear they could not go far that way, so thronged had it become with the many, many guests gathered for the Duke’s departure. With a sudden inspiration, Miss Temple recalled her own path with Spragg and Farquhar through the gardener’s passage between the wings of the house and around to the carriages. Within two minutes—Aspiche huffing as sullenly as his conditioning allowed—they had arrived, their breath clouding in the chilly air, just in time to watch a procession flow down the main stairs toward the Duke’s imperious, massive black coach.
    The Duke himself moved slowly and with care, like a particularly delicate, funereal stick insect, guided on one side by the small greasy-haired man—“Doctor Lorenz,” whispered Svenson—and on the other by Mrs. Marchmoor, no longer with a leash around her neck, her gleaming body now covered in a thick black cloak. Behind in a line came the Contessa, Xonck, and Deputy Minister Crabbé, and behind them, stopping at the steps and waving the Duke on his way, stood the similarly aligned knot of Robert Vandaariff, Roger Bascombe, and Mrs. Poole, also leashless and cloaked.
    The Duke was installed in his coach and joined a moment later by Mrs. Marchmoor. Miss Temple looked to her companions—now was clearly the time to dash for the coach if they were going to do so—but before she could speak she saw with dismay, boisterously shouting to the Duke and to each other as they sought their own amongst the many coaches, the rest of the guests all preparing to leave. Any attack on the Duke’s coach was all but impossible.
    “What can we do?” she whispered. “We are too late!”
    Chang hefted the saber in his hand. “I can go—one of us alone, I can move more quickly—I can track them to the Palace—”
    “Not in your condition,” observed Svenson. “You would be caught and killed—and you know it. Look at the soldiers! They have a full escort!”
    As he pointed Miss Temple now saw that it was true—a double rank of mounted Dragoons, perhaps forty men, moving their horses into position ahead and behind the coach. The Duke was completely beyond their reach.
    “He will convene the Privy Council,” rasped Chang hollowly. “He will make whatever they want into law.”
    “With the Duke’s power, and Vandaariff’s money, the Macklenburg throne, and an inexhaustible supply of indigo clay…they’ll be unstoppable…” whispered Svenson.
    Miss Temple frowned. Perhaps it was a futile gesture, but she would make it.
    “On the contrary. Cardinal Chang, if you would please return the Colonel’s saber—I do insist.”
    Chang looked at her quizzically, but carefully passed the weapon to Aspiche. Before the man could do a thing with it, Miss Temple spoke to him quite firmly.
    “Colonel Aspiche, listen to me. Your men protect the Duke—this is excellent. No one else—no one, mind—is to come within reach of the Duke during his journey back to the Palace. You will go now, collect a horse, and join his train—immediately, do not speak to anyone, do not return to the house, take the mount of one of your men if you must. Once you reach the Palace, being very particular to avoid the scrutiny of Mrs. Marchmoor, you will find time—the appropriate time, for you must
succeed
—but nevertheless
before
the Privy Council can meet—to hack the Duke of Stäelmaere’s head clean from his body. Do you understand me?”
    Colonel Aspiche nodded.
    “Excellent. Do not breathe a word of this to anyone. Off you go!”
    She smiled, watching the man stride into the crowded plaza, possessed by his mission, toward the nearest stand of horses, pretending not to see the