The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

not
know,
” said the Contessa. “We were
indulging
him—I am still not satisfied as to his death. Blenheim either took it from Trapping’s pocket when the body was moved, or he was given it by Lord Robert.”
    “I take it Blenheim is still missing?”
    The Contessa nodded.
    “The question is whether he is dead,” said Crabbé, “or
independent
?”
    “Perhaps we can
query
Lord Robert,” said the Comte.
    “We could if he retained his memory,” observed Xonck. “But as you know it has been put into a book—a book we cannot find. If we did find it, we could not safely read it without a key! It is ridiculous!”
    “I see…” said the Comte, his brooding face dark with thought. “And
what
has happened to Herr Flaüss?”
    “We do not
know
!” cried Crabbé.
    “But don’t you think we should?” asked the Comte, reasonably. He turned to Angelique and clapped his hands. At once she stepped into the light like a tamed tiger, drawing the wary attention of every other person in the room.
    “If there is someone hiding here,” the Comte said to her, looking up to the balconies, “
find
them.”

    Miss Temple spun to Chang and Svenson, her eyes wide. What could they do? She searched around them—there was no other place to hide, to shield themselves! Doctor Svenson silently rolled back on his heels and pulled out the gun, his eyes measuring the distance to Angelique. Chang put a hand on the Doctor’s arm. The Doctor shrugged it off and eased back the hammer. Miss Temple felt the strange blue coldness approaching her mind. Any moment they would be found.
    Instead, the pregnant silence in the room was broken by a crash from the opposite balcony, directly above Angelique. In an instant Xonck had the serpentine dagger in his hand and was sprinting to the narrow stairs. Miss Temple heard a scuffle and then a woman’s gasping protests as Xonck dragged her twisting body brusquely down the staircase and thrust her to her knees before the others. It was Elöise.
    Miss Temple looked to Svenson and saw his frozen expression. Before he could do a thing she reached for his hand that held the pistol, gripping it tightly. This was no time for reckless impulse.
    Xonck backed away from Elöise, indeed as did they all, for at a nod from the Comte Angelique stepped forward, her feet clicking against the stone floor like a new-shod pony’s. Elöise shook her head and looked up, utterly bewildered by the splendid, naked creature, and screamed. She screamed again—Miss Temple squeezing the Doctor’s arm as tightly as she could—but it died in her throat, as the expression of terror on her face faded to a quivering passivity. The glass woman had savagely penetrated her mind and was rummaging through its contents with pitiless efficiency. Again, Miss Temple saw the Comte d’Orkancz had closed his eyes, his face a mask of concentration. Elöise did not speak, her mouth open, rocking back and forth on her knees, staring helplessly into the cold blue eyes of her inquisitor.
    Then it was done. Elöise dropped in a heap. The Comte came forward to stand over her, looking down.
    “It is Mrs. Dujong,” whispered Crabbé. “From the quarry. She shot the Duke.”
    “Indeed. She escaped from the theatre with Miss Temple,” said the Comte. “Miss Temple killed Blenheim—his body is in the trophy room. Blenheim
did
have the key—she herself wondered why. It is tucked in Mrs. Dujong’s shift, along with a silver cigarette case and a blue glass demonstration card. Both were acquired by way of Doctor Svenson.”
    “A glass card?” asked the Contessa. Her gaze darted judiciously across the room. “What does it happen to
show
?”
    Elöise was panting with exertion, groping to rise to her hands and knees. The Comte shoved his hand roughly into her shift, feeling for the objects he’d described. He stood again, peering at the cigarette case, all the time not answering the Contessa’s question. Xonck cleared his throat. The Comte looked up and tossed the silver case to him, which Xonck awkwardly managed to catch.
    “Also Svenson’s,” he said, and glanced over at the Prince, who was still in his chair, watching it all through a veil of drunken bemusement. “The card is imprinted with an experience of Mrs. Marchmoor, within a room at the St. Royale…an
encounter
with the Prince. Apparently it made quite an
impression
on Mrs. Dujong.”
    “Is that…all?” asked the Contessa, again rather carefully.
    “No.” The Comte