The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

them, his eyes a fierce glare, his hand held out for their continued silence. He made a loud stomping as he reached the staircase, but as he passed thrust the pistol into Miss Temple’s hands and leaned close to her ear.
    “If they never marry,” he whispered, “the spawn is not
legitimate
!”

    Miss Temple bobbled the gun and looked up at him. Svenson was already gone. She turned to Chang, but he was stifling a vicious cough—a thin stream of blood dripping down his chin. She turned back to the balcony rail. The Doctor stepped into view, his hands away from his body and open, to show he was unarmed. He winced with disgust at this new closer view of Lydia Vandaariff, then pointed to the glass woman.
    “I suppose your
creature
sniffed me out?”
    The Comte laughed—a particularly objectionable sound—and shook his head. “On the contrary, Doctor—and appropriately, as we are both men of science and inquiry. My glimpse through Mrs. Dujong’s mind showed no memory of an attack on Herr Flaüss. It was mere deduction to assume the true culprit was still in hiding.”
    “I see,” said Svenson. “Yet I do not see why you waited to expose me.”
    “Do you not?” the Comte said, with a smug condescension. “First…where are your companions?”
    The Doctor groped for words, his fingers flexing, then let them burst forth with scorn and rage.
    “Damn you, Sir! Damn you to hell—you heard for yourself! Their throats have been cut by Colonel Aspiche!”
    “But not yours?”
    Svenson scoffed. “There is no virtue in it. Chang was half-dead already—his dispatch was a matter of seconds. Miss Temple”—here Svenson passed a hand across his brow—“you will not doubt how she fought him. Her struggles woke me, and I was able to break the Colonel’s skull with a chair…but not, to my undying shame, in time to save the girl.”
    The Comte considered the Doctor’s words.
    “A moving tale.”
    “You’re a bastard,” spat Svenson. He waved a hand at Lydia without taking his eyes from the Comte. “You’re the worst of the lot—for you’ve wasted gifts the others never had. I would put a bullet through your brain, Monsieur—send you to hell right after Aspiche—with less remorse than I would squash a flea.”

    His words were met with laughter, but it was not from the Comte. To Miss Temple’s surprise, the Prince had roused himself from his chair and taken a step toward his one-time retainer, the snifter still cradled in his hand.
    “What shall we do with him, Monsieur? I suppose the task is mine—he is my traitor, after all. What would you suggest?”
    “You’re an ignorant fool,” hissed Svenson. “You’ve never seen it—even now! For God’s sake, Karl, look at her—your fiancée! She is given someone else’s child!”
    The Prince turned to Lydia, his face as blandly bemused as ever.
    “Do you know what he means, darling?”
    “I do not, dearest Karl.”
    “Do you, Monsieur?”
    “We are merely ensuring her health,” said the Comte.
    “The woman is half-
dead
!” roared Svenson. “Wake up, you idiot! Lydia—for heaven’s sake, girl—run for your life!
It is not too late to be saved!
”
    Svenson was raving, shouting, flailing his arms. Miss Temple felt Chang take hold of her arm and then—chiding herself again for being one step behind the game—she realized that the Doctor was making noise enough to cover their way down the stairs. They descended quickly to the lowest steps, just out of sight of the room. She looked down at the pistol—why in the world had the Doctor given it to
her
? Why did he not try to shoot the Prince himself? Why not give it to Chang? She saw Chang look down at the weapon as well, then up to meet her eyes.
    She understood in an instant, and despite everything, despite the fact she could not even see his eyes, felt the sting of tears in her own.
    “Doctor, you will calm
down
!” cried the Comte, snapping his fingers at Angelique. In an instant Svenson cried out and staggered, dropping to his knees. The Comte held up his hand again and waited just long enough for the Doctor to regain his wits before speaking.
    “And I will hear no more
disparagement
of this work—”
    “Work?”
barked Svenson, waving his arms at the glass beakers, at Lydia. “Medieval foolery that will cost this girl’s life!”
    “Enough!”
shouted the Comte, stepping forward ominously. “Is it foolery that has created the books? Foolery that has eternally captured the very