The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

to it—which it might this very night. She sniffed—or day, she had no idea what time it was. When they’d been outside watching the coaches it had still been dark, and now they were underground. Was it only a day since she’d first met Svenson in the Boniface lobby?
    She swallowed and shook the dread from her mind. With a perhaps characteristic keenness Miss Temple’s thoughts shifted from death to breakfast.
    “After this is settled,” she said, “I should quite enjoy something to eat.”
    Chang looked up at her. She smiled down at him, doing her level best to withstand the hardness of his face and the black vacuum of his glasses.
    “Well…it
has
been some time…,” said Svenson politely, as if he were speaking of the weather.
    “It will be some while more,” managed Chang, hoarsely.
    “I’m sure it will,” said Miss Temple. “But being as I am
not
made of glass, it seemed like a reasonable topic of conversation.”
    “Indeed,” said Svenson, awkwardly.
    “Once this business is settled of course,” added Miss Temple.
    Chang straightened himself, his face somewhat composed. “We should go,” he muttered.

    Miss Temple smiled to herself as they climbed, hoping her words had served to distract Chang at least into annoyance, away from his grief. She was well aware that she did not understand what he felt, despite her loss of Roger, for she did not understand the connection between Chang and the woman. What sort of attachment could such
transacted
dealings instill? She was smart enough to see that bargains of some sort ran through most marriages—her own parents were a joining of land and the cash to work it—but for Miss Temple the objects of barter—titles, estates, money, inheritance—were always apart from the bodies involved. The idea of transacting one’s own body—that this was the
extent
—involved a bluntness she could not quite comprehend. She wondered what her mother had felt when she herself had been conceived, in that physical union—was it a matter of two bodies (Miss Temple preferred not to speculate about “love” when it came to her savage father), or was each limb bound—as much as Lydia’s had been in the laboratory—by a brokered arrangement between families? She looked up at Chang, climbing ahead of her. What did it feel like to be free of such burdens? The freedom of a wild animal?
    “We did not see Herr Flaüss on our way out,” observed Doctor Svenson. “Perhaps he went with the others.”
    “And where are they?” asked Miss Temple. “At the airship?”
    “I think not,” said Svenson. “They will be settling their own disagreements before they can go on—they will be interrogating Lord Vandaariff.”
    “And perhaps Roger,” said Miss Temple, just to show she could say his name without difficulty.
    “Which leaves us the choice of finding them or reaching the airship ourselves.” Svenson called ahead to Chang. “What say you?”
    Chang looked back, wiping his red-flecked mouth, out of breath. “The airship. The Dragoons.”
    Doctor Svenson nodded. “Smythe.”

    The house was disturbingly quiet when they reached the main floor.
    “Can everyone be gone?” asked Svenson.
    “Which way?” rasped Chang.
    “It is up—the main stairs are simplest if they are free. I must also suggest, again, that we acquire weapons.”
    Chang sighed, then nodded with impatience.
    “Where?”
    “Well—” Svenson clearly had no immediate idea.
    “Come with me,” said Miss Temple.

    Mr. Blenheim had been moved, though the stain on the carpet remained. They took a very brief time, but even then she smiled to see the curiosity and greed on the faces of her two companions as they plundered Robert Vandaariff’s trophy chests. For herself, Miss Temple selected another serpentine dagger—the first had served her well—while Chang selected a matching pair of curved, wide-bladed knives with hilts nearly as long as the blade.
    “A sort of
macheté
,” he explained, and she nodded agreeably, having no idea what he meant but happy to see him satisfied. To her amusement, Doctor Svenson pulled an African spear from the wall, and then stuck a jeweled dagger in his belt.
    “I am no swordsman,” he said, catching her curious expression and Chang’s dry smirk. “The farther I keep them from me, the safer I’ll remain. None of which makes me feel any less ridiculous—yet if it helps us survive, I will wear a cap and bells.” He looked over at Chang. “To the