The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

superciliousness—a Bascombe specialty. And it seemed as if his upset superiors, perhaps persuaded by his own subservience via the Process, were convinced. But Miss Temple knew, from the way Roger’s thumb restlessly rubbed against his leg, that it was a lie.
    She laughed at him.
    He glared at her, furiously willing her to silence.
    “O
Roger
…” She chuckled and shook her head.
    “Be quiet, Celeste!” he hissed. “You have no place here!”
    “And you have surely convinced everyone,” she said. “But you forget how well I know your ways. Even then you might have convinced me—for it
was
a fine speech—if it wasn’t you who actually shot Herr Flaüss, after
convincing
everyone of his disloyalty, I am sure…or was it to keep him quiet? But it
was
you who shot him, Roger,…wasn’t it?”

    At her words the cabin went silent, save for the low buzz of the rotors outside. Xonck’s saber did not waver, but his mouth tightened and his eyes flicked more quickly back and forth between them. The Contessa stood.
    “Rosamonde,” began Crabbé, “this is ridiculous—they are coming between us—it is their only hope—”
    But the Contessa ignored him and crossed the cabin slowly toward Roger. He shrank away from her, first striking the wall and then seeming to retreat within his own body, meeting her gaze but flinching, for her eyes were empty of affection.
    “Rosamonde,” rasped the Comte. “If we question him together—”
    But then the Contessa darted forward, sharp as a striking cobra, to whisper in Roger’s ear. Miss Temple could only catch the odd word, but when she heard the first—“blue”—she knew the Contessa was whispering Roger’s own control phrase, and that by speaking it before any of the others, the woman had made sure Roger must answer her questions alone. The Contessa stepped away and Roger sank down to sit on the floor, his expression empty and his eyes dulled.
    “Rosamonde—” Crabbé tried again, but again the Contessa ignored him, speaking crisply down to Roger, his head at the level of her thighs.
    “Roger…is what Doctor Svenson tells us true?”
    “Yes.”
    Before Crabbé could speak the Contessa pressed Roger again.
    “Were Lord Robert’s memories distilled into a book?”
    “No.”
    “They were written down.”
    “Yes.”
    “And those papers are on board?”
    “Yes. I transferred them to the Prince’s bag to hide them. Flaüss insisted on managing the Prince’s bag and realized what they were.”
    “So you shot him.”
    “Yes.”
    “And in all of this, Roger,…who did you serve? Who gave the orders?”
    “Deputy Minister Crabbé.”

    Crabbé said nothing, his mouth open in shock, his face drained of any color. He looked helplessly to the Comte, to Xonck, but could not speak. Still facing Roger, the Contessa called behind her.
    “Caroline, would you be kind enough to ask Doctor Lorenz exactly where we are on our route?”
    Caroline, whose gaze had been fixed on Roger Bascombe’s slumped form, looked up with surprise, stood at once, and left the cabin.
    “I say,” muttered the Prince, aggrieved. “He put those papers in
my
bag? And shot my man because of it? Damn you, Crabbé! Damn your damned insolence!” Lydia Vandaariff patted her fiancé’s knee.
    “Your Highness,” hissed Crabbé urgently, “Bascombe is not telling the truth—I do not know how—it could be any of you! Anyone with his control phrase! Anyone could order him to answer these questions—to implicate me—”
    “And how would that person know what these questions were to be?” snarled the Contessa, and then pointed toward the captives. “At least one of them has been provided by Doctor Svenson!”
    “For all any of us know, whoever has tampered with Bascombe’s mind could be in league with these three!” cried Crabbé. “It would certainly explain their persistent survival!”
    The Contessa’s eyes went wide at the Deputy Minister’s words.
    “Bascombe’s mind! Of course—of course, you sneaking little man! You did not halt the examinations in the ballroom for Lord Robert or the Duke—you did it because Roger was suddenly forced to accompany Vandaariff! Because otherwise the Comte would have seen inside his mind—and seen all of your plotting against us plain as day!” She wheeled to the Comte, and gestured to Bascombe on the floor. “Do not believe
me,
Oskar—ask your own questions, by all means—some questions I will not have
anticipated
! Or you,