The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Francis—help yourself! For myself I am satisfied, but do go on! Roger—you will answer all questions put to you!”
    The Comte’s face betrayed no particular expression, but Miss Temple knew he was already suspicious of the Contessa and so perhaps was genuinely curious, unsure which—or was it both? Or all?—of his confederates had betrayed him.
    “Francis?” he rasped.
    “Be my guest.” Xonck smiled, not even moving his eyes as he spoke.
    The Comte d’Orkancz leaned forward. “Mr. Bascombe,…to your knowledge, did Deputy Minister Crabbé have anything to do with the murder of Colonel Arthur Trapping?”
    The Contessa spun to the Comte, her expression wary and her violet eyes dauntingly sharp.
    “Oskar, why—”
    “No,” said Roger.

    The Comte’s next question was interrupted by Caroline Stearne, whose return had brought Doctor Lorenz into the doorway.
    “Contessa,” she whispered.
    “Thank you, Caroline—would you be so good as to fetch the Prince’s bag?” Caroline took in the tension of the room, her face pale, bobbed her head once and darted from the cabin. The Contessa turned to Lorenz.
    “Doctor, how good of you to come—though I do trust
someone
remains at the wheel?”
    “Do not trouble yourself, Madame—I have two good men
aloft,
” he answered, smiling at his nautical reference. The Doctor’s smile faded as he took in that it was Bascombe on the floor being questioned, and not the prisoners.
    “Our position?” the Contessa asked him crisply.
    “We are just over the sea,” Lorenz replied. “From here, as you know, there are different routes available—remaining over water, where there is less chance of being seen, or crossing straight to shadow the coast. In this fog it may not matter—”
    “And how long until we reach Macklenburg proper?” asked the Comte.
    “With either route it will be ten hours at the least. More if the wind is against us…as it presently is…” Lorenz licked his thin lips. “May I ask what is going on?”
    “Merely a disagreement between partners,” called Xonck, over his shoulder.
    “Ah. And may I ask why
they
are still alive?”
    The Contessa turned to look at them, her eyes settling at last upon Miss Temple. Her expression was not kind.
    “We were waiting for
you,
Doctor. I would not have any bodies found on land. The sea will take them—and if one does happen to wash up on a beach, it will only be after days in the water. By that time even the lovely Miss Temple will be as grey and shapeless as a spoiled milk pudding.”

    Caroline appeared again, the bag in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.
    “Madame—”
    “Excellent as always, Caroline,” said the Contessa. “I am so glad you retain your flesh. Can you read them?”
    “Yes, Madame. They are Lord Vandaariff’s writings. I recognize his hand.”
    “And what does he write
about
?”
    “I cannot begin—the account is
exhaustive
—”
    “I suppose it would be.”
    “Madame—would it not be better—”
    “Thank you, Caroline.”
    Caroline bobbed her head and remained in the doorway with Lorenz, both of them watching the room with nervous fascination. The Comte frowned darkly, beads of sweat had broken out on Xonck’s forehead, and Crabbé’s face had gone so pale as to seem bloodless. Only the Contessa smiled, but it was a smile that frightened Miss Temple more than all the others rolled to one, for above her scarlet lips and sharp white teeth the woman’s eyes glittered like violet knife-points. She realized that the Contessa was
pleased,
that she looked forward to what would come with the bodily hunger of a mother embracing her child.
    The Contessa drifted to Xonck, placing her face next to his.
    “What do you think, Francis?” she whispered.
    “I think I should like to put down this sword.” He laughed. “Or put it
in
someone.” His eyes settled on Chang. The Contessa leaned her head against Xonck’s, somewhat girlishly.
    “That’s a very good idea. But I wonder if you have ample room to swing.”
    “I might like more, it’s true.”
    “Let me see what I can do, Francis.”
    In a turn as elegant as if she were dancing, the Contessa spun toward Deputy Minister Crabbé, the razor-sharp spike in place across her hand, and drove it like a hammer into the side of his skull, just in front of his ear. Crabbé’s eyes popped open and his body jerked at the impact…then went still for the four long seconds it took for his life to fade. He collapsed