The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

caught herself, and then snickered. A certain lightness of mind was one thing, but to Miss Temple’s wary eye the Contessa was becoming positively giddy.
    “Karl-Horst von Maasmärck!” she bellowed. “Come down here and bring me two more books! I am told we must finish this—so finish it we shall!”
    “There is no need,” said Xonck. “We have them trapped.”
    “Quite right,” laughed the Contessa. “If I did throw this book the glass might spray past them and hit you! That would be
tragic
!”
    The Prince clomped down the stairs into view, with two books bundled in his coat under one arm, in the other carrying a bottle of orange liquid identical to the one Elöise had taken from the Comte’s stores in the tower. Xonck turned to the Comte, who muttered, just loud enough for Miss Temple to hear.
    “She does not wear gloves…”
    “Rosamonde—” began Xonck. “No matter what has been done—our plans remain in place—”
    “I can make him do anything, you know,” laughed the Contessa. She turned to the Prince and shouted out, “A nice waltz, I think!”
    As under her command as he’d been in the secret room, the Prince, his face betraying no understanding of what his body was doing, undertook a stumbling dance step on the slippery metal landing, all the time juggling his fragile burdens. The Comte and Xonck both took an urgent step forward.
    “The books, Rosamonde—he will drop them!” cried Xonck.
    “Perhaps I should just start throwing them anyway, and Celeste can try to shoot me if she can…”
    “Rosamonde!” cried Xonck again, his face pale.
    “Are you
afraid
?” she laughed. She motioned to the Prince to stop—which he did, panting, confused—and then raised her arm as if to make him continue.
    “Rosamonde,” called the Comte. “You are not yourself—the glass against your skin—it is affecting your mind! Put down the books—their contents are irreplaceable! We are still in alliance—Francis has them in hand with his blade—”
    “But Francis does not trust me,” she replied. “Nor I Francis. Nor I
you,
Oskar. How are you not dead when you’ve been shot? More of your
alchemy
? And here I had grown quite used to the idea—”
    “Contessa, you must stop—you are frightening us all!”

    This was from Lydia Vandaariff, who had taken several steps toward the Contessa, and reached out one hand, the other still clutching her belly. She tottered, and her chin was streaked with blue-tinged drool—yet however hesitant her carriage, as always for Lydia, her tone was both restive and demanding.
    “You are ruining everything! I want to be Princess of Macklenburg as you promised!”
    “Lydia,” rasped the Comte, “you must rest—take care—”
    The girl ignored him, raising her voice, piercingly plaintive and peevish, to the Contessa. “I do not want to be one of the glass women! I do not want to have the Comte’s child! I want to be a Princess! You must put down the book and tell us what to do!”
    Lydia gasped at another spasm.
    “Miss Vandaariff,” whispered Svenson. “Step away—”
    Another gout of blue, much thicker than before, heaved into Lydia’s mouth. She gagged and swallowed, groaned and whined again at the Contessa, now in a tearful fury. “We can kill
these
others any time, but the books are precious! Give them to me! You promised me
everything
—my dreams! I insist you give them to me at once!”
    The Contessa stared at her with wild eyes, but to Miss Temple it did seem the woman was genuinely attempting to consider Lydia’s request—even as if the words came from a great distance and were only partly heard—when Lydia huffed with impatience and made the mistake of trying to snatch the nearest book. Showing the same speed she had used to overcome Crabbé, the Contessa, all sympathy vanished, whipped the one book from Lydia’s reach and slashed the other book forward, chopping it with a cracking snap some two inches into Miss Vandaariff’s throat.
    The Contessa let go of the book and Lydia fell backwards, the flesh of her neck already turning blue, the blood in the back of her mouth and in her lungs hardening to crystal, popping like gravel beneath a wheel. The girl was dead before she hit the floor, her solidified throat breaking open and separating her head from her shoulders as neatly as an executioner’s axe.

    From the stairway the Prince let out a bellow of shock, roaring at the spectacle of Lydia dead, jaw quivering, mere words