The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

him, he would have been in a state to hold back nothing. It is regrettable.”
    “You must understand that my interests here are my duty to protect him, and my duty as a doctor—in good faith—and if
this
”—Svenson gestured to the woman, her pale flesh almost luminous in the lantern glow—“is the danger you have exposed Karl-Horst to—”
    “I have not.”
    “But—”
    “You do not know. The woman, if you please, Doctor Svenson.”
    The sharpness of his tone stopped further protest in Svenson’s throat. He wiped the sweat from his face.
    “If you’ve read my pamphlet enough to remember my name you know yourself already. She bears all the evidence of having been rescued after prolonged immersion in freezing water—the winter Baltic, for example. At certain temperatures the bodily functions slow precipitously—this can be both deadly and a preservative. She is alive, she breathes. Whether this has irreparably damaged her mind, I cannot say. Whether she will ever awake from this—this winter sleep—I cannot say either. Yet, I—I must ask about the marks across her body—whatever has been done to her—”
    D’Orkancz held up his hand. Svenson stopped talking.
    “Is there anything to be done
now,
Doctor—that is the question.”
    “Keep her warm. Force her to drink warm fluids. I would suggest some kind of massage to encourage circulation—all peripheral—either the damage has been done or it hasn’t.”
    The Comte d’Orkancz was silent. His cup of coffee lay untouched beside him. “One more question, Doctor Svenson,…perhaps the most crucial of all.”
    “Yes?”
    “Do you think she’s dreaming?”
    Svenson was taken aback, for the Comte’s tone was not entirely one of sympathy—within the body of his concern ran a vein of iron inquiry. He answered carefully, glancing back to the now-curtained bed.
    “There is inconstant movement of the eyes…it might be ascribed to some kind of fugue state…it is not catatonia…she is not aware, but perhaps…within her own mind…perhaps dreams…perhaps delirium…perhaps peace.”
    The Comte d’Orkancz did not reply, his eyes lost for a moment in thought. He came back to the present, looked up. “And now…what shall I do with you, Doctor Svenson?”
    Svenson’s eyes flicked over to his coat, hanging on the stand, the pistol buried in the pocket. “I will take my leave—”
    “You’ll stay where you are, Doctor,” he whispered sharply, “until I say otherwise. You have assisted me—I would prefer to reward such cooperation—and yet you stand quite clearly opposed to other interests that I must preserve.”
    “I must recover my Prince.”
    The Comte d’Orkancz sighed heavily.

    Svenson groped for something to say, but was unsure what to reveal—he could mention Aspiche or Lorenz, or Madame Lacquer-Sforza or Major Blach, he could mention the blue glass card, but would this make him more valuable in the Comte’s mind, or more dangerous? Was he more likely to be spared the more ignorantly loyal to the Prince he appeared? He could not see clearly out of the greenhouse due to the glaring lantern light reflecting on the glass—he could not place any of the guards. Even if he were able to reach his pistol and somehow overcome d’Orkancz—by his size an extremely powerful man—how could he elude the others? He didn’t know where he was—he was exhausted—he had no safe place to hide—he still knew nothing about the Prince’s location.
    He looked up at the Comte. “Would you mind if I had a cigarette?”
    “I would.”
    “Ah.”
    “Your cigarettes are in your coat, are they not?”
    “They are—”
    “Most likely quite near to the service revolver you brandished earlier this evening. Does it not seem like a great deal has happened since then? I have grappled with death and disruption, with intrigue and retribution—and you have done the same. And you have lost your Prince
again
. We would both be nearly comic, were not these consequences so steeped in blood. Have you ever killed anyone, Doctor?”
    “I’m afraid many men have died under my hands…”
    “On the table, yes, but that is different—however you may rack yourself with accusation, it is entirely different—as you well know. You do know exactly what I am asking.”
    “I do. I have.”
    “When?”
    “In the city of Bremen. A man who had—it seemed—corrupted a young niece of the Duke—he was intractable, my instructions…I—I forced him to drink