The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

course, the Deputy Minister, the Comte, the Contessa—”
    “You know the Contessa?” the man hissed, risking a guilty glance back to the woman waiting in the archway.
    “O yes.” Svenson smiled, leaning closer to the man’s ear. “Would you care for an introduction? She is
incomparable
.”
    With the black cloak covering his uniform and its stains of blood, smoke, and orange dust, and the black mask he’d taken from Flaüss, the Doctor plunged into the crowd moving toward the ballroom, shouldering through as brusquely as he dared, responding to any complaint in muttered German. He looked up and saw the ballroom ceiling through the next archway, but before he could reach it heard raised voices—and then above them all a sharp, commanding cry.
    “
Open the doors
!”
    The Contessa’s voice. The bolts were pulled and then a sharp hiss of alarm came from those up front who could see … and then an unsettled,
daunted
silence. But who had arrived? What had happened?
    He shoved forward with even less care for decorum until he passed the final archway and entered the ballroom. It was thronged with guests who pushed back at him as he came, as if they made room for someone in the center of the chamber. A woman screamed, and then another—each cry quickly smothered. He threaded his way through the palpably disturbed crowd to reach a ring of Dragoons, and then through a gap between red-coated troopers saw the grim face of Colonel Aspiche. Doctor Svenson immediately turned away and found, in the circle itself, the Comte d’Orkancz. He twisted past one more ring of spectators and stopped dead.
    * * *
    Cardinal Chang crouched on his hands and knees, insensible, drooling. Above him stood a naked woman, for all the world like an animated sculpture of blue glass. The Comte led her by a leather leash linked to a leather collar. Svenson blinked, swallowing. It was the woman from the greenhouse—Angelique!—at any rate it was her body, it was her hair … His mind reeled at the mere implications of what d’Orkancz had done—much less
how
he had done it. His eyes went back to Chang with dismay. Was it possible he’d seen greater distress than Svenson himself? The man was a ruin, his flesh slick and pale, spattered with blood, his garish coat slashed and stained and burned. Svenson’s gaze darted past Chang to a raised dais … all of his enemies in a row: the Contessa, Crabbé (but no Bascombe, that was odd), Xonck, and then his own Karl-Horst, arm in arm with the blonde woman from the theatre—as he had feared, Lydia Vandaariff was as much a tool for the Cabal’s cruel usage as her father.
    Another rolling whisper, like the hiss of incoming surf, and the crowd parted to allow two more women to enter the circle behind Chang. The first was simply clad in a dark dress, with a black mask and black ribbon in her hair. Behind her was a woman with chestnut hair wearing the white silk robes. It was Miss Temple. Chang saw her and pushed himself up on his knees. The woman in black pulled away Miss Temple’s mask. Svenson gasped. She bore the scars of the Process vividly imprinted on her face. She said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye Svenson saw Aspiche, a truncheon in his hand. His arm flashed down and Chang fell flat to the floor. Aspiche motioned to two of the Dragoons and pointed them toward where the women had entered.
    Chang was dragged away. Miss Temple did not pay him a single glance.
    * * *
    His allies were shattered. One overborne physically, the other mentally, and—he had to face it—both beyond hope of rescue or recovery. And if Miss Temple had been taken, what but death or the same servitude could have been dealt to Elöise? If only he hadn’t abandoned them—he had failed again—all one disaster after another! The satchel … if he could get the satchel into the hands of some other government—at the least someone else would
know
… but standing in the thick of the crowded ballroom, Doctor Svenson knew this was just one more vain hope. There was scant chance of escaping the house much less of reaching the frontier or a ship … he had no idea what to do. He looked up at the dais, narrowing his eyes at the simpering Prince. If he’d a pistol he would have stepped forth to blaze away—if he could kill the Prince and another one or two of them, it would have been enough … but even that sacrificial gesture was denied.
    The voice of the Contessa broke into his thoughts.
    “My dear Celeste,” she