The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

gauntlets, tossing them one after the other into the upturned brass helmet. His voice was as deliberate and menacing as the steady strop of a barber’s razor.
    “As for you, Miss Temple, you will wait until Miss Vandaariff has undergone her trial. You will watch her, and this sight will increase your fear, for you have utterly, utterly lost your very self in this business. Your self will belong to me. And worse than this, and I tell you now so you may contemplate it fully, this
gift
, of your autonomy to my keeping, will be made willingly, happily …
gratefully
… by you. You will look back with whatever memories you keep at the willful gestures of these last days and they will seem the poor antics of a child—or not even, the actions of a disobedient lap-dog. You will be
ashamed
. Trust this, Miss Temple, you will be reborn in this room, contrite and wise … or not at all.”
    He stared at her. Miss Temple did not—could not—reply.
    The Comte snorted, then reached for the pocket watch again and frowned, stuffing it back behind the apron.
    “There
was
a disturbance in the outer hallway—” Mrs. Stearne began.
    “I am aware of it,” rumbled the Comte. “Nevertheless, this …
lateness
—the prospective adherents are sure to be waiting already. I begin to think it was a mistake not to send
you
—”
    He turned at the sound of an opening door from the opposite rampway and strode to it.
    “Have you an
inkling
of the time, Madame?” he roared into the darkness, and marched back to the table, crouching amidst the boxes beneath it. Behind him, stepping up from the darkened rampway, was the figure of a short curvaceous young woman with curling dark brown hair, a round face, and an eager smile. She wore a mask of peacock feathers and a shimmering pale dress the color of thin honey, sporting a silver fringe around her bosom and her sleeves. Her arms were bare, and in her hands she carried several dull, capped metal flasks. Miss Temple was sure she had seen her before—it was an evening for nagging suspicions—and then it came to her: this was Miss Poole, the third woman in the coach to Harschmort, initiated to the Process that night.
    “My goodness, Monsieur le Comte,” Miss Poole said brightly. “I am perfectly aware of it, and yet I assure you there was no helping the delay. Our business became dangerously protracted—”
    She stopped speaking as she saw Miss Temple.
    “Who is this?” she asked.
    “Celeste Temple—I believe you
have
met,” snapped the Comte. “Protracted how?”
    “I shall tell you later.” Miss Poole let her gaze drift to Miss Temple, indicating none too subtly the reason she preferred not to speak openly of her delay, then turned to wave girlishly at Mrs. Stearne. “Suffice it to say that I simply
had
to change my dress—that orange dust, don’t you know—though before you rail at me, it took no more time than Doctor Lorenz took to prepare your precious clay.”
    Here she handed the flasks to the Comte and once again danced away from the man toward Miss Vandaariff, lighting up with another beaming smile.
    “Lydia!” she squeaked, and took the heiress by the hands as Mrs. Stearne looked on with what to Miss Temple seemed a watchful, veiling smile.
    “O Elspeth!” cried Miss Vandaariff. “I came to see you at the hotel—”
    “I know you did, my dear, and I
am
sorry, but I was called away to the country—”
    “But I felt so
ill—
”
    “Poor darling! Margaret was there, was she not?”
    Miss Vandaariff nodded silently and then sniffed, as if to say that she did not
prefer
to be soothed by Margaret, as Miss Poole was well aware.
    “Actually, Miss Temple was there first,” observed Mrs. Stearne rather coolly. “She and Lydia had quite some time to converse before Mrs. Marchmoor was able to intervene.”
    * * *
    Miss Poole did not reply, but looked over to Miss Temple, weighing her as an adversary. Returning this condescending gaze, Miss Temple remembered the petty struggle in the coach—for it was Miss Poole’s eyes she had poked—and knew that humiliation would remain, despite the Process, in the woman’s mind like a whip mark turned to scar. For the rest of it, Miss Poole had just that sort of willfully merry temperament Miss Temple found plain galling to be around, as if one were to consume a full pound of sweet butter at a sitting. Both Mrs. Marchmoor (haughty and dramatic) and Mrs. Stearne (thoughtful and reserved) appeared to be informed by injuries