The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

summarize, of course, but there is apparently something about the Prince of Macklenburg and there is a
great
deal to do with a queer blue glass that can be made into books, books that hold—or consume—actual memories, actual experiences—it’s really quite extraordinary—”
    “Yes, I have seen them,” whispered Elöise.
    “You have?” Miss Temple’s voice was tinged with disappointment, for she found herself suddenly eager to describe her own astonishing experience to someone else.
    “They exposed each of us to such a book—”
    “Who ‘they’?” asked Miss Temple.
    “Miss Poole, and Doctor … Doctor Lorenz.” Elöise swallowed. “Some of the women could not bear it … they were killed.”
    “Because they would not look?”
    “No, no—because they did look. Killed by the book itself.”
    “
Killed
? By looking in the books?”
    “I do believe it.”
    “I was not killed.”
    “Perhaps you are very strong,” answered Elöise.
    Miss Temple sniffed. She rarely discredited flattery, even when she knew the point of the moment lay elsewhere (as when Roger had praised her delicacy and humor at the same time that his hand around her waist sought to wander exploratively southward), but Miss Temple
had
pulled herself from the book, by her own power—an achievement even the forever condescending Contessa had remarked upon. The idea that the opposite was possible—that she could have been swallowed utterly, that she could have
perished
—sent a brittle shiver down her back. It would have been absolutely effortless, true—the contents of the book had been so seductive. But she had not perished—and what was more, Miss Temple felt fully confident that should she look into another of these books its hold would be even weaker, for as she had pulled free once, she would know she could do so again. She turned back to Elöise, still unconvinced of the woman’s true character.
    “But you must be strong as well, of course, as a person our enemies sought to add to their ranks—just as you were brought to Tarr Manor to begin with. For this is why we wear these robes, you know—to initiate our minds into their insidious mysteries, a Process to bend our wills to their own.”
    She stopped and looked down at herself, plucking at the robes with both hands.
    “At the same time, though I would not call it
practical
, the feel of silk against one’s body is nevertheless …
well
… so …”
    Elöise smiled, or at least made the attempt, but Miss Temple saw the woman’s lower lip hesitantly quiver.
    “It is just … you see, I do not
remember
… I know I went to Tarr Manor for a reason, but for my life I cannot call it to mind!”
    “It is best we keep on our way,” Miss Temple said, glancing to see if the quivering lip had been followed by tears, and breathing with relief that it had not. “And you can tell me what you do remember of Tarr Manor. Miss Poole mentioned Francis Xonck, and of course Colonel Trapping—”
    “I am tutor to the Colonel’s children,” said Elöise, “and known to Mr. Xonck—indeed, he has been most attentive ever since the Colonel disappeared.” She sighed. “You see, I am a confidante of Mr. Xonck’s sister, the Colonel’s wife—I was even present here, at Harschmort House, the night the Colonel disappeared—”
    “You were?” asked Miss Temple, a bit abruptly.
    “I have asked myself if I inadvertently witnessed some clue, or overheard some secret—anything to entice Mr. Xonck to curiosity, or that he might use against his siblings, or even to conceal his own part in the Colonel’s death—”
    “Is it possible you knew who had killed him or why?” asked Miss Temple.
    “I have no idea!” cried Elöise.
    “But if those memories are gone, then it follows they must have been worth taking,” observed Miss Temple.
    “Yes, but because I learned something I should not have? Or because I was—there is no other word—seduced to even take part?”
    Elöise stopped, her hand over her mouth, tears gleaming in each eye. The woman’s despair struck Miss Temple as real, and she knew as well as anyone—after her experience of the book—how temptation might sway the sternest soul. If she could not remember what she’d done, if she was here stricken with regret, did the truth of it really matter? Miss Temple had no idea—no more than she might parse the relative state of her own bodily innocence. For the first time she allowed a gentle nudge of pity to enter