The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

wore a dark uniform and a gold-painted mask over the upperhalf of his face. His pale hair was thin and his chin was weak, and when he smiled she saw his teeth were bad as well. On his finger however was a large gold ring … Miss Temple looked again at the uniform … the ring was a signet … this was Doctor Svenson’s Prince! She had seen him in the suite at the Royale—and had not recognized him at once in a more formal uniform and different mask. He sat on the chaise and called back to the Contessa.
    They could not hear. Moving quietly to the brass grille, Miss Temple saw a small brass knob fitted to it. The knob did not pull, so she tried to turn it, moving ever so slowly if it should squeak. Its movement was silent, but suddenly they could hear the Prince.
    “—gratified of course, most enthusiastically, though not surprised, you must know, for as the mighty among animals will recognize one another across an expanse of forest, so those in society matched by a natural superiority will similarly gravitate, it being only fitting that spirits united in an
essential
sympathy be followed by a sympathy of a more
corporeal
nature—”
    The Prince was in the midst of unbuttoning the collar of his tunic. The Contessa had not moved. Miss Temple could not readily credit that such a man could be so shamelessly describing to such a woman the destined aspect of their imminent assignation—though she knew one could scarcely underestimate the arrogance of princes. Still, she pursed her lips with dismay at his droning prattle, as he all the while dug at the double row of silver buttons with a pale hooked finger. Miss Temple looked to Mrs. Dujong, whose expression was equally unsteady, and leaned her lips quite close against her ear.
    “That is the Doctor’s Prince,” she whispered, “and the Contessa—”
    Before she could say more the Contessa took another step into the room and closed the door behind her. At the sound the Prince paused, interrupting his words with an unhealthily gratified leer that revealed a bicuspid gone grey. He dropped a hand to his belt buckle.
    “Truly, Madame, I have longed for this since the moment I first kissed your hand—”
    The Contessa’s voice was loud and sharp, her words spoken clearly and without regard for sense.
    “Blue Joseph blue Palace ice consumption.”
    The Prince went silent, his jaw hanging open, his fingers still. The Contessa stepped closer to him, inhaled thoughtfully from her lacquered holder and let the smoke pour from her mouth as she spoke, as if upon exercising her hidden power she had become that much more demonic.
    “Your Highness, you will believe you have had your way with me in this room. Though it would very much give you pleasure, you will be unable to convey this information to anyone else under any circumstances. Do you understand?”
    The Prince nodded.
    “Our
engagement
will have occupied your time for the next thirty minutes, so it will be impossible that I have in this time seen either Lydia Vandaariff or her father. During our encounter I have also confessed to you that the Comte d’Orkancz prefers the erotic companionship of boys. You will be unable to convey this information to anyone else either, though because of it you will not begrudge any request the Comte might have for unaccompanied visits to your bride. Do you understand?”
    The Prince nodded.
    “Finally, despite our encounter this evening, you will believe that upon this night you have taken the virginity of Miss Vandaariff, before you are married, so rapacious is your sexual appetite, and so little can she resist you. In the event she conceives, it is therefore entirely as a result of your own impulsive efforts. Do you understand?”
    The Prince nodded. The Contessa turned, for at the door behind her came a gentle knock. She opened it a crack, and then, seeing who it was, wide enough for that person to enter.
    Miss Temple put her hand over her mouth. It was Roger Bascombe.
    * * *
    “Yes?” asked the Contessa, speaking quietly.
    “You wanted to know—I am off to collect the books from this night’s
harvest
, and meet the Deputy Minister—”
    “And deliver the books to the Comte?”
    “Of course.”
    “You know which one I need.”
    “Lord Vandaariff’s, yes.”
    “Make sure it is in place. And watch Mr. Xonck.”
    “For what?”
    “I’m sure I do not know, Mr. Bascombe—thus the need to watch him closely.”
    Roger nodded. His eyes glanced past the Contessa to the