The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

hand went to her trembling mouth and she looked anxiously for the decanter. Miss Temple stepped to the table and pushed the tray from her reach. The woman looked up at her with pleading eyes.
    “Oh, you do not understand! In my house there are mirrors
everywhere
!”
    The door behind them opened, causing both to turn toward the waiter Poul as he escorted another lady into their private room.She was tall, with brown hair and a pretty face marred by the dimming traces of a ruddy looping scar around both eyes. Her dress was beige, set off by a darker brown fringe, and she wore a triple string of pearls tied tightly to her throat. In her hand was a small bag. She saw the women and smiled, slipping a coin to Poul and nodding him from the room as she merrily addressed them.
    “You are here! I did not know you would each be free to come—an unhoped-for pleasure, and this way you’ve had time to get acquainted by yourselves, yes?”
    Poul was gone, the door shut behind him, and she sat at the table, in Miss Temple’s former spot, moving the port glass to the side as she settled her dress. Miss Temple did not recognize her face, but she remembered the voice—in the coach to Harschmort, the woman who’d told the story of the two men undressing her. The scars on her face were fading—she’d been the one in the medical theatre talking of her changed existence, her newfound missions of power and pleasure … this was Mrs. Marchmoor … Margaret Hooke.
    “I wondered if we would meet again,” Miss Temple said to her, somewhat icily, intending to alert the blonde woman to the obvious peril this newcomer presented to them both.
    “You didn’t wonder at all, I am sure,” Mrs. Marchmoor replied. “You knew, because you knew you would be hunted down. The Comte tells me you are … of
interest
.” She turned to the masked woman in blue, who had drifted back to the table, though she had not resumed her seat. “What do you think, Lydia—from your observation, is Miss Temple a person worth the time? Is she worthy of our investment, or should she be destroyed?”
    Lydia? Miss Temple looked at the blonde woman. Could this be the daughter of Robert Vandaariff, the fiancée of the Doctor’s drunken Prince, the heiress to the largest fortune imagined? The object of her gaze did not respond, save to search again for the decanter, this time catching it, pulling out the stopper, and pouring another glass.
    Mrs. Marchmoor chuckled. Lydia Vandaariff downed the contents—herfifth glass?—and positively bleated, “Shut up. You’re late. What are the two of you talking about? Why am I talking to you two when it’s Elspeth I’m supposed to see? Or even more—the Contessa! And why are you calling her Temple? She said her name was Hastings.”
    Miss Vandaariff wheeled to Miss Temple, squinting with suspicion. “Didn’t you?” She looked back to Mrs. Marchmoor. “What do you mean, ‘hunted down’?”
    “She is making a poor joke,” said Miss Temple. “I have not been
found
—on the contrary, it is I who have come here. I am glad you spoke to the Comte—it saves me time explaining—”
    “But who
are
you?” Lydia Vandaariff was becoming drunker by the minute.
    “She is an enemy of your father,” answered Mrs. Marchmoor. “She is undoubtedly armed, and intends some mayhem or ransom. She killed two men the night of the ball—that we know of, there may be more—and her confederates have plans to assassinate your Prince.”
    The blonde woman stared at Miss Temple. “
Her
?”
    Miss Temple smiled. “It is ridiculous, is it not?”
    “But … you
did
say you were at Harschmort!”
    “I was,” said Miss Temple. “And I have tried to be kind to you—”
    “What were you doing at my masked ball?” Miss Vandaariff barked at her.
    “She was killing people,” said Mrs. Marchmoor tartly.
    “That soldier!” whispered Lydia. “Colonel Trapping! They told me—he seemed so fit—but why would anyone—
why would you want him dead
?”
    Miss Temple rolled her eyes and exhaled through her teeth. She felt as if she had become marooned in a ridiculous play made up of one rambling conversation after another. Here she had before her a young woman whose father surely sat at the heart of the entire intrigue, and another who was one of its most subtle agents. Why was she wasting time confirming or denying their trivial questions,when it was in her own power to take control? So often in her life Miss Temple was aware of the