The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

this mirror that sent the Doctor to the St. Royale in the first place—”
    Elöise nodded impatiently, for she had finally reached her news.
    “But did he note who was
in
the lobby? Someone who had quite obviously stepped out of the private room for a chance to speak apart from those remaining in it, distracted by the, ah,
spectacle
?”
    Miss Temple shook her head.
    “Colonel Arthur Trapping,” whispered Elöise, “speaking most earnestly … with Lord Robert Vandaariff!”
    * * *
    Miss Temple placed a hand over her mouth.
    “It
is
the Comte!” she exclaimed. “The Comte plans to use Lydia—use the marriage, I can’t say exactly how—in another part of Oskar Veilandt’s alchemical scheme—”
    Elöise frowned. “Who is—”
    “A painter—a mystic—the discoverer of the blue glass! We were told he was dead—killed for his secrets—but now I wonder if he lives, if he might even be a prisoner—”
    “Or his memories drained into a book!”
    “O yes! But the point is—do the
others
know what the Comte truly intends for Lydia? More importantly, did her
father
know? What if Trapping found Roger’s card and recognized Lydia and the Comte? Is it possible that the Colonel did not understand the truth of his associates’ villainy and threatened them with exposure?”
    “I am afraid you never met Colonel Trapping,” said Elöise.
    “Not to actually exchange words, no.”
    “It is more likely he understood exactly what the card meant and went to the one person with even deeper pockets than his brother-in-law.”
    “And we have not
seen
Lord Vandaariff—perhaps even now he weaves his own revenge against the Comte? Or does he even know—if Trapping promised him information but was killed before he could reveal it?”
    “Blenheim had not seen Lord Robert,” said Elöise.
    “And the Comte’s plan for Lydia remains in motion,” said Miss Temple. “I have seen her drinking his poisons. If Trapping was killed to keep her father in ignorance—”
    “He must have been killed by the Comte!” said Elöise.
    Miss Temple frowned. “And yet … I am certain the Comte was as curious as anyone as to the Colonel’s fate.”
    “Lord Robert must at least be warned by his secret agent’s demise,” reasoned Elöise. “No wonder he is in hiding. Perhaps it ishe who now holds this missing painter—seeking some sort of exchange? Perhaps he now weaves his own plot against them all!”
    “Speaking of
that
,” said Miss Temple, casting her eyes down to the heavy shoes of Mr. Blenheim, just visible behind a red leather ottoman, “what do we make of Mr. Blenheim’s possession … of
this
?”
    She held the key of blue glass to the light and studied its gleam.
    “It is the same glass as the books,” said Elöise.
    “What do you think it opens?”
    “It would have to be extremely delicate … something
else
made of the glass?”
    “My exact conclusion.” Miss Temple smiled. “Which leads me to a second point—that Mr. Blenheim had no business carrying this key at all. Can you imagine any of the Cabal trusting such a thing—which must be priceless—to someone not of their direct number? He is the overseer of the house, he can only figure in
their
plots as much as these Dragoons or Macklenburg stooges. Who would trust him?”
    “Only one person,” said Elöise.
    Miss Temple nodded. “Lord Robert Vandaariff.”
    “I believe
I
have an idea,” Miss Temple announced, and hopped off the armchair. Taking care to step over the darkened smear on the carpet—it had been difficult enough to shift the body, they agreed not to concern themselves with stains—she made her way to the cluttered sideboard. Working with a certain pleasurable industry, she found an unopened bottle of a decent age and a small sharp knife to dig past the wax seal and into the crumbling cork beneath, at least enough to pour through—for she did not mind if the cork dust crept into the liquid, for it was not the liquid that she cared for. Selecting a largely empty decanter, Miss Temple began, tongue poking from her mouth in concentration, to pour out the deep ruby port, doing her best to empty the bottle. When at last she saw the first bits of muddy sediment, she left off the decanter andreached for a wineglass, emptying the rest of the port bottle, sediment and all, into this. She then took another wineglass and, using the little knife as a dam, poured off the liquid until all that remained in her first glass were the ruddy,