The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

person eager to register delight at the Contessa’s favor and to bestow—from that enhanced position—their own approval upon each other. Miss Temple clapped along, feeling like a trained monkey, watching the Contessa speak quietly to Xonck and Crabbé. At some silent agreement, the members of the Cabal swept off the dais and toward the doors. Before Miss Temple could react Caroline Stearne’s voice was in her ear.
    “We are to follow,” she whispered. “Something is wrong.”
    As they walked toward the open doors, attracting inquisitive glances from the guests who were all gaily exiting in the opposite direction in the wake of Vandaariff and the Duke, Miss Temple felt someone behind her aside from Caroline. Though she dared not look—curiosity of that sort did not become the staid confidence born of the Process—the sound of clicking steps told her it was the Comte and the last remaining of the three glass Graces, the woman she did not know. This was some blessing at least—a fresh slate was better than the knowing sneers and penetrating disbelief she could expect from Marchmoor and Poole—but in her heart she knew it did not matter which of them ransacked her mind, her pose would be revealed. Her only hope was that the same instinct that had led Crabbé to prevent the examination of the Duke or Lord Vandaariff would prevent them from risking the woman’s talents in such close quarters—for surely the rest of the Cabal would not choose to deliver their open minds to the Comte … at least not if they were betraying one another …
    She entered the open foyer where she had waited with CaptainSmythe, who had withdrawn some yards away so as not to intrude on the deliberations of his betters, betters who in turn waited in impatient silence for the last of their number to arrive, at which point the doors in every direction were closed, shielding their words from the tender ears of any passing
adherent
. As the latches caught and bolts were shot, Miss Temple wondered wistfully what had happened to Elöise, and whether Chang or Svenson might be alive, thoughts brusquely smothered by the figure of the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza lighting a cigarette in her shining black holder, puffing on the thing three times in succession before she spoke, as if each ascending inhalation stoked the fires of her rage. Perhaps even more disturbingly, not one of the powerful men around her presumed to interrupt this openly menacing ritual.
    “
What was that
?” she finally snarled, fixing her gaze on Harald Crabbé.
    “I do beg your pardon, Contessa—”
    “Why did you interfere with the examinations? You saw yourself how at least five interlopers were revealed—any one of whom might have undone our plans while we are in Macklenburg. You know this—you know this work is not
finished
.”
    “My dear, if you felt so strongly—”
    “I did not say anything because Mr. Xonck
did
say something, only to be overruled—in front of
everyone
—by you. For any of us to disagree further would have presented the exact lack of unity we have—with some
great effort
, Deputy Minister—managed to avoid.”
    “I see.”
    “I don’t believe you do.”
    She spat out another mouthful of smoke, her eyes burning into the man like a basilisk. Crabbé did his best to clear his throat and start fresh, but before he spoke a single word she’d cut him off.
    “We are not fools, Harald. You stopped the examinations so certain people would not be revealed to the Comte.”
    Crabbé made a feeble gesture toward Miss Temple, but again whatever words he might have said were halted by the Contessa’s condescending scoff.
    “Do not insult me—we’ll get to Miss Temple in time—I am speaking of the Duke and Lord Vandaariff. Both of whom should have presented no difficulty at all, unless of course, we are misled as to their true status. Enough of us have seen the Duke’s corpse that I am willing to say that Doctor Lorenz has done his work fairly—work that perforce was done in cooperation with the Comte. This leaves us with Lord Robert, whose transformation I believe was your
own
responsibility.”
    “He is absolutely under our control,” protested Crabbé, “you saw yourself—”
    “I saw no proof at all! It would have been simple to counterfeit!”
    “Ask Bascombe—”
    “Excellent—of course, we shall rely on the word of your own trusted assistant—now I shall sleep soundly!”
    “Do not take anyone’s word,” snapped Crabbé,