The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

dangerous delays—and the most likely explanationfor all these questions stands before us.” He thrust his chin toward Miss Temple. “She and her comrades have caused no end of trouble! Who is to say it was not
they
who have killed Blenheim!”
    “Just as Cardinal Chang slew Mr. Gray …” observed Xonck quietly, turning his gaze to the Contessa. Crabbé took in his words, blinked and then, heartened by the shift of inquiry, nodded with agreement.
    “Ah! Yes! Yes! I had forgotten it—it had been quite blown from my mind! Contessa?”
    “What? As Chang is a murderer and Mr. Gray gone missing, I have no doubt the man was killed. I know not where—my instructions for Mr. Gray were to assist Doctor Lorenz with the Duke.”
    “Yet Chang says they met underground—near the pipes!” cried Crabbé.
    “I had not heard this …” rasped the Comte d’Orkancz.
    The Contessa looked up at him and pulled her spent cigarette from the holder, dropping it to the floor and stepping on the smoking butt while she screwed a new one in its place.
    “You were occupied with your
ladies
,” she replied. Miss Temple perceived just a whisper of discomfort cross the Contessa’s face as she took in the small glass woman, standing placidly as a tamed leopard, careless of their bickering, her brilliant indigo color more striking for her proximity to the Comte’s dark fur. “Chang claimed Mr. Gray had been tampering with your works—at my instruction. The clearest evidence of this, of course, would be if something had gone wrong with your efforts—however, as far as I can tell, you have produced three successful transformations. As this is a process I quite freely admit I do not understand
in the slightest
, I offer your results as evidence that Cardinal Chang is a liar.”
    “Unless he killed Gray
before
he could do his damage,” said Crabbé.
    “Which is idle, baseless speculation,” growled the Contessa.
    “Which does not mean it is not true—”
    The Contessa swept to the Deputy Minister and her hand—apparently occupied with replacing her cigarette case in her bag—was now wrapped with the bright band. Its glittering spike was hard against Crabbé’s throat, digging at a visibly throbbing vein.
    Crabbé swallowed.
    “Rosamonde …” began the Comte.
    “Say it again, you bothersome little man,” hissed the Contessa, “and I will rip you open like a poorly sewn sleeve.”
    Crabbé did not move.
    “Rosamonde …” said the Comte again. Her attention did not shift from Crabbé.
    “Yes?”
    “Might I suggest … the young lady?”
    The Contessa moved two quick steps away from Crabbé—clear of any counter-stroke from a weapon of his own—and wheeled to Miss Temple. The woman’s face was flushed—with open pleasure, it seemed—and her eyes flared with excitement. Miss Temple doubted she had ever been in such peril.
    “You underwent the Process in the theatre?” The Contessa smiled. “Is that it? Yes, directly after Lydia Vandaariff?”
    Miss Temple nodded quickly.
    “What a shame Miss Poole cannot confirm it. But
here
we are not helpless … let me see … orange for Harschmort … attendant whore … hotel, I suppose … and of course, doomed …”
    The Contessa leaned forward and hissed into Miss Temple’s ear.
    “Orange Magdalene orange Royale ice consumption!”
    Miss Temple was taken by surprise, stammering for a response, then recalling—too late—the Prince in the secret room—
    The Contessa took hold of Miss Temple’s jaw, wrenching her head so the women stared at each other. With a cold deliberate sneer the Contessa’s tongue snaked from her mouth and smeared its way across each of Miss Temple’s eyes. Miss Temple whimpered as the Contessa licked again, pressing her tongue flat over her noseand cheek, digging its narrow tip along her lashes. With a triumphant scoff the Contessa shoved Miss Temple stumbling into the waiting arms of Colonel Aspiche.
    Miss Temple looked up to see the elegant lady wiping her mouth with her hand and mockingly smacking her lips.
    “ ’Thirty-seven Harker-Bornarth, I should say … excellent vintage … shame to waste it on a savage. Get her out of here.”
    She was dragged without ceremony down a nearby hallway and thrown, there was no other word for it, like a sack of goods into a dimly lit room guarded by two black-coated soldiers of Macklenburg. She sprawled to her knees and wheeled back to the open door, hair hanging in her eyes, in time to see