The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

brusquely down the staircase and thrust her to her knees before the others. It was Elöise.
    Miss Temple looked to Svenson and saw his frozen expression. Before he could do a thing she reached for his hand that held the pistol, gripping it tightly. This was no time for reckless impulse.
    Xonck backed away from Elöise, indeed as did they all, for at a nod from the Comte Angelique stepped forward, her feet clicking against the stone floor like a new-shod pony’s. Elöise shook her head and looked up, utterly bewildered by the splendid, naked creature, and screamed. She screamed again—Miss Temple squeezing the Doctor’s arm as tightly as she could—but it died in her throat, as the expression of terror on her face faded to a quivering passivity. The glass woman had savagely penetrated her mind andwas rummaging through its contents with pitiless efficiency. Again, Miss Temple saw the Comte d’Orkancz had closed his eyes, his face a mask of concentration. Elöise did not speak, her mouth open, rocking back and forth on her knees, staring helplessly into the cold blue eyes of her inquisitor.
    Then it was done. Elöise dropped in a heap. The Comte came forward to stand over her, looking down.
    “It is Mrs. Dujong,” whispered Crabbé. “From the quarry. She shot the Duke.”
    “Indeed. She escaped from the theatre with Miss Temple,” said the Comte. “Miss Temple killed Blenheim—his body is in the trophy room. Blenheim
did
have the key—she herself wondered why. It is tucked in Mrs. Dujong’s shift, along with a silver cigarette case and a blue glass demonstration card. Both were acquired by way of Doctor Svenson.”
    “A glass card?” asked the Contessa. Her gaze darted judiciously across the room. “What does it happen to
show
?”
    Elöise was panting with exertion, groping to rise to her hands and knees. The Comte shoved his hand roughly into her shift, feeling for the objects he’d described. He stood again, peering at the cigarette case, all the time not answering the Contessa’s question. Xonck cleared his throat. The Comte looked up and tossed the silver case to him, which Xonck awkwardly managed to catch.
    “Also Svenson’s,” he said, and glanced over at the Prince, who was still in his chair, watching it all through a veil of drunken bemusement. “The card is imprinted with an experience of Mrs. Marchmoor, within a room at the St. Royale … an
encounter
with the Prince. Apparently it made quite an
impression
on Mrs. Dujong.”
    “Is that … all?” asked the Contessa, again rather carefully.
    “No.” The Comte sighed heavily. “It is not.”
    He nodded again to Angelique.
    To the immediate dismay of the other members of the Cabal, the glass woman turned toward them. They shrank back, as Angelique began to walk forward.
    “W-what are you
doing
?” sputtered Crabbé.
    “I am getting to the bottom of this
mystery
,” rasped the Comte.
    “You cannot finish this without our help,” hissed Xonck. He waved a hand at the girl on the bed. “Haven’t we done enough for you—haven’t we all accommodated your
visions
?”
    “Visions at the core of your
profit
, Francis.”
    “I have never denied it! But if you think to turn me into a husk like Vandaariff—”
    “I think nothing of the kind,” answered the Comte. “What I am doing is in our larger interest.”
    “Before you treat us like animals, Oskar, … and make me your
enemy
,” said the Contessa, raising her voice and speaking quite fiercely, “perhaps you could explain what you intend.”
    Miss Temple clapped a hand over her mouth, feeling like a fool. Oskar! Was it so stupidly obvious? The Comte had not stolen the works of Oskar Veilandt, the painter was no prisoner or mindless drone … the two men were one and the same! What had Aunt Agathe told her—that the Comte was born in the Balkans, raised in Paris, an unlikely inheritance? How was that incompatible with what Mr. Shanck had said of Veilandt—school in Vienna, studio in Montmartre, mysteriously disappeared—into respectability and wealth, she now knew! She looked over to Chang and Svenson, and saw Chang shaking his head bitterly. Svenson had eyes for nothing but Elöise’s slumped figure, glaring down at the poor woman with helpless agitation.
    The Comte cleared his throat and held up the glass card.
    “The
encounter
is attended by spectators—including you, Rosamonde, and you, Francis. But the clever Mrs. Dujong has perceived, through the viewing