The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

She turned to Miss Temple. “Groping
you
!”
    “But—no, no—” began Miss Temple, her words interrupted by a glance to Mrs. Marchmoor, who was beaming like a lighthouse. “There is another—with
this
woman! And your Prince! Far more intimate—I assure you—”
    Miss Vandaariff snapped at Miss Temple hungrily. “Let me see it! Do you have it with you? You must—there must be many, many of them—let me see this one again—
I want to see them all
!”
    Miss Temple was forced to step away from Miss Vandaariff’s grasping hands.
    “Do you not
care
?” she asked. “
That
woman—
there
!—with your
intended—
”
    “Why should I care? He is nothing to me!” Miss Vandaariff replied, flapping her hand toward the end of the table. “She is nothing to me! But the
sensation
—the submersion into such
experience—
”
    The woman was drunk. She was troubled, damaged, spoiled, and now yanking at Miss Temple’s arm like a street urchin, trying to get at her bag.
    “Control yourself!” she hissed, taking three rapid steps away, raising the pistol—though here she made the realization (and in the back of her mind knew that this was exactly the kind of thing that made a man like Chang a professional, that there
were
things to learn and remember about, for example, threatening people with guns) that whenever one used a gun as a goad to enforce the actions of others, one had best be prepared to use it. If one was not—as, in this moment, Miss Temple recognized she was not prepared to do against Miss Vandaariff—one’s power vanished like the flame of a blown-out candle. Miss Vandaariff was too distracted to take in anything save her strangely insistent hunger. Mrs. Marchmoor, however, had seen it all. Miss Temple wheeled, her pistol quite thrust at the woman’s smiling face.
    “Do not move!”
    Mrs. Marchmoor chuckled again. “Will you shoot me? Here in a crowded hotel? You will be taken by the law. You will go to prison and be hanged—we will make sure of it.”
    “Perhaps—though you shall die before me.”
    “Poor Miss Temple—for all your boldness, still you comprehend nothing.”
    Miss Temple scoffed audibly. She had no idea why Mrs. Marchmoor would feel empowered to say such a thing, and thus took refuge in defiant contempt.
    “What are you talking about?” whined Lydia. “Where are more of these
things
?”
    “Look at that one again,” said Mrs. Marchmoor soothingly. “If you practice you can make the card go more slowly, until it is possible to suspend yourself within a single moment as long as you like. Imagine
that
, Lydia—imagine what moments you can drink in again and again and again.”
    Mrs. Marchmoor raised her eyebrows at Miss Temple andcocked her head, as if to urge her to give up the card—the implication being that once the heiress was distracted the two of them—the adults in the room—could converse in peace.
    Against all her better instincts, perhaps only curious to see if what Mrs. Marchmoor had just said might be true, Miss Temple reached into her bag and withdrew the card, feeling as her fingers touched its slick cool surface the urge to look into it herself. Before she could fully resolve not to, Miss Vandaariff snatched it from her grasp and scuttled away to her seat, eyes fixed on the blue rectangle cupped reverently in her hands. Within moments Lydia’s tongue was flicking across her lower lip … her mind riveted elsewhere.
    “What has it done to her?” Miss Temple asked with dismay.
    “She will barely hear us, and we can speak clearly,” answered Mrs. Marchmoor.
    “She seems not to care about her fiancé.”
    “Why should she?”
    “Do
you
care for him?” she demanded, referring to the explicit interaction held fast within glass. Mrs. Marchmoor laughed and nodded at the blue card.
    “So
you
are held within that card … and on another
I
am …
encaptured
with the Prince?”
    “Indeed you are—if you think to deny it—”
    “Why should I? I can well imagine the situation, though I confess I don’t remember it—it is the price one pays for immortalizing one’s experience.”
    “You do not
remember
?” Miss Temple was astonished at the lady’s decadent disregard. “You do not remember—
that
—with the Prince—before
spectators—
”
    Mrs. Marchmoor laughed again. “O Miss Temple, it is obvious you would benefit from the clarity of the Process. Such foolish questions should nevermore pass your lips. When you spoke to the Comte, did