The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

her hands on the cabinet and the soles of her boots on the floor.
    “Well,” she said, “it looks as if we shall visit Macklenburg after all.”
    “Unless they throw us into the sea on the way,” observed the Doctor.
    “
Ah
,” said Miss Temple.
    “Still wanting your breakfast?” muttered Chang.
    She turned to glare at him—it not being a fair thing to say at all—when they were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. She looked at both men, but neither spoke. She sighed, and called out as casually as she could.
    “Yes?”
    “Miss Temple? It is Minister Crabbé. I am wondering if you might open this door and join our conversation.”
    “What conversation is that?” she answered.
    “Why, it is the one where we decide your lives, my dear. It would be better had not through a door.”
    “I am afraid we find the door
convenient
,” replied Miss Temple.
    “Perhaps … yet I am forced to point out that Mrs. Dujong does not share your
partition
. Further, while I would prefer to avoid unpleasantness, the door
is
made of wood, and its lock must be subject to the force of bullets—it is in fact an
illusory
convenience. Surely there is much to discuss between us all—need this excellent oak panel be ruined for a conclusion you cannot dispute?”
    Miss Temple turned to her companions. Svenson looked past her to the cabinet she leaned against. He stepped across and forced it open with a quick prying thrust of his dagger under its lock, but inside was merely a collection of blankets, ropes, candles, woolen coats, and a box of hats and gloves. He turned back to Chang, who leaned against the doorframe and shrugged.
    “We cannot go out the window,” Svenson said.
    “You have the only weapon,” said Chang, nodding to the Doctor’s dagger, for he had dropped his own to throw Miss Temple on the gangway, “perhaps it were best stowed away.”
    “I agree, but surely by you.”
    Svenson passed the blade to Chang, who stuffed it in his coat. The Doctor reached for Miss Temple’s hand, squeezed it once, and nodded to Chang, who unlocked the door.
    * * *
    The next room was the largest of the three in the dirigible’s cabin, and was ringed with cabinets and inset settees, now occupied by the various members of the Cabal, all watching their entrance quite closely. On one side sat the Prince, Harald Crabbé, and Roger Bascombe, on the other the Comte, the Contessa, and in the far doorway, a saber in his hand, blood spoiling his once-white shirt, stood Francis Xonck. Beyond him lurked other figures and movement, and Miss Temple tried to deduce who was missing. Had more of them been brought down in the final struggle? Her questions were answered a moment later by the appearance of Lydia Vandaariff, changed from her robes to a brilliant blue silk dress, bobbing under Xonck’s arm and stepping—still unsteadily—toward the Prince, prompting Roger to leave his place to make room. Emerging directly after Lydia—no doubt helping with her stays—was the ever-attentive Caroline Stearne, who slipped to an empty seat next to the Comte.
    “I assume Doctor Lorenz pilots our craft?” asked Chang.
    “He does,” answered Harald Crabbé.
    “Where is Mrs. Dujong?” asked Doctor Svenson.
    Xonck nodded vaguely to the room behind him. “She is quite secure … something of a return to form, I’m told.”
    Svenson did not reply. Aside from Xonck, no one brandished any weapon—though, given Xonck’s prowess and the small size of the room, Miss Temple doubted whether anyone else
needed
one. Yet if their immediate dispatch was not their enemies’ intent, Miss Temple was mystified as to what their plan then was.
    At the same time, simply where they sat revealed divisions among them: on one side Crabbé and Roger, and under their arm the Prince (though the Prince would go with whoever was ascendant), and on the other the Comte and Contessa, with Caroline under their sway (though how much she counted, Miss Temple had no clue—did she, Lorenz, and Roger make up a second tier of the Cabal, or were they simply three more drones of theProcess?)—and then in the middle and unallied to either, Francis Xonck, his capacity for slaughter quite balancing, especially in these close quarters, the cunning of Crabbé, the knowledge of the Comte, and the provocative charm of the Contessa.
    Crabbé looked across to the Contessa and raised his eyebrows in question. She nodded in agreement—or did she grant permission?—and Crabbé