The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

nor—given the grief you have inflicted—would they now be accepted. The situation could not be clearer. We hold Mrs. Dujong. You will answer our questions or she will die—and I’m sure you can imagine the sort of death I mean, the time it will take, and how distressing such prolonged screams will be in such an enclosed place as this. And if she does manage to expire, then we shall merely move on to one of you—Miss Temple, perhaps—and on and on. It is inevitable as the dawn. As you have opened that door to avoid its being needlessly broken, I offer you the chance to avoid that same breaking of your comrades’ bodies—and, indeed, their souls.”
    Miss Temple looked at the faces opposite her—Crabbé’s smug smirk, the Prince’s bemused disdain, Lydia’s fox-faced hunger, Roger’s earnest frown, Xonck’s leer, the Comte’s iron glare, the Contessa’s glacial smile, and Caroline’s sad patience—and found nowhere a suggestion that the Minister’s words were anything but true. Yet she still saw the factions between them and knew their deeper interest lay no longer in what she and the others had discovered, but only in how those discoveries spelled out betrayals within the Cabal’s circle.
    “It would be easier to believe you, Sir,” she said, “if you did not so blatantly
lie
. You ask us to talk to prevent our torture, yet what happens when we reveal some morsel of deduction that points to one among you—do you expect that person to accept our open word? Of course not—whoever is denounced will demand that your cruelties be brought to bear in
any
case, to confirm or disprove our accusations!”
    The Deputy Minister’s eyes twinkled as he shook his head, chuckling, and took another sip of brandy.
    “My goodness—Roger, I do believe she
is
more than you’d perceived—Miss Temple, you have caught me out. Indeed, it is the case—so much for my attempts to save the woodwork! All right then—you will, all four, be killed at length, quite badly. If any of you have something to say, all the better—if not, well, we’re rid of your damned stinking disruptions at last.”
    Xonck stepped forward, the saber dancing menacingly in the air before him. Miss Temple retreated, but a single step brought her flat against the wall. Once more the Doctor squeezed her hand, and then cried out in as hearty a voice as he could.
    “Excellent, Minister—and perhaps Mr. Xonck will kill us
before
we talk—would that suit you even better?”
    Crabbé stood up, impatient and angry. “Ah—here it comes! The vain attempt to turn us against one another—Francis—”
    “By all means,
Francis
—kill us quickly! Serve the Minister as you always have! Just as when you sank Trapping in the river!”
    Xonck paused, the tip of his blade within lunging range of Svenson’s chest. “I serve
myself
.”
    Svenson looked down at the saber tip and snorted—even as Miss Temple could feel the trembling of his hand. “Of course you do—just pardon my asking—what has happened to Herr Flaüss?”
    For a moment, no one answered, and Crabbé was glaring at Xonck to
keep going
when the Contessa spoke aloud, picking her words carefully.
    “Herr Flaüss was found to be … disloyal.”
    “The gunshot!” exclaimed Miss Temple. “You shot
him
!”
    “It proved necessary,” said Crabbé.
    “How could he be disloyal?” croaked Chang. “He was your creature!”
    “Why do you
ask
?” the Contessa pointedly demanded of the Doctor.
    “Why do you
care
?” hissed Crabbé to her, behind Xonck’s back. “Francis,
please—
”
    “I just wonder if it had to do with Lord Vandaariff’s missing
book
,” said Svenson. “You know—the one where his memory was—what is the word?—
distilled
?”
    There was a pause. Miss Temple’s heart was in her mouth—and then she knew the momentum toward their destruction had been stalled.
    “That book was broken,” rasped the Comte. “By Cardinal Chang in the tower—it killed Major Blach—”
    “Is that what his
ledger
says?” Svenson nodded contemptuously to Roger. “Then I think you will find
two
books missing—one with the Lady Mélantes, Mrs. Marchmoor, among others—and another—”
    “What are you waiting for?” cried Crabbé. “Francis! Kill him!”
    “Or you
would
,” crowed Svenson, “if there was a second book at all! For to distill Robert Vandaariff’s mind into a book—a mind holding the keys to a continent—to the future itself!—would have opened