The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

those riches to any one of you who owned it, who possessed a
key
! Instead, the man given the task to do just that did
not
create a book—so yes, there is one book broken, and another never made
at all
!”
    The Contessa called out firmly to Xonck—“Francis, keep watching them!”—before turning to Crabbé. “Harald, can you answer this?”
    “
Answer
? Answer
what
? Answer the—the desperate—the—”
    Before the Minister could stop sputtering Chang called out again, a challenge to Roger. “I saw it myself, in Vandaariff’sstudy—he wrote it all down on parchment! If I hadn’t smashed a book they would have had to do it themselves—convincing you all that Vandaariff’s memories were gone, when
they
held the only copy!”
    “A copy I took from the Minister himself,” cried Svenson, “in a leather satchel—and which Bascombe took from me in the ballroom. I’m sure he still has it with him—or is that what Flaüss noticed when he joined you at Lord Vandaariff’s study … and why he had to die?”
    In the silence Miss Temple realized she had been holding her breath. The words had flown so quickly back and forth, while in between stood Francis Xonck, eyes shifting warily, his blade an easy thrust from them all. She could feel the fearful state of Svenson’s nerves, and knew Chang was tensed to futilely spring at Xonck—but she could also sense the changing tension in the room, as the Minister and Roger groped to refute their own prisoners.
    “Aspiche took the satchel from Svenson in the ballroom,” announced Xonck, not turning to the others. “And Bascombe took it from him … but I did not see it when we met up in the study.”
    “It was packed away,” said Caroline Stearne, speaking quietly from her place. “When all was being readied for the journey—”
    “Is the satchel here or isn’t it?” snapped Xonck.
    “I have its contents with me,” said Roger smoothly. “As Caroline says, safely stowed. Doctor Svenson is wrong. They are Lord Vandaariff’s planning papers—notes to himself for each stage of this enterprise. I do not know where this idea of Lady Mélantes’s book comes from—
two
books—
no
books—”
    “Doctor Lorenz identified the missing book as Lady Mélantes’s,” spat Svenson.
    “Doctor Lorenz is
wrong
. Lady Mélantes’s book—also containing Mrs. Marchmoor and Lord Acton—is safely stowed. The only book missing—the one broken in the tower—is that of LordVandaariff. You can check my ledger, but anyone is more than welcome to look in the books themselves.”
    It was an effective speech, with just the right amount of protest at being accused and an equally moving touch of professional superciliousness—a Bascombe specialty. And it seemed as if his upset superiors, perhaps persuaded by his own subservience via the Process, were convinced. But Miss Temple knew, from the way Roger’s thumb restlessly rubbed against his leg, that it was a lie.
    She laughed at him.
    He glared at her, furiously willing her to silence.
    “O
Roger
…” She chuckled and shook her head.
    “Be quiet, Celeste!” he hissed. “You have no place here!”
    “And you have surely convinced everyone,” she said. “But you forget how well I know your ways. Even then you might have convinced me—for it
was
a fine speech—if it wasn’t you who actually shot Herr Flaüss, after
convincing
everyone of his disloyalty, I am sure … or was it to keep him quiet? But it
was
you who shot him, Roger, … wasn’t it?”
    At her words the cabin went silent, save for the low buzz of the rotors outside. Xonck’s saber did not waver, but his mouth tightened and his eyes flicked more quickly back and forth between them. The Contessa stood.
    “Rosamonde,” began Crabbé, “this is ridiculous—they are coming between us—it is their only hope—”
    But the Contessa ignored him and crossed the cabin slowly toward Roger. He shrank away from her, first striking the wall and then seeming to retreat within his own body, meeting her gaze but flinching, for her eyes were empty of affection.
    “Rosamonde,” rasped the Comte. “If we question him together—”
    But then the Contessa darted forward, sharp as a striking cobra, to whisper in Roger’s ear. Miss Temple could only catch the odd word, but when she heard the first—“blue”—she knew theContessa was whispering Roger’s own control phrase, and that by speaking it before any of the others, the woman had made sure Roger must