The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

answer her questions alone. The Contessa stepped away and Roger sank down to sit on the floor, his expression empty and his eyes dulled.
    “Rosamonde—” Crabbé tried again, but again the Contessa ignored him, speaking crisply down to Roger, his head at the level of her thighs.
    “Roger … is what Doctor Svenson tells us true?”
    “Yes.”
    Before Crabbé could speak the Contessa pressed Roger again.
    “Were Lord Robert’s memories distilled into a book?”
    “No.”
    “They were written down.”
    “Yes.”
    “And those papers are on board?”
    “Yes. I transferred them to the Prince’s bag to hide them. Flaüss insisted on managing the Prince’s bag and realized what they were.”
    “So you shot him.”
    “Yes.”
    “And in all of this, Roger, … whom did you serve? Who gave the orders?”
    “Deputy Minister Crabbé.”
    Crabbé said nothing, his mouth open in shock, his face drained of any color. He looked helplessly to the Comte, to Xonck, but could not speak. Still facing Roger, the Contessa called behind her.
    “Caroline, would you be kind enough to ask Doctor Lorenz exactly where we are on our route?”
    Caroline, whose gaze had been fixed on Roger Bascombe’s slumped form, looked up with surprise, stood at once, and left the cabin.
    “I say,” muttered the Prince, aggrieved. “He put those papers in
my
bag? And shot my man because of it? Damn you, Crabbé!Damn your damned insolence!” Lydia Vandaariff patted her fiancé’s knee.
    “Your Highness,” hissed Crabbé urgently, “Bascombe is not telling the truth—I do not know how—it could be any of you! Anyone with his control phrase! Anyone could order him to answer these questions—to implicate me—”
    “And how would that person know what these questions were to be?” snarled the Contessa, and then pointed toward the captives. “At least one of them has been provided by Doctor Svenson!”
    “For all any of us know, whoever has tampered with Bascombe’s mind could be in league with these three!” cried Crabbé. “It would certainly explain their persistent survival!”
    The Contessa’s eyes went wide at the Deputy Minister’s words.
    “Bascombe’s mind! Of course—of course, you sneaking little man! You did not halt the examinations in the ballroom for Lord Robert or the Duke—you did it because Roger was suddenly forced to accompany Vandaariff! Because otherwise the Comte would have seen inside his mind—and seen all of your plotting against us plain as day!” She wheeled to the Comte, and gestured to Bascombe on the floor. “Do not believe
me
, Oskar—ask your own questions, by all means—some questions I will not have
anticipated
! Or you, Francis—help yourself! For myself I am satisfied, but do go on! Roger—you will answer all questions put to you!”
    The Comte’s face betrayed no particular expression, but Miss Temple knew he was already suspicious of the Contessa and so perhaps was genuinely curious, unsure which—or was it both? Or all?—of his confederates had betrayed him.
    “Francis?” he rasped.
    “Be my guest.” Xonck smiled, not even moving his eyes as he spoke.
    The Comte d’Orkancz leaned forward. “Mr. Bascombe, … to your knowledge, did Deputy Minister Crabbé have anything to do with the murder of Colonel Arthur Trapping?”
    The Contessa spun to the Comte, her expression wary and her violet eyes dauntingly sharp.
    “Oskar, why—”
    “No,” said Roger.
    The Comte’s next question was interrupted by Caroline Stearne, whose return had brought Doctor Lorenz into the doorway.
    “Contessa,” she whispered.
    “Thank you, Caroline—would you be so good as to fetch the Prince’s bag?” Caroline took in the tension of the room, her face pale, bobbed her head once and darted from the cabin. The Contessa turned to Lorenz. “Doctor, how good of you to come—though I do trust
someone
remains at the wheel?”
    “Do not trouble yourself, Madame—I have two good men
aloft
,” he answered, smiling at his nautical reference. The Doctor’s smile faded as he took in that it was Bascombe on the floor being questioned, and not the prisoners.
    “Our position?” the Contessa asked him crisply.
    “We are just over the sea,” Lorenz replied. “From here, as you know, there are different routes available—remaining over water, where there is less chance of being seen, or crossing straight to shadow the coast. In this fog it may not matter—”
    “And how long until we reach