The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

aside as he rushed forward. But Xonck spun on his heels and chopped his bandaged arm across Chang’s throat, knocking him backwards to the ground, both men crying with pain at the impact. Doctor Svenson darted for Xonck, a half-step too late, and Xonck whipped the saber hilt up and into Svenson’s stomach, dropping the Doctor choking to his knees. Xonck retreated a step and wheeled to Miss Temple, his blade once more extended toward her face. Miss Temple could not move. She looked at Xonck, his chest heaving, wincing at the pain in his arm … hesitating.
    “Francis?” said the Contessa, her voice glazed with amusement.
    “
What
?” he hissed.
    “Are you
waiting
for something?”
    Xonck swallowed. “I was wondering if you’d prefer to do
this
one yourself.”
    “That’s very sweet of you … but I am quite content to watch.”
    “I was merely asking.”
    “And I assure you, I appreciate the thought, as I appreciate that you might also wish to retain Miss Temple for intimate scrutiny … but I would appreciate it even more if you would get
on
with it and
stick
her like the vicious little pig she is.”
    Xonck’s fingers flexed around the saber hilt, shifting his grip. Miss Temple saw its merciless tip not two feet from her chest, light rippling along the silver blade as it rose and fell with Xonck’s breathing. Then Xonck leered at her. She was going to die.
    “First it was the Minister wanting people to get on with it … now it’s the Contessa,” she said. “Of course,
he
had his reasons—”
    “Must I do this myself?” asked the Contessa.
    “Do not
hound
me, Rosamonde,” snapped Xonck.
    “But the Comte never finished his questions!” cried Miss Temple.
    Xonck did not lunge. She shouted again, her voice rising up to a shriek.
    “He asked if the Minister killed Colonel Trapping! He did not ask who
else
might have killed him! If
Roger
killed him! Or if he was killed by the
Contessa
!”
    “
What
?” asked Xonck.
    “
Francis
!” cried the Contessa. She snorted with rage and strode past Xonck to silence Miss Temple herself, the spike raised high. Miss Temple flinched, trembling at whether her throat would be cut or her skull perforated, unable to otherwise move.
    Before any of these could occur, Xonck wheeled and hooked the Contessa about the waist with his bandaged arm and swept the woman off her feet and with a shriek of protest onto the nearest settee—exactly the spot where Harald Crabbé had just died.
    The Contessa glared with an outrage Miss Temple had never seen in life—a ferocity to peel paint or buckle steel.
    “Rosamonde—” began Xonck, and—too late again—Miss Temple darted for Chang’s fallen dagger. Xonck slapped the flat of the saber blade hard across her head, sprawling her atop Doctor Svenson, who groaned.
    She shook her head, the whole right side stinging. The Contessa still sat on the settee, next to the Prince and Lydia, miserable as children marooned in the midst of their parents’ row.
    “Rosamonde,” said Xonck again, “what does she mean?”
    “She means nothing!” the Contessa spat. “Colonel Trapping is no longer important—the Judas was Crabbé!”
    “The Comte knows all about it,” managed Miss Temple, her voice thick.
    “All about what?” asked Xonck, for the first time allowing the saber to drift toward the Comte d’Orkancz, who sat opposite the Contessa.
    “He won’t say,” whispered Miss Temple, “because he no longer knows who to trust. You have to ask
Roger
.”
    The Comte stood up.
    “Sit down, Oskar,” said Xonck.
    “This has gone far enough,” the Comte replied.
    “Sit down or I will have your God damned head!” shouted Xonck. The Comte deigned to show actual surprise, and sat, his face now quite as grave as the Contessa’s was livid.
    “I will not be made a fool,” hissed Xonck. “Trapping was my man—mine to discard! Whoever killed him—even if I would prefer not to believe—it follows they are my enemy—”
    “Roger Bascombe!” shouted Miss Temple. “Do you know who killed Colonel Trapping?”
    With a snarl and three iron-hard fingers of his sword hand Xonck took hold of Miss Temple’s robes behind her neck, yanked her to her knees and then, with a roar of frustration, tossed her down the length of the cabin through the doorway to land with a cry at the feet of Caroline Stearne. The breath was driven from her body and she lay there blinking with pain, dimly aware that she was somehow even colder. She