The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Contessa’s snarls of rage and Caroline’s shouts—tenacious, but terrified—the mix further complicated by the cries of the remaining crewman, who seemed by his pleading oaths to be German.
    “Do not worry, Elöise,” Miss Temple called out. “We shall collect you directly.”
    Still gagged, Elöise did not answer, for her gaze was fixed—indeed, it was held—on the freezing abyss beneath her, suspended by Lydia’s tight handful of her hair, while, a step behind, the Prince had wrapped his arms around Elöise’s legs. Wrists and ankles tied, Elöise could do nothing to prevent them dropping her through.
    “Let her go!” cried Chang. “Your masters are down! You are alone!”
    “Drop your weapons or the woman dies!” replied the Prince, shrilly.
    “If you kill that woman,” said Chang, “I will kill
you
. I will kill you
both
. If you release her, I will not. That is the extent of our negotiation.”
    The Prince and Lydia exchanged a nervous glance.
    “Lydia,” called Doctor Svenson. “It is not too late—we can reverse what has been done! Karl—listen to me!”
    “If we
do
release her—” began the Prince, but Lydia had begun speaking at the same time and overrode his words.
    “Do not treat us like children! You have no idea what we knowor what we are worth! You do not know—
do
you?—that all the land in Macklenburg purchased by my father was settled in
my
name!”
    “Lydia—” attempted the Prince, but she swatted at him angrily and kept on.
    “I am the next Princess of Macklenburg whether I marry or no—whether my father is alive or no—no matter if I am the only person alive on this craft! I insist you drop your weapons! I have done nothing to any of you—to anyone!”
    She stared at them wildly, panting.
    “Lydia—” The Prince had finally noticed the smear of blue across her lips, and glanced to Svenson, suddenly confused.
    “Be quiet! Do not talk to them! Hold her legs!” Lydia’s stomach heaved again and she groaned painfully, spitting onto the front of her dress. “You should be fighting them yourself!” she complained. “You should have killed all three of them! Why is everyone so useless!”
    The crewman above them screamed, and at once the entire airship careened to the left. Chang went into the wall, Miss Temple into Chang, and Doctor Svenson to his knees, the cutlass sliding from his hand. The Prince fell toward the open hatch, keeping his hold on Elöise so he drove her like a ram into Lydia, knocking both women into the opening. Lydia screamed and hit the lip of the hatch with her thighs and began to slide through. Elöise disappeared up to her waist—only the Prince’s grip on her legs preventing her fall, a grip that was visibly slipping as he tried to decide whether to drop Elöise in order to save his bride.
    “Hold her!” shouted Svenson, throwing himself forward to catch Lydia’s feverishly clawing hands.
    The airship careened again in the other direction, just as suddenly. Miss Temple lost her balance as she tried to reach Svenson. Chang leapt past them both toward the Prince. The Prince retreated in terror, releasing his hold on Elöise, but Chang caughther legs, digging his fingers in her ropes, and braced his foot on the hatch plate. He shouted to Miss Temple and gestured to the wheelhouse.
    “Stop them—they’ll kill us all!”
    Miss Temple opened her mouth to protest, but as she watched—the Prince hunched in the corner beyond them—she saw Chang pull Elöise out to her hips, and Svenson do the same to Lydia.
    She tightened her grip on the revolver and rushed to the stairs.
    The second crewman lay draped over the topmost steps, blood bubbling on his lips. Lining either side of the wheelhouse were metal panels of levers and knobs, and at the far end, in front of the windows—where Miss Temple had first seen Doctor Lorenz from the roof—stood the wheel itself, made of brass and polished steel. Several levers had been broken off, with others jammed into positions that set the metal gears to grinding horribly. From the tilting floor it seemed certain the craft had swooned into a curve, spinning gently downwards.
    In front of her lay Caroline Stearne, on her back, arms outstretched, an empty hand some inches from a bloody stiletto. Crouched on top of Caroline, her hair disheveled and her spike-hand smeared with blood like a glove, perched the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. A crimson pool drained to the side with the angle of the floor. The