The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Roger Bascombe. Francis Xonck had somehow regained his feet, steadying himself with his injured hand on a settee, the other holding his jaw, his lips pulled back in a wince of pain that revealed two broken teeth. He looked at Miss Temple with cold eyes and reached his good hand toward Roger, who immediately passed Xonck his cutlass.
    “Why, hello, Francis,” called the Contessa.
    “We’ll talk later,” said Xonck. “Get up, Oskar. This isn’t finished.”
    Before Miss Temple’s eyes the enormous man on the floor, like a bear rousing itself from hibernation, began to stir, rearing up to his knees—the fur coat flashing briefly open to reveal a shirtfront drenched in blood, but she could see it had all seeped from one superficial line scored across his ribs—the crack on the head had brought him down, not her shooting. The Comte heaved himself onto a settee and glared at her with open hatred. They were trapped again, caught between the books and Xonck’s cutlass. MissTemple could not bear it an instant longer. She spun back to the Contessa and stamped her foot, extending the gun. The Contessa gasped with pleasure at the notion of being
challenged
.
    “What is this, Celeste?”
    “It is the finish,” said Miss Temple. “You will throw the book if you are able. But I will do my best to put a bullet through the book in your other hand. It will shatter and you will lose your arm—and who knows, perhaps your face, perhaps your leg—perhaps it is you who will prove most
brittle
of all.”
    The Contessa laughed, but Miss Temple knew she laughed precisely because what Miss Temple said was true, and this was just the sort of thing the Contessa
enjoyed
.
    “That was an interesting plan you described, Rosamonde,” called Xonck. “The Prince, and Mr. Gray.”
    “Wasn’t it?” she answered gaily. “And you would have been so surprised to see it unveiled in Macklenburg! It is such a pity I never got to see the finish of
your
secret plans—with Trapping or your brother’s munitions—or
yours
, Oskar, the hidden instructions to your glass ladies, the triumphant birth of your creation within Lydia! Who can say what monstrosity you have truly implanted within her? How I should have been amazed and out-flanked!” The Contessa laughed again and shook her head girlishly.
    “You destroyed Elspeth and Angelique,” rumbled the Comte.
    “Oh, I did no such thing! Do not be temperamental—it is not becoming. Besides, who were they? Creatures of need—there are thousands more to take their place! There are more right before your eyes! Celeste Temple and Elöise Dujong and Lydia Vandaariff—another triumvirate for your great unholy sacrament!”
    She sneered a bit too openly with this last word, caught herself, and then snickered. A certain lightness of mind was one thing, but to Miss Temple’s wary eye the Contessa was becoming positively giddy.
    “Karl-Horst von Maasmärck!” she bellowed. “Come down hereand bring me two more books! I am told we must finish this—so finish it we shall!”
    “There is no need,” said Xonck. “We have them trapped.”
    “Quite right,” laughed the Contessa. “If I did throw this book the glass might spray past them and hit you! That would be
tragic
!”
    The Prince clomped down the stairs into view, with two books bundled in his coat under one arm, in the other carrying a bottle of orange liquid identical to the one Elöise had taken from the Comte’s stores in the tower. Xonck turned to the Comte, who muttered, just loud enough for Miss Temple to hear.
    “She does not wear gloves …”
    “Rosamonde—” began Xonck. “No matter what has been done—our plans remain in place—”
    “I can make him do anything, you know,” laughed the Contessa. She turned to the Prince and shouted out, “A nice waltz, I think!”
    As under her command as he’d been in the secret room, the Prince, his face betraying no understanding of what his body was doing, undertook a stumbling dance step on the slippery metal landing, all the time juggling his fragile burdens. The Comte and Xonck both took an urgent step forward.
    “The books, Rosamonde—he will drop them!” cried Xonck.
    “Perhaps I should just start throwing them anyway, and Celeste can try to shoot me if she can …”
    “Rosamonde!” cried Xonck again, his face pale.
    “Are you
afraid
?” she laughed. She motioned to the Prince to stop—which he did, panting, confused—and then raised her arm as if to make