The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

him continue.
    “Rosamonde,” called the Comte. “You are not yourself—the glass against your skin—it is affecting your mind! Put down the books—their contents are irreplaceable! We are still in alliance—Francis has them in hand with his blade—”
    “But Francis does not trust me,” she replied. “Nor I Francis. Nor I
you
, Oskar. How are you not dead when you’ve been shot? More of your
alchemy
? And here I had grown quite used to the idea—”
    “Contessa, you must stop—you are frightening us all!”
    * * *
    This was from Lydia Vandaariff, who had taken several steps toward the Contessa, and reached out one hand, the other still clutching her belly. She tottered, and her chin was streaked with blue-tinged drool—yet however hesitant her carriage, as always for Lydia, her tone was both restive and demanding.
    “You are ruining everything! I want to be Princess of Macklenburg as you promised!”
    “Lydia,” rasped the Comte, “you must rest—take care—”
    The girl ignored him, raising her voice, piercingly plaintive and peevish, to the Contessa. “I do not want to be one of the glass women! I do not want to have the Comte’s child! I want to be a Princess! You must put down the book and tell us what to do!”
    Lydia gasped at another spasm.
    “Miss Vandaariff,” whispered Svenson. “Step away—”
    Another gout of blue, much thicker than before, heaved into Lydia’s mouth. She gagged and swallowed, groaned and whined again at the Contessa, now in a tearful fury. “We can kill
these
others any time, but the books are precious! Give them to me! You promised me
everything
—my dreams! I insist you give them to me at once!”
    The Contessa stared at her with wild eyes, but to Miss Temple it did seem the woman was genuinely attempting to consider Lydia’s request—even as if the words came from a great distance and were only partly heard—when Lydia huffed with impatience and made the mistake of trying to snatch the nearest book. Showing the same speed she had used to overcome Crabbé, the Contessa, all sympathy vanished, whipped the one book from Lydia’s reach and slashed the other book forward, chopping it with a cracking snap some two inches into Miss Vandaariff’s throat.
    The Contessa let go of the book and Lydia fell backwards, the flesh of her neck already turning blue, the blood in the back of her mouth and in her lungs hardening to crystal, popping like gravel beneath a wheel. The girl was dead before she hit the floor, her solidifiedthroat breaking open and separating her head from her shoulders as neatly as an executioner’s axe.
    From the stairway the Prince let out a bellow of shock, roaring at the spectacle of Lydia dead, jaw quivering, mere words beyond him. Whether it was grief for the woman or outrage at an attack on one of his own, for the first time Miss Temple saw within the Prince a capacity for regret, for sentiment beyond mere appetite. But what to Miss Temple might have rendered the Prince infinitesimally admirable, for the Contessa changed him to a danger, and before he could take another step she hurled her second book into his knees. The glass shattered above his boots and with a piercing scream the Prince toppled back, legs buckling, juggling the books, landing heavily on the stairs, his boots still upright where he’d left them. His upper body slid down to rest against the fallen crewman and did not move.
    The Contessa stood alone, flexing her fingers. The delirious gleam in her eyes grew dim and she looked around her, realizing what she’d done.
    “Rosamonde …” whispered Xonck.
    “Be quiet,” she hissed, the back of her hand before her mouth. “I beg you—”
    “You have destroyed my
Annunciation
!” The Comte’s rasping voice betrayed an unbecoming whine, and he stood up, weaving, groping another cutlass from the cabinet.
    “Oskar—stop!” This was Xonck, his face pale and drawn. “Wait!”
    “You have ruined the work of my
life
!” the Comte shouted again, pulling free the cutlass and surging toward Miss Temple.
    “Oskar!” the Contessa shouted. “Oskar—wait—” Elöise took hold of Miss Temple’s shoulders and yanked her from the Comte’s path as the large man shouldered through, eyesfixed on the Contessa, who dug hurriedly to restore her metal spike. Miss Temple held her pistol, but it did not seem possible that she should shoot—for all this was the final confrontation with their enemies, she felt more a witness