The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

in Roger’s rejection—first as a matter of course to his ambition, and then as a companion—and a lover!—to Caroline Stearne. This was not what she intended to talk about. She met his eyes with hesitations of her own.
    “She is dead, Roger. She is as dead as you and I.”
    Miss Temple watched Roger Bascombe take in this news, and understood that his next words were spoken not out of cruelty or revenge, but merely because she now stood for everything in his life that had thwarted him.
    “She is the only one I ever loved,” said Roger.
    “Then it is good that you found her,” said Miss Temple, biting her lip.
    “You have no idea. You cannot
understand
,” he said, his voice bitter and hollow with grief.
    “But I believe I do—” she began softly.
    “How could you?” he shouted. “You never could understand—not me, nor any other, not in your pride—your very insufferable pride—”
    She desperately wished Roger would stop speaking, but he went on, his emotions surging like the waves that slapped against the cabin walls.
    “The wonders I have seen—the heights of sensation—of
possibility
!” He scoffed at her savagely, even as she saw tears in his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks. “She
pledged
herself to me, Celeste—without even knowing who I was—without a care that we must die! That all is dust! That our love would lead to
this
! She knew even then!”
    His hands shot out and shoved her hard, knocking her back into the cabinet. He stepped after her, arms flailing as he continued to yell.
    “Roger, please—”
    “And who are
you
, Celeste? How are you alive—so cold, so small of heart, so absent of feeling, without
surrender
!”
    He caught her hard by the arm and shook her.
    “Roger—”
    “Caroline gave herself—gave everything! You have murdered her—murdered me—murdered the entire world—”
    His groping hand found her hair and yanked her close—she felt his breath—and then his other hand was on her throat. He was sobbing. They stared into each other’s eyes. She could not breathe.
    Miss Temple pulled the trigger and Roger Bascombe reared back. His face was confused, and instead of snapping forward again he merely faded, like a dissipating curl of smoke, a shapeless figure in a black coat, falling onto the settee and then slipping with an easy movement to the floor. Miss Temple dropped the gun and sobbed aloud, no longer knowing who she was.
    “
Celeste
!”
    This was Chang, roaring out from the rooftop despite his pain. She looked up. Miss Temple felt an icy stab at her feet and saw that water was seeping through the floor. She stumbled to the iron staircase, blind with tears, and groped her way, gasping with unspent grief. Doctor Svenson crouched in the wheelhouse and hauled her up. She wanted to curl into a corner and drown. He lifted her high and more hands—Elöise and Chang—helped heronto the roof. What did it matter? They would die in the cabin or die above—either way they would sink. Why had she done it? What did it change? The Doctor followed her out, pushing her legs from below.
    “Take her,” Svenson said, and she felt Chang’s arm around her shaking shoulders. The gasbag above was slackening, carried to the side with the wind, still enormous but sagging into the water—as opposed to collapsing on top of them—and tipping the roof at an angle. The spray slopped over the cabin, spattering Miss Temple’s face, as waves rocked their precarious platform. Chang’s other hand held on to a metal strut, as did the Doctor and Elöise. Miss Temple looked around her.
    “Where is the Contessa?” She sniffed.
    “She was not here,” called Svenson.
    “Perhaps she jumped,” said Elöise.
    “Then she is dead,” said Svenson. “The water is too cold—her dress too heavy, it would pull her down—even if she survived the fall …”
    Chang coughed, his lungs audibly clearer.
    “I am in debt to you, Doctor, and your orange
elixir
. I feel quite well enough to drown.”
    “I am honored to have been useful,” answered Svenson, smiling tightly.
    Miss Temple shivered. What clothes she wore did nothing to cut the wind or the chilling water that splashed onto her trembling body. She could not bear it, no matter how the others tried to joke, she did not want to die, not after all this, and more than anything she did not care to drown. She knew it for an awful death—slow and mournful. She was mournful enough. She looked at her green boots and bare legs,