The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

were always a pretty enough girl—but there are many such. I look forward to finding—once you’ve been burned to your bones and then
re-made
by the very ‘machine’ you cannot comprehend—if any actually remarkable parts exist.”
    He left the compartment. Miss Temple did not move, her mind ringing with his biting words and a thousand unspoken retorts, her face hot and both of her hands balled tight into fists. She looked out the window and saw her reflection on the glass, thrown up between her and the darkened landscape of salty grassland racing past outside the train. It occurred to her that this dim, transparent, second-hand image was the perfect illustration for her own condition—in the power of others, with her own wishes only peripherally related to her fate, insubstantial and half-present. She let out a trembling sigh. How—after
everything
—could Roger Bascombe still exert any sway over her feelings? How could he make her feel so
desperately
unhappy? Her agitation was not coherent—there was no point from which she could begin to untangle answers—and her heart beat faster and faster until she was forced to sit with a hand over each eye, breathing deeply. Miss Temple looked up. The train was slowing. She pressed her face to the window, blocking the light from the passageway with her hand, and saw through the reflection the station, platform, and white painted sign for Orange Locks. She turned to find Major Blach opening the door for her, his hand inviting her to exit.
    Beyond the platform were two waiting coaches, each drawn by a team of four horses. To the first, his fiancée on his arm, went thePrince, followed as before by his Envoy and the older man with the bandaged arm. The Major escorted Miss Temple to the second coach, opened the door, and assisted her climb into it. He nodded crisply to her and stepped away—undoubtedly to rejoin the Prince—to be replaced by the Comte d’Orkancz, who sat across from her, and then the Contessa, who stepped in to sit next to her opposite the Comte, then Francis Xonck, who sat next to the Comte with a smile, and finally, with no expression in particular on his face, Roger Bascombe, hesitating only an instant when he saw that, due to the size of the Comte and the room accorded Xonck’s thickly wrapped arm, the only seat was on the other side of Miss Temple. He climbed into place without comment. Miss Temple was firmly lodged between the Contessa and Roger—their legs pressing closely against hers with a mocking familiarity. The driver shut the door and climbed to his perch. His whip snapped and they clattered on their way to Harschmort.
    The ride began in silence, and after a time Miss Temple, who initially assumed this was because of her presence—an interloper spoiling their usual plots and scheming, began to wonder if this was wholly the case. They were wary enough not to say anything revealing, but she began to sense levels of competition and distrust … particularly with the addition of Francis Xonck to the party.
    “When can we expect the Duke?” he asked.
    “Before midnight, I am sure,” replied the Comte.
    “Have you spoken to him?”
    “Crabbé has spoken to him,” said the Contessa. “There is no reason for anyone else to do so. It would only confuse things.”
    “I know everyone got to the train—the various parties,” added Roger. “The Colonel was collecting the Duke personally, and two of our men—”
    “Ours?” asked the Comte.
    “From the Ministry,” clarified Roger.
    “Ah.”
    “They rode ahead to meet him.”
    “How thoughtful,” said the Contessa.
    “What of your cousin Pamela?” asked Xonck. “And her disenfranchised brat?”
    Roger did not reply. Francis Xonck chuckled wickedly.
    “And the little
Princess
?” asked Xonck. “
La Nouvelle Marie
?”
    “She will perform admirably,” said the Contessa.
    “Not that she has any idea of her part,” Xonck scoffed. “What of the Prince?”
    “Equally in hand,” rasped the Comte. “What of his transport?”
    “I am assured it sails to position tonight,” answered Xonck. Miss Temple wondered why he of all people would be the one with information about ships. “The canal has been closed this last week, and has been prepared.”
    “And what of the mountains—the Doctor’s scientific marvel?”
    “Lorenz seems confident there is no problem,” observed the Contessa. “Apparently it packs away most tidily.”
    “What of the … ah … Lord?” asked