The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Roger.
    No one answered at once, exchanging subtle glances.
    “Mr. Crabbé was curious—” began Roger.
    “The
Lord
is agreeable to everything,” said the Contessa.
    “What of the
adherents
?” asked the Contessa. “Blenheim sent word that they have arrived throughout the day discreetly,” answered Roger, “along with a squadron of Dragoons.”
    “We do not need more soldiers—they are a mistake,” said the Comte.
    “I agree,” said Xonck. “Yet Crabbé insists—and where government is concerned, we have agreed to follow him.”
    The Contessa spoke to Roger across Miss Temple. “Has heany new information about … our departed brother-in-law of Dragoons?”
    “He has not—that I know of. Of course we have not recently spoken—”
    “Blach insists that it’s settled,” said Xonck.
    “The Colonel was poisoned,” snapped the Contessa. “It is not the method of the man the Major wishes to blame—aside from the fact that man assured his employer that he did
not
do it, when having done so would have meant cash in hand. Moreover, how would
he
have known when to find his victim in that vulnerable period after undergoing the Process? He would not. That information was known to a select—a
very
select—few.” She nodded to Xonck’s bandaged arm and scoffed. “Is
that
the work of an elegant schemer?”
    Xonck did not respond.
    After a pause, Roger Bascombe cleared his throat and wondered aloud mildly, “Perhaps the Major is overdue for the Process himself.”
    “Do you trust Lorenz to have everything aboard?” asked Xonck, to the Comte. “The deadline was severe—the large quantities—”
    “Of course,” the Comte replied gruffly.
    “As you know,” continued Xonck, “the invitations have been sent.”
    “With the wording we agreed upon?” asked the Contessa.
    “Of course. Menacing enough to command attendance … but if we do not have the
leverage
from our harvest in the country—”
    “I have no doubts.” The Contessa chuckled. “If Elspeth Poole is with him, Doctor Lorenz will strive mightily.”
    “In exchange for her joining
him
in strenuous effort!” Xonck cackled. “I am sure the transaction appeals to his mathematical mind—sines and tangents and bisected spheres, don’t you know.”
    * * *
    “And what about our little magpie?” asked Xonck, leaning forward and cocking his head to look into Miss Temple’s face. “Is she worthy of the Process? Is she worthy of a
book
? Something else entirely? Or perhaps she cannot be swayed?”
    “Anyone can be swayed,” said the Comte. Xonck paid no attention, reaching forward to flick one of Miss Temple’s curls.
    “Perhaps … something
else
will happen …” He turned to the Comte. “I’ve read the back of each painting, you know. I know what you’re aiming at—what you were trying with your Asiatic whore.” The Comte said nothing and Xonck laughed, taking the silence as an acknowledgment of his guess. “That is the trick of banding with clever folk, Monsieur le Comte—so many people are
not
clever, those who
are
sometimes grow into the habit of assuming no one else will ever divine their minds.”
    “That is enough,” said the Contessa. “Celeste has done damage to
me
, and so—by all our agreements—she is indisputably
mine
.” She reached up and touched the tip of Miss Temple’s bullet-scar with a finger. “I assure you … no one will be disappointed.”
    The coach clattered onto the cobblestone plaza in front of Harschmort House and Miss Temple heard the calls of the driver to his team, pulling them to a halt. The door was opened and she was handed down to a pair of black-liveried footmen, the cobbles cold and hard beneath her feet. Before Miss Temple had scarcely registered where she was—from the second coach she saw the Prince and his party descending, Miss Vandaariff’s expression a shifting series of furtive smiles and frowns—the Comte’s iron grasp directed her toward a knot of figures near the great front entrance. Without any ceremony—and without even a glance to see if the others were following—she was conveyed roughly along, doing her best to avoid a stubbed toe on the uneven stones, only coming to a stop when the Comte acknowledged the greetings of a man and woman stepping out from the larger group (a mixture of servants, black-uniformed soldiers of Macklenburg, and red-coatedDragoons). The man was tall and broad, with grizzled and distressingly thick side whiskers and a balding