The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

to us one test at a time. And so we are here together after all, with perhaps more in common than any of us would care to admit—though only a fool does not admit the truth once it is plain to her.”
    The woman’s dress was simpler than Mrs. Marchmoor’s, less ostentatious—less like an actor’s idea of how the wealthy dressed, she realized—and she was pained that her heart’s impulse was to think of her captor kindly (this being rare enough in Miss Temple’s life to be a surprise in itself, captor or no). No doubt the woman had been placed for that very purpose, for a natural sympathy that had somehow survived the Process or could at least be readily counterfeited, to worm Miss Temple’s determination that much further from its sticking place.
    “I watched you,” she said accusingly, “in the theatre … you were …
shrieking—
”
    “I’m sure I was,” said Caroline. “And yet, perhaps it is most like having a troubling tooth pulled. The act itself is so distressing as to seem in no way justified … and yet, after it is done, the peace of mind … the ease of being—and I speak of a former life of no great difficulty, you understand, merely the fraying worries that are part of every day—I cannot now imagine being without this … well, it is a kind of bliss.”
    “Bliss?”
    “Perhaps that sounds foolish to you.”
    “Not at all—I have seen Mrs. Marchmoor—her sort of—of—
spectacle
—and I have seen the book—one of your glass books—I have been inside, the sensation, the debauchery—perhaps ‘bliss’
is
an applicable word,” said Miss Temple, “though I assure you it is not my choice.”
    “You mustn’t judge Mrs. Marchmoor harshly. She does what she must do for her larger purpose. As we all are guided. Even you, Miss Temple. If you have peered into these extraordinary books then you must know.” She gestured toward Miss Vandaariff’s dressing closet. “So many are so tender, hungry, so deeply in need. How much of what you read—or indeed, what you remember—was most singularly rooted in painful loneliness? If a person could rid themselves of such a source of anguish … can you truly find fault?”
    “Anguish and loss are part of life,” Miss Temple retorted.
    “They are,” Caroline agreed. “And yet … if they need not be?”
    Miss Temple tossed her head and bit her lip. “You present kindness … where others … well, they are a nest of vipers. My companions have been killed. I am compelled here by force … I have been and will be
violated
—as surely as if your finely dressed mob were a gang of Cossacks!”
    “I hope that is not the case, truly,” said Caroline. “But if the Process has made anything clear to me, it is that what happens here is only the expression of what you yourself have decided—indeed, what you have asked for.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I do not say it to anger you.” She held up a hand to forestall Miss Temple’s announcement that she was
already
angry. “Do you think I cannot see the bruises on your pretty neck? Do you imagine I enjoy the sight? I am not a woman who dreams of power or fame, though I know there have been deaths—I do not presume to understand their cause—as a result of those dreams. I know there has been murder, around me and within this house. I know that I do
not
know what those above me plan. And yet I also know thatthese dreams—theirs and mine—bring with them … the opposite side of their coin, if you will—a bliss of purpose, of simplicity, and indeed … Celeste … of surrender.”
    Miss Temple sniffed sharply and swallowed, determined not to give way. She was not used to hearing her name so freely used and found it unnerving. The woman presented the Cabal’s goals in terms of reason and care—indeed, she seemed a higher level of antagonist altogether for not seeming one at all. The room was unbearable—the lace and the perfumes—so many and so thick—were smothering.
    “I would prefer it if you referred to me as Miss Temple,” she said.
    “Of course,” said Caroline, with what seemed a gentle, sad sort of smile.
    As if by some rotation of the gears of a clock, they no longer spoke, the room settling into silence and subsequently into contemplation. Yet Miss Temple could only think of the oppressive vacuity of the furnishings around her—though she had no doubt they were the heartfelt expression of Miss Vandaariff—and the low ceiling that, despite the luxurious cherry wood,