The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Blenheim—and his men.”
    “Where is Lord Vandaariff’s study?” asked Chang suddenly, his mind working. “At the rear of the house?”
    “It is”—Smythe nodded—“and on the main floor. I have not been there. The whole left wing has been restricted to special guests and a very few trusted staff. No Dragoons.”
    “Speaking of that,” said Chang, “what are you doing here? When did you come from the Ministry?”
    Smythe smiled bitterly. “The story will amuse you. As my men were relieved from their posts, I received urgent word—from my Colonel I assumed—that we were needed at the St. Royale Hotel. Upon hurrying there—though domestic quarrels are not our usual duty—I was met by an especially presumptuous woman, who
informed
me that I must accompany her at once to this house by train.”
    “Mrs. Marchmoor, of course.”
    Smythe nodded. “Apparently she had been agitated by a certain fellow in red—an absolute villain, I understand.”
    “I believe we took the same train—I was hiding in the coal wagon.”
    “The possibility occurred to me,” said Smythe, “but I could not send a man forward without sending him on the roof—we were forbidden to pass through the iron-bound black railcar.”
    “What was in it?” asked Chang.
    “I cannot say—Mrs. Marchmoor had the key and went in alone. Upon our arrival at Orange Locks we were met by Mr. Blenheim, with carts and a coach. He went into the black car with his men, under Mrs. Marchmoor’s eye, and they brought out—”
    “What was it?” hissed Chang, suddenly impatient to know, yet fearing to hear the words.
    “Again, I cannot say—it was covered with canvas. It could havebeen another of their boxes, or it could have been a coffin. But as they were loading it I distinctly heard Blenheim order the driver to go slow—so as not to break the
glass—
”
    They were interrupted by the sound of approaching bootsteps. Chang pressed himself flat against the wall. Smythe stepped forward and the hallway rang with the unmistakable and imperious voice of Mr. Blenheim.
    “Captain! What are you doing apart from your men? What business, Sir, can you have in this portion of the house?”
    Chang could no longer see Smythe but heard the tightening of his voice.
    “I was sent to look for Mr. Gray,” he answered.
    “
Sent
?” snapped Blenheim with open skepticism. “By whom
sent
?”
    The man’s arrogance was appalling. If Chang were in Smythe’s place, knowing the overseer had just murdered one of his men, Blenheim’s head would already be rolling on the floor.
    “By the Contessa, Mr. Blenheim. Would you care to so interrogate
her
?”
    Blenheim ignored this. “Well? And did you
find
Mr. Gray?”
    “I did not.”
    “Then why are you still here?”
    “As you can see yourself, I am
leaving
. I understand that you’ve moved my trooper’s body to the stables.”
    “Of course I have—the last thing the master’s guests want to see is a corpse.”
    “Indeed. Yet I, as his officer, must attend to his effects.”
    Blenheim snorted with disdain at such petty business. “Then you will
oblige
me by vacating this part of the house, and assuring me that neither you nor your men will return. By the wish of Lord Vandaariff himself, it is for his guests alone.”
    “Of course. It is Lord Vandaariff’s house.”
    “And I manage that house, Captain,” said Blenheim. “If you will come with me.”
    Chang struck out as best he could for the Lord of the manor’s study. His look at the prison plans had not been so detailed as he might like, but it made sense that the warden might have personal access to the central viewing tower. Had Vandaariff simply adopted—and no doubt expanded and layered with mahogany and marble—the previous despot’s lair for his own? If Chang’s guess was right, Vandaariff’s study could then get him to Celeste. It was the thought he kept returning to in his mind, her rescue. He knew there were other tasks—to revenge Angelique, to find the truth about Oskar Veilandt, to discover what falling-out between his enemies had led to Trapping’s death—and normally he would have relished the idea of juggling them all together, to carry their evolving solutions in his head as he carried the sifted contents of the Library. But tonight there was no time, no room to fail, no second chances.
    He could not risk being seen by anyone, and so was reduced to painful dashes across open corridors, creeping to corners, and scuttling