The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

Lorenz licked his lips again, nodded to himself.
    “Must have had. Lady Mélantes. And Lord Acton. And Captain Hazelhorst. And I believe, actually, originally Mrs. Marchmoor herself. If I recall correctly. Rather an important volume.”
    Mrs. Stearne did not reply, which was, Chang knew, her way of saying she was well aware of its importance and not in need of Doctor Lorenz to apprise her.
    A moment later Aspiche appeared at the head of his men, all six of them carrying an apparently very heavy stretcher, covered by a sheet of canvas that had been sewn to the frame, sealing in whoever was beneath it.
    “Excellent,” announced Lorenz. “My thanks to you. This way …” He indicated a door on the opposite side of the hall to the stretcher-bearers.
    “You’re not joining us?” asked Aspiche.
    “There is no time,” replied Lorenz. “I’ve lost precious minutes as it is—if the thing’s to be done at all it must be done at once—our supply of ice has been exhausted! Please do offer my respects to all. Madame.” He nodded to Mrs. Stearne and followed the soldiers out.
    * * *
    They walked on to the end of the corridor and stopped again, Aspiche sending a man forward to confirm they were clear to continue. As they waited, Chang shifted his grip on the book. The line of Dragoons in front had diminished now from ten to four. An accurate throw of the book could incapacitate them all and open the way … but the way to where? He studied the backs of the soldiers walking in front of him and pictured how the book might shatter … and then could not but think of Reeves, and of his delicate alliance with Captain Smythe. What had the Dragoons done to him? How could he face Smythe after slaughtering any of his men in such a foul manner? If there was no other way, he would not hesitate … but if there was truly no way out, why should he bother with the Dragoons at all? He would keep the book—either as a way to kill what main figures in the Cabal that he could—Rosamonde or the Comte—or use it to bargain, if not for his own life then Svenson’s or Celeste’s. He had to hope they were alive.
    He swallowed with a grimace and saw Mrs. Stearne’s eyes on him. Whether it had been intentional or not, their deliberate passage from the turret had taken long enough that the fire of his rage had faded, leaving his body to bear the full weight of exhaustion and sorrow. He felt something on his lip and wiped it with his glove—a smear of bright blood. He looked back at Mrs. Stearne, but her expression betrayed no feeling at all.
    “You see I have very little left to lose,” he said.
    “Everyone always thinks that,” commented Colonel Aspiche, “until that little bit is taken away—and feels like the whole of the world.”
    Chang said nothing, resenting bitterly the slightest glimmer of actual insight coming from the Colonel.
    The Dragoon reappeared in the doorway, clicking his heels and saluting Aspiche.
    “Begging your pardon, Sir, but they’re ready.”
    Aspiche dropped the cheroot to the floor and ground it withhis heel. He limped forward to enter the ballroom at the head of his men. Mrs. Stearne watched Chang very closely as they followed, and had quite subtly drifted beyond the immediate reach of his arms.
    When they entered the ballroom, there were so many people gathered that Chang could not see through the throng as their path was opened by the wedge of Dragoons, spectators retreating like a whispering tide of elegance. They made their way to the center, when at a crisp bark from Aspiche, the Colonel and his Dragoons expanded the open area, marching some six paces in each direction, driving the crowd farther back, before wheeling to face Cardinal Chang and Mrs. Stearne, alone in the open circle.
    Mrs. Stearne took a deliberate step forward and curtseyed deeply, dropping her head as if she faced royalty. Before them all, standing like a row of monarchs on a raised dais, were the uncrowned heads of the Cabal: the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza, Deputy Minister Harald Crabbé, and, his arm satisfyingly swathed with bandages, Francis Xonck. To their side was the Prince, with Herr Flaüss, masked and apparently having regained the power to stand, to his left and to his right, clinging smilingly to his arm, a slim blonde woman in white robes and a white feather mask.
    “Very well managed, Caroline,” said the Contessa, returning the curtsey with a nod. “You may go on with your duties.”
    Mrs. Stearne stood