The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

about your lady friend whohas profoundly wronged
me
—this, this
Contessa
—so others feel about
you
—concerning this very Angelique. Because it is rash to assert there are no consequences when a ‘mere’ woman is at stake.”
    “I see.”
    “I do not believe you do.”
    He did not answer, taking a sip of coffee. He set down the cup and spoke with a certain weariness, as if expanding his opinion even this far involved physical effort. “Miss Temple, you
are
an interesting young lady.”
    Miss Temple rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid it means very little to me, coming from a murderous cad.”
    “I have so gathered your opinion. And who is it I have so foully wronged?”
    Miss Temple shrugged. The Comte tapped his ash onto the edge of his saucer and took another puff, the cheroot tip glowing red.
    “Shall I guess, then? It could well be the Macklenburg Doctor, for indeed through my efforts he was to die, but I do not see him as your sort of wild revenger—he is too much the
raisonneur
—or perhaps this other fellow, whom I have never met, the rogue-for-hire? He is most likely too cynical and grim. Or someone else still? Some distant wrong from my past?” He sighed, almost as if in acceptance of his sinful burden, and then inhaled again—Miss Temple’s eyes fixed to the spot of glowing tobacco as it burned—as if to re-embrace the infernal urge that drove him.
    “Why exactly have you come to the St. Royale?” he asked her.
    She took another bite of scone—quite relishing this serious banter—and another sip of tea to wash it down, and then while she was swallowing shook her head, the chestnut-colored curls to either side of her face tossed into motion. “No, I will not answer your questions. I have been interrogated once, at Harschmort, and that was more than enough. If you want to talk to me, we will do so on my terms. And if not, then please feel free to leave—for you will find out why I am here only exactly when I have planned toshow you.” She speared the last slice of mango without waiting for his reply and took a bite, licking her lips to catch the juice. She could not help but smile at the exquisite taste of it.
    “Do you know,” she asked, swallowing just enough of the fruit to speak clearly, “this is quite nearly as delicious as the mangos one can find in the garden of my father’s house? The difference—though this is very good—is due, I should think, to the different quality of sunlight, the very positioning of the planet. Do you see? There are great forces at play around us, each day of our lives—and who are we? To what do we pretend? To which of these masters are we in service?”
    “I applaud your metaphorical thought,” said the Comte dryly.
    “But do you have an answer?”
    “Perhaps I do. What about … art?”
    “
Art
?”
    Miss Temple was not sure what he meant, and paused in her chewing, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. Could he have followed her to the art gallery (and if so, when? During her visit with Roger? More recently? Had he been contacted so quickly by the gallery agent, Mr. Shanck?), or did he mean something else … but what? To Miss Temple, art was a curiosity, like a carved bone or shrunken head one found at a village market—a vestige of unknown territories it did not occur to her to visit.
    “Art,” repeated the Comte. “You are acquainted with it … with the
idea
?”
    “What idea in particular?”
    “Of art as alchemy. An act of transformation. Of re-making and rebirth.”
    Miss Temple held up her hand. “I’m sorry, but do you know … this merely prompts me to ask about your relations with a particular painter, a Mr. Oskar Veilandt. I believe he is also from Paris, and most well known for his very large and provocative composition on the theme of the Annunciation. I understand—perhaps it is merely a cruel rumor—that this expressive
masterwork
was cut up into thirteen pieces and scattered across the continent.”
    The Comte took another drink of coffee.
    “I’m afraid I do not know him. He is from Paris, you say?”
    “At some point, like so very many people one finds disagreeable.”
    “Have you seen his work?” he asked.
    “O yes.”
    “What did you think of it? Were you provoked?”
    “I was.”
    He smiled. “
You
? How so?”
    “Into thinking you had caused his death. For he
is
dead, and you seem to have stolen a great deal from him—your ceremonies, your Process, and your precious indigo clay. How odd for such