The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters (102 page)

Crabbé swallowed.

“Rosamonde…,” began the Comte.

“Say it again, you bothersome little man,” hissed the Contessa, “and I will rip you open like a poorly sewn sleeve.”

Crabbé did not move.

“Rosamonde…,” said the Comte again. Her attention did not shift from Crabbé.

“Yes?”

“Might I suggest…the young lady?”

The Contessa moved two quick steps away from Crabbé—clear of any counter-stroke from a weapon of his own—and wheeled to Miss Temple. The woman’s face was flushed—with open pleasure, it seemed—and her eyes flared with excitement. Miss Temple doubted she had ever been in such peril.

“You underwent the Process in the theatre?” The Contessa smiled. “Is that it? Yes, directly after Lydia Vandaariff?”

Miss Temple nodded quickly.

“What a shame Miss Poole cannot confirm it. But
here
we are not helpless…let me see…orange for Harschmort…attendant whore…hotel, I suppose…and of course, doomed…”

The Contessa leaned forward and hissed into Miss Temple’s ear.

“Orange Magdalene orange Royale ice consumption!”

Miss Temple was taken by surprise, stammering for a response, then recalling—too late—the Prince in the secret room—

The Contessa took hold of Miss Temple’s jaw, wrenching her head so the women stared at each other. With a cold deliberate sneer the Contessa’s tongue snaked from her mouth and smeared its way across each of Miss Temple’s eyes. Miss Temple whimpered as the Contessa licked again, pressing her tongue flat over her nose and cheek, digging its narrow tip along her lashes. With a triumphant scoff the Contessa shoved Miss Temple stumbling into the waiting arms of Colonel Aspiche.

Miss Temple looked up to see the elegant lady wiping her mouth with her hand and mockingly smacking her lips.

“ ’Thirty-seven Harker-Bornarth, I should say…excellent vintage…shame to waste it on a savage. Get her out of here.”

She was dragged without ceremony down a nearby hallway and thrown, there was no other word for it, like a sack of goods into a dimly lit room guarded by two black-coated soldiers of Macklenburg. She sprawled to her knees and wheeled back to the open door, hair hanging in her eyes, in time to see Aspiche abruptly slam it shut. A moment later it was locked, and his bootsteps retreated into silence. Miss Temple sank back on her haunches and sighed. She dabbed at her face, still sticky with saliva and port, with the sleeve of her robe, and looked around her.

It was, as she had speculated earlier, the exact sort of dusty, disused parlor where she had met Spragg and Farquhar, but with a cry Miss Temple saw that she was not alone. She leapt to her feet and lunged at the two figures sprawled facedown on the floor. They were warm—both warm and—she whimpered with joy—they breathed! She had been reunited at last with her comrades! With all her available strength, she did her best to turn them over.

Miss Temple’s face was wet with tears, but she smiled as Doctor Svenson erupted into a fearsome spate of coughing, and she did her best to wedge her knees under his shoulders and help him to sit up. In the dim light she could not see if there was blood, but she could smell the pungent odors of the indigo clay infused throughout his clothing and his hair. She shoved again and swiveled his body so he could lean back against a nearby settee. He coughed again and recovered so far as to cover his mouth with a hand. Miss Temple brushed the hair from his eyes, beaming.

“Doctor Svenson—” she whispered.

“My dear Celeste—are we dead?”

“We are not, Doctor—”

“Excellent—is Chang?”

“No, Doctor—he is right here—”

“Are we still at Harschmort?”

“Yes, locked in a room.”

“And your mind remains your own?”

“Oh yes.”

“Capital…I am with you in a moment…beg pardon.”

He turned away from her and spat, took a deep breath, groaned, and heaved himself to a full sitting position, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

“My suffering Christ…,” he muttered.

“I have just been with our enemies!” she said. “Absolutely everything is going on.”

“Imagine it must be…pray forgive my momentary lapse…”

Miss Temple had scuttled to the other side of Cardinal Chang, doing her best not to cry at the spectacle he presented. If anything, the noxious smell was even more intense, and the dried crusts of blood around his nose and mouth and his collar, and the deathly paleness of his face, made clear the extremity of his health. She began to wipe his face with her robe, her other hand holding his head, when she realized that his dark glasses had come off as she’d rolled him over. She stared at the truly vicious scars across each eye and bit her lip at the poor man’s torment. Chang’s breath rattled in his chest like a shaken box of jumbled nails. Was he dying? Miss Temple pulled his head to her bosom and cradled it, whispering gently.

“Cardinal Chang,…you must come back to us…it is Celeste…I am with the Doctor…we cannot survive without you…”

Svenson heaved himself from his place and took hold of Chang’s wrist, placing his other hand upon the man’s forehead. A moment later his fingers were probing Chang’s throat and then Svenson had placed his ear against Chang’s chest, to gauge his ragged breath. He raised himself, sighed, and gently disengaged Miss Temple and searched with deliberate fingers along the back of Chang’s skull, where he’d been struck by the Colonel’s truncheon.

She stared helplessly at his probing fingers, stalking pale through Chang’s black hair.

“I thought you’d undergone their Process,” he observed mildly.

“No. I was able to counterfeit the scars,” she said. “I’m sorry if—well, I did not mean to disappoint you—”

“Hush, it sounds an excellent plan.”

“The Contessa found me out nevertheless.”

“That is no shame, I’m sure…I am happy to find you whole. May I ask—I am almost afraid to say it—”

“Elöise and I became separated. She bore the same false scars—I do not think she has been taken, but do not know where she is. Of course I am not entirely sure I know
who
she is.”

The Doctor smiled at her, rather lost and wan, his eyes achingly clear. “Nor am I…that is the strangest part of it.” He looked pointedly at Miss Temple with the same troubling open gaze. “Of course, when does one ever know?”

He pulled his eyes from hers and cleared his throat.

“Indeed,” sniffed Miss Temple, moved by this unexpected glimpse into the Doctor’s heart, “still, I am terribly sorry to have lost her.”

“We have each done our best…that we are alive is a marvel…these things are equal between us.”

She nodded, wanting to say more but having no idea what those words might be. The Doctor sighed, thinking, and then with an impulsive gesture reached out to pinch tight Chang’s nose with one hand and cover his mouth with the other. Miss Temple gasped.

“But what—”

“A moment…”

A moment was all it took. Like a man brought back to life Chang’s eyes snapped open and his shoulders tensed, his arms groped at Svenson and the rattle in his lungs redoubled in strength. The Doctor removed his hands with a flourish and the Cardinal erupted with his own fit of coughing, dauntingly moist and accompanied by sprays of bloody saliva. Svenson and Miss Temple each took one of the Cardinal’s arms and raised him to his knees where he could more easily vent his body’s distress and its attendant discharge.

Chang wiped his mouth with his fingers and smeared them on the floor—there was no point in wiping them on his coat or trousers, Miss Temple saw. He turned to them, blinked, and then groped quickly at his face. Miss Temple held out his glasses with a smile.

“It is so very good to see you both,” she whispered.

They sat for a moment, giving each other time to gather their strength and wits, and in Miss Temple’s case to wipe away her tears and regain control over her tremulous voice. There was so much to say and so many things to do, she scoffed at her own indulgence, even if the scoff was half-heartedly blown through a sniffling nose.

“You have the advantage, Celeste,” muttered Chang hoarsely. “From the blood in the Doctor’s hair, I assume we both lack any knowledge of where we are, who guards us…even the damned time of day.”

“How long since we were taken?” asked Svenson.

Miss Temple sniffed again.

“Not long at all. But so much has happened since we spoke, since I left you—I am so sorry—I was childish and a fool—”

Svenson waved away her concerns.

“Celeste, I doubt there is time—nor does it matter—”

“It matters to me.”

“Celeste—” This was Chang, struggling to rise.

“Be quiet, the both of you,” she said, and stood up so she was taller than either of them. “I will be brief, but I must first apologize for leaving you at Plum Court. It
was
a foolish thing to do and one that nearly ended my life—and nearly finished both of yours as well.” She held up a hand to stop Doctor Svenson from speaking. “There are two Macklenburg soldiers outside the door, and down the corridor at least ten Dragoons with their officer and their Colonel. The door is locked, and—as you both can see—our room is without windows. I assume we have no weapons.”

Chang and Svenson patted their pockets somewhat absently, not finding a thing.

“We will acquire them, it does not signify,” she said quickly, not wanting to lose her place.

“If we get out the door,” said Svenson.

“Yes, of course—the important thing is stopping our enemies’ plan.”

“And what exact plan is that?” asked Chang.

“That is the issue—I only know a portion of it. But I trust you’ve each seen a portion of your own.”

Keeping her promise to be brief, Miss Temple breathlessly launched into her tale: the St. Royale, Miss Vandaariff’s potion, the painting in the Contessa’s room, her battle with the book, her battle—in a strictly abbreviated version—with the Comte and Contessa in the coach, her train ride to Harschmort, and her journey to the theatre. Both Chang and Svenson opened their mouths to add details but she hushed them and went on—the secret room, the Contessa and the Prince, the killing of Blenheim, Elöise’s discovery in the blue card, Trapping, Vandaariff, Lydia, Veilandt, the ballroom, and, finally, the vicious argument between the Contessa and her allies not ten minutes before. The entire narrative took perhaps two hurriedly whispered minutes.

When she was finished, Miss Temple took a deep breath, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything vital, though of course she had—simply too much had
happened
.

“So…” The Doctor pushed himself up from the floor onto the settee.

“They have taken control of this government with the Duke—who I promise you was
killed
—and are on their way to taking over that of Macklenburg—”

“If it is not offensive to you, Doctor,” said Miss Temple, “I do not understand the
to-do
about one amongst so many German kingdoms.”

“Duchy, but yes—it is because our mountains hold more of this indigo clay than a hundred Tarr Manors put together. They have been acquiring the land for years…” His voice caught and again he shook his head. “In any case—if they journey tonight to Macklenburg—”

“We will need to travel—” muttered Chang. His words were followed by another wracking cough he did his best to ignore, digging into each side pocket of his coat. “I have carried these quite a way, for this exact moment…”

Miss Temple squeaked with happy surprise, blinking again at a new tickling of tears in each eye. Her green boots! She sat down on the floor without the slightest hesitation or thought of modesty and snatched them up, working her lost treasures joyfully onto each foot. She looked up at Chang, who was smiling—though still coughing—and set to tightening the laces.

“I cannot tell you what this means,” she said, “you will laugh at me—you’re laughing now—I know they are only shoes, and I have many shoes, and to be honest I should not have given a pin for these four days before, but now I would not lose them for the world.”

“Of course not,” said Svenson quietly.

“O!” Miss Temple said. “But there are things of yours—from your greatcoat, which we lost, but as I said, we took the card, and there was also a silver case, for your cigarettes! Well, now that I say it, I do not have it—Elöise does, but once we find her, you shall have it back.”

“Indeed…I…that is excellent—”

“It seemed as if it might be precious to you.”

The Doctor nodded, but then looked away, frowning, as if he did not want to say more. Chang coughed again, congestion echoing wetly in his chest.

“We must do something for you,” said Svenson, but Chang shook his head.

“It is my lungs—”

“Powdered glass,” said Miss Temple. “The Contessa explained how she’d killed you.”

“I am sorry to disappoint the Lady…” He smiled.

Svenson looked at Chang quite soberly. “The glass alone would be harmful to your lungs—that it bears such toxic properties as well, it is a marvel you have not succumbed to hypnotic visions.”

“I should prefer them to this coughing, I assure you.”

“Is there any way to get it out?” asked Miss Temple.

The Doctor frowned in thought. The Cardinal spat again, and began to speak.

“My story is simple. When we did not know where you went, we split up, the Doctor to Tarr Manor and I to the Ministry, neither of us guessing correctly. I met Bascombe and the Contessa, witnessed the Process in action, fought Xonck, nearly died, then tracked you—too late—to the St. Royale—thus the boots—and made the train for Harschmort. Once here I have seen the most powerful figures overborne, their minds drained into these books, and Robert Vandaariff, mindless as an ape, filling page after page with a narrative of his secrets. I was unable to prevent the transformation of the three women…” Chang paused for a moment—Miss Temple was becoming steadily aware of the degree to which each man had pressed the limit of not only his strength but also his heart, and her own went out to them utterly—and then cleared his throat. “Though I did kill your Major Blach. But the rest was capture and failure—except I also managed to kill the Contessa’s man, Mr. Gray—”