Gordon Dahlquist

by Volume Two The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

  Miss Temple smiled and, slipping it from Elöise’s grasp, held up the blue glass card.

  Mr. Blenheim snatched at it hungrily, but Miss Temple pulled it from his reach.

  “Do you know what this—” she began, but before another word could be uttered Blenheim surged forward and took hard hold of her arm with one hand and wrenched the card free from her grip with the other. He stepped back, and licked his lips again, glancing back and forth between the card and the women.

  “You must be careful,” said Miss Temple. “The blue glass is very dangerous. It is disorienting—if you have not looked into it before—”

  “I know what it is!” snarled Blenheim, and he took two steps away from them, toward the door, blocking it with his body. He looked up at the women a last time, then down into the glass.

  Blenheim’s eyes dulled as he entered the world of the glass card. Miss Temple knew this card showed the Prince and Mrs. Marchmoor, no doubt more entrancing to Mr. Blenheim than Roger ogling her own limbs on the sofa, and she reached out slowly, not making a sound, to the nearest display case to take up a sharp short dagger with a blade that curved narrowly back and forth like a silver snake. Mr. Blenheim’s breath caught in his throat and his body seemed to waver—the cycle of the card had finished—but a moment later he had not moved, giving himself over to its seductive repetition. Taking care to position her feet as firmly as she could and recalling Chang’s advice for practical action, Miss Temple stepped to the side of Mr. Blenheim and drove the dagger into the side of his body to the hilt.

  He gasped, eyes popping wide and up from the card. Miss Temple pulled the dagger free with both hands, the force of which caused him to stagger in her direction. He looked down at the bloody blade, and then up to her face. She stabbed again, this time into the center of his body, shoving the blade up under his ribs. Mr. Blenheim dropped the card onto the carpet and wrestled the dagger from Miss Temple’s grasp, tottering backwards. With a grunt he dropped to his knees, blood pouring from his abdomen. He could not draw breath nor—happily for the women—make noise. He toppled onto his side and lay still. Miss Temple, gratified to see that the carpet bore a reddish pattern, knelt quickly to wipe her hands.

  She looked up to Elöise, who had not moved, fixed on the fading breaths of the fallen overseer.

  “Elöise?” she whispered.

  Elöise turned to her quickly, the spell broken, eyes wide.

  “Are you all right, Elöise?”

  “O yes. I am sorry—I—I don’t know—I suppose I thought we would creep past—”

  “He would have followed.”

  “Of course. Of course! No—yes, my goodness—”

  “He was our deadly enemy!” Miss Temple’s poise was suddenly quite fragile.

  “Of course—it is merely—perhaps the quantity of blood—”

  Despite herself, the prick of criticism had punctured Miss Temple’s grim resolve, for after all it was not as if murder came to her naturally or blithely, and though she knew she had been clever, she also knew what she had done—that it was murder—not even strictly a fight—and once more she felt it all had moved so quickly, too fast for her to keep her hold on what she believed and what her actions made of her. Tears burned the corners of each eye. Elöise suddenly leaned close to her and squeezed her shoulders.

  “Do not listen to me, Celeste—I am a fool—truly! Well done!”

  Miss Temple sniffed. “It would be best if we dragged him from the door.”

  “Absolutely.”

  They had each taken an arm, but the effort of transporting the substantial corpse—for he had finally expired—behind a short bookcase left them both gasping for breath, Elöise propped against a leather armchair, Miss Temple holding the dagger, wiping its blood on Mr. Blenheim’s sleeve. With another sigh at the burdens one accepted along with a pragmatic mind, she set the dagger down and began to search his pockets, piling all of what she found in a heap: banknotes, coins, handkerchiefs, matches, two whole cigars and the stub of another, pencils, scraps of blank paper, bullets for the carbine, and a ring of so many keys she was sure they would answer for every door in the whole of Harschmort. In his breast pocket however was another key … fashioned entirely of blue glass. Miss Temple’s eyes went wide and she looked up to her companion.

  Elöise was not looking at her. She sat slumped in the chair, one leg drawn up, her face open, eyes dull, both hands holding the blue card in front of her face. Miss Temple stood with the glass key in her hand, wondering how long her work had taken … and how many times her companion had traveled through the sensations of Mrs. Marchmoor on the sofa. A little gasp escaped Elöise’s parted lips, and Miss Temple began to feel awkward. The more she considered what she had experienced by way of the blue glass—the hunger, the knowledge, the delicious submersion, and of course her rudely skewed sense of self—the less she knew how she ought to feel. The attacks upon her person (that seemed to occur whenever she set foot in a coach) she had sorted out—they filled her with rage. But these mental incursions had transfigured her notions of propriety, of desire, and of experience itself, and left her usual certainty of mind utterly tumbled.

  Elöise was a widow, who with her marriage must have found a balance with these physical matters, yet instead of reason and perspective Miss Temple was troubled to see a faint pearling of perspiration on the woman’s upper lip, and felt a certain restless shifting at her thighs at being in the presence of someone else’s unmediated desire (a thing she had never before faced, unless one could count her kisses with Roger and Roger’s own attempts to grope her body, which now—by force of absolute will—she refused to do). Miss Temple could not, for she was both curious and proud, but wonder if this was how she had looked as well.

  The widow’s cheeks were flushed, her lower lip absently plucked between her teeth, her fingers white with pressure as they squeezed the glass, her breath shot through with sighs, the silk robe sliding as she moved, soft and thin enough to show the stiffened tips of each breast, the barely perceptible rocking of her hips, one long leg stretched out to the carpet, its toes flexing against some hidden force, and on top of all of this, to Miss Temple’s discomforting attraction, was the fact that Elöise still wore her feathered mask—that, to some degree, Miss Temple felt she was not gazing at Elöise at all, but simply a Woman of Mystery, as she had made of herself in the Contessa’s Dutch mirror. She continued to stare as Elöise repeated the cycle of the card, Miss Temple now able to locate, at the same slight inhalation of breath, the moment of Mrs. Marchmoor pulling the Prince’s body into hers, hooking her legs around his hips and pressing him tight … and she wondered that she herself had been able to remove her attention from the card without difficulty—or without difficulty beyond her own embarrassment—where Elöise seemed quite trapped within its charms. What had she said about the book—about people being killed, about her own swooning? With a resolve that, as perhaps too often in her life, cut short her fascination, Miss Temple reached out and snatched the card from her companion’s hands.

  Elöise looked up, quite unaware of what had happened and where she was, mouth open and her eyes unclear.

  “Are you all right?” Miss Temple asked. “You had quite lost yourself within this card.” She held it up for Elöise to see. The widow licked her lips and blinked.

  “My heavens … I do apologize …”

  “You are quite flushed,” observed Miss Temple.

  “I’m sure I am,” muttered Elöise. “I was not prepared—”

  “It is the same experience as the book—quite as involving, if not as deep—for as there is not as much glass, there is not as much incident. You did say the book did not agree with you.”

  “No, it did not.”

  “The card seems to have agreed with you perhaps too well.”

  “Perhaps … and yet, I believe I have discovered something of use—”

  “I blush at what it must be.”

  Elöise frowned, for despite her weakness she was no
t ready to accept the mockery of a younger woman so easily, but then Miss Temple smiled shyly and patted the woman’s knee.

  “I thought you looked very pretty,” Miss Temple said, and then adopted a wicked grin. “Do you think Doctor Svenson would have found you even prettier?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” muttered Elöise, blushing again.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t either,” answered Miss Temple. “But what have you discovered?”

  Elöise took a breath. “Is that door locked?”

  “It is.”

  “Then you had best sit down, for we must reason.”

  “As you know,” Elöise began, “my position is—or at least was—tutor to the children of Arthur and Charlotte Trapping, Mrs. Trapping being the sister of Henry and Francis Xonck. It is generally held that Colonel Trapping’s rapid advancement was due to the machinations of Mr. Henry Xonck, though I see now that in fact Mr. Francis Xonck manipulated it all to engineer—by way of his new allies—a way to wrest the family business from his brother, and all of it arranged—because the Colonel became privy to all sorts of useful government secrets—with that same brother’s blessing. The unwitting key to this had been Colonel Trapping, who would report faithfully back to Henry—passing on both the information and mis-information that Francis could supply. Further, it was Francis who persuaded me to visit Tarr Manor with whatever secrets I might supply—again, designed to give him the leverage of blackmail over his siblings. But this was made suddenly necessary exactly because the Colonel had been killed—do you see? He was killed despite the fact that, either willingly or in ignorance, he was serving the Cabal.”

  Miss Temple nodded vaguely, perched on the arm of the chair, feet dangling, hoping that a larger point would soon emerge.

  Elöise went on. “One wonders why precisely because the Colonel was so very unremarkable.”

  “The Doctor did find the second blue card on the Colonel’s person,” replied Miss Temple, “the one drawn from the experience of Roger Bascombe. It was evidently sewn into the lining of his uniform. But you said you discovered—”

  But Elöise was still thinking. “Was there anything within it that seemed particularly … secret? That would justify concealing it—protecting it—so?”

  “I should say not, save for the part containing me—except—well, except the very final moment, where I am sure one can glimpse Lydia Vandaariff on an examination table with the Comte d’Orkancz—well, you know, examining her.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Temple. “I only realized it now—when I saw the tables, and then of course I remembered seeing Lydia—and at the time I saw the card I did not know who Lydia was—”

  “But, Celeste”—Miss Temple frowned, as she was not entirely sure of her companion even now, and certainly not comfortable with being so familiar—“that the card remained sewn into the Colonel’s coat meant that no one had found it! It means that what he knew—what the card proved—died with him!”

  “But it did not die at all. The Doctor has the card, and we the secret.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Exactly what?”

  Elöise nodded seriously. “So what I’ve found may be even more important—”

  Miss Temple could only bear this for so long, for she was not one who stinted from absolutely shredding the wrapping paper around a present.

  “Yes, but you have not said what it is.”

  Elöise pointed to the blue card on Miss Temple’s lap. “At the end of the cycle,” she said, “you will recall that the woman—”

  “Mrs. Marchmoor.”

  “Her head turns, and one sees spectators. Among them I have recognized Francis Xonck, Miss Poole, Doctor Lorenz—others I do not know, though I’m sure you might. Yet beyond these people … is a window—”

  “But it is not a window,” said Miss Temple, eagerly, inching forward. “It is a mirror! The St. Royale’s private rooms are fitted with Dutch glass mirrors that serve as windows on the lobby. Indeed, it was recognizing the outer doors of the hotel through this mirror that sent the Doctor to the St. Royale in the first place—”

  Elöise nodded impatiently, for she had finally reached her news.

  “But did he note who was in the lobby? Someone who had quite obviously stepped out of the private room for a chance to speak apart from those remaining in it, distracted by the, ah, spectacle?”

  Miss Temple shook her head.

  “Colonel Arthur Trapping,” whispered Elöise, “speaking most earnestly … with Lord Robert Vandaariff!”

  * * *

  Miss Temple placed a hand over her mouth.

  “It is the Comte!” she exclaimed. “The Comte plans to use Lydia—use the marriage, I can’t say exactly how—in another part of Oskar Veilandt’s alchemical scheme—”

  Elöise frowned. “Who is—”

  “A painter—a mystic—the discoverer of the blue glass! We were told he was dead—killed for his secrets—but now I wonder if he lives, if he might even be a prisoner—”

  “Or his memories drained into a book!”

  “O yes! But the point is—do the others know what the Comte truly intends for Lydia? More importantly, did her father know? What if Trapping found Roger’s card and recognized Lydia and the Comte? Is it possible that the Colonel did not understand the truth of his associates’ villainy and threatened them with exposure?”

  “I am afraid you never met Colonel Trapping,” said Elöise.

  “Not to actually exchange words, no.”

  “It is more likely he understood exactly what the card meant and went to the one person with even deeper pockets than his brother-in-law.”

  “And we have not seen Lord Vandaariff—perhaps even now he weaves his own revenge against the Comte? Or does he even know—if Trapping promised him information but was killed before he could reveal it?”

  “Blenheim had not seen Lord Robert,” said Elöise.

  “And the Comte’s plan for Lydia remains in motion,” said Miss Temple. “I have seen her drinking his poisons. If Trapping was killed to keep her father in ignorance—”

  “He must have been killed by the Comte!” said Elöise.

  Miss Temple frowned. “And yet … I am certain the Comte was as curious as anyone as to the Colonel’s fate.”

  “Lord Robert must at least be warned by his secret agent’s demise,” reasoned Elöise. “No wonder he is in hiding. Perhaps it is he who now holds this missing painter—seeking some sort of exchange? Perhaps he now weaves his own plot against them all!”

  “Speaking of that,” said Miss Temple, casting her eyes down to the heavy shoes of Mr. Blenheim, just visible behind a red leather ottoman, “what do we make of Mr. Blenheim’s possession … of this?”

  She held the key of blue glass to the light and studied its gleam.

  “It is the same glass as the books,” said Elöise.

  “What do you think it opens?”

  “It would have to be extremely delicate … something else made of the glass?”

  “My exact conclusion.” Miss Temple smiled. “Which leads me to a second point—that Mr. Blenheim had no business carrying this key at all. Can you imagine any of the Cabal trusting such a thing—which must be priceless—to someone not of their direct number? He is the overseer of the house, he can only figure in their plots as much as these Dragoons or Macklenburg stooges. Who would trust him?”

  “Only one person,” said Elöise.

  Miss Temple nodded. “Lord Robert Vandaariff.”

  “I believe I have an idea,” Miss Temple announced, and hopped off the armchair. Taking care to step over the darkened smear on the carpet—it had been difficult enough to shift the body, they agreed not to concern themselves with stains—she made her way to the cluttered sideboard. Working with a certain pleasurable industry, she found an unopened bottle of a decent age and a small sharp knife to dig past the wax seal and into the crumbling cork beneath, at least enough to pour through—for
she did not mind if the cork dust crept into the liquid, for it was not the liquid that she cared for. Selecting a largely empty decanter, Miss Temple began, tongue poking from her mouth in concentration, to pour out the deep ruby port, doing her best to empty the bottle. When at last she saw the first bits of muddy sediment, she left off the decanter and reached for a wineglass, emptying the rest of the port bottle, sediment and all, into this. She then took another wineglass and, using the little knife as a dam, poured off the liquid until all that remained in her first glass were the ruddy, softened dregs. She looked up with a smile at Elöise, whose expression was tolerant but baffled.

  “We cannot proceed with our investigations trapped within this room, nor can we rejoin the Doctor, nor can we escape, nor can we gain revenge—for even carrying sacrificial daggers we must be taken captive or killed once we attempt to leave.”

  Elöise nodded, and Miss Temple smiled at her own cunning.

  “Unless, of course, we are clever in our disguise. The fire in the operating theatre was a site of great confusion and, I am willing to wager, one that prevented any clear account of exactly what occurred—too much smoke, too many shots and screams, too little light. My point being”—and here she waved her hand across the maroon dregs in the wineglass—“no one quite knows whether we underwent the Process or not.”

  They walked down the corridor in their bare feet, backs straight, unhurried, doing their level best to appear placid of character while paying attention to the growing turmoil around them. Miss Temple held the serpentine dagger in her hand. Elöise held the bottle of orange fluid and had tucked the cigarette case, the blue glass card and the glass key into her shift, as it had thoughtfully been made with pockets. They had pulled their masks around their necks to give everything a bit more time to dry, for meticulously applied and patted and smeared and dabbed around their eyes and across their noses, in as exact an imitation of the looping scars of the Process as they could manage, were the reddish-ruddy dregs of port. Miss Temple had been quite satisfied looking into the sideboard mirror, and only hoped that no one leaned so near as to smell the vintage.