The Chemickal Marriage

He did not suppose any explanation was needed; they were beneath a palace, after all. ‘The journey to air cannot be far. Do we follow?’

He plucked his tunic between his thumb and forefinger, as if offering to strip. Schoepfil scowled. ‘Of course we don’t. The ash there, Kelling – what was burnt?’

‘A note. Unreadable, sir.’

‘Blasted female. Shameless. Brazen.’ Schoepfil pointed damningly at the clothes. ‘Does she have a new wardrobe ready on the other side? Of course she does. And as soon as your little beast arrives she will also have my book!’

Svenson had thought Miss Temple dead, only to see her again in the baths – with the Contessa, of all people, and being introduced, of all things, to the sickly, costive Queen. From their concealment he and Schoepfil had heard the entire conversation, the Contessa’s sly blaming of Vandaariff and Lord Axewith for the Duke of Staelmaere’s murder. Minutes later came Colonel Bronque’s own audience, a litany of abuse received in place of Axewith, whose request for the Queen’s seal was violently refused. Schoepfil had nearly exposed their hiding place, chuckling at this reverse for his uncle. Uncle! What but a life of envious proximity to power could explain this strange creature of a man?

From there Svenson had been passed to the odious Kelling, who – with two grenadiers – had shown him another cork-lined room stuffed with ephemera relating to the Comte d’Orkancz and indigo clay: books and papers, diagrams, paintings, half-tooled bits of brass and steel. Kelling hungrily noted where his attention fell, as if Svenson were a pilgrim in an alchemical allegory, presented with a table of riches, with his choice to dictate the course of his soul.

‘Lorenz.’ Svenson tapped a stack of that man’s notes. ‘Dropped out of an airship to the freezing sea.’

Kelling was silent. Svenson moved to the next pile.

‘Fochtmann. Shot in the head at Parchfeldt.’ He smiled at Kelling, as if in friendly reminiscence. ‘Gray, killed at Harschmort by Cardinal Chang. And Crooner … everyone forgets him. Lost both arms – turned to glass and sheared off. Died of the shock, I suppose …’

‘What about the marriage?’ Kelling extended his knobbed throat like a buzzard.

‘Do you mean the painting?’

‘Do I?’

‘Or the ritual behind it?’ Svenson smiled pleasantly. ‘A man like the Comte d’Orkancz would view the thing as a recipe. Since he was barking mad.’

Svenson fished out a rumpled cigarette and, not waiting for Kelling’s permission, set it to light. He exhaled. ‘Do you know what happened to the Comte?’

‘He died on the airship,’ replied Kelling.

Doctor Svenson took another puff and shook his head. ‘No, Mr Kelling. He is in hell.’

He was taken by the grenadiers to another room, Kelling called away and, to Svenson’s mind, happy to leave. Kelling was exactly the sort of court-bred toad whose dislike the Doctor had so often negotiated in protecting the Prince, men whose self-regard became one with their masters’. Svenson’s refusal to be so attached had marked him a social leper.

But worse than the company of Kelling was that of his own untended heart. Left alone, the guilt Svenson had been able to suppress since his delivery to Schoepfil rose to the surface of his thought. Francesca. Eloise. The Contessa.

A soldier entered with a wooden plate of bread and meat, and a mug of beer. Svenson drank half the beer in a swallow and set the plate on his lap, forcing himself to chew each bite. The bread had gone stiff, sliced hours before, and the grey beef stank of vinegar. Still, he finished the plate, emptied the mug and carried them to the door.

As the guard took the empty dishes, Doctor Svenson looked out.

‘Do you think I might stretch my legs?’ he asked. ‘I have had so little sleep, if I do not walk I will collapse.’

‘Why not sleep now?’

‘There is no time. Mr Schoepfil says we must travel. I require my wits.’

He took out his last two cigarettes, offered one to the grenadier, who – blessedly – declined. Svenson tucked it away, lit the other and indicated the small corridor. ‘Just here?’

The guard did not protest and Svenson wandered to a window. Night had fallen and a movement outside caught his eye: a man in a white jacket, arms bound, dragged by soldiers towards a livery shed. A few steps behind came Kelling. Perhaps a minute later Kelling and the grenadiers returned alone.

In the distance came the sound of doors. Svenson ambled to the corridor’s end in time to see the Contessa with an escort of guards.

‘There you are!’ She called with such self-importance that her soldiers allowed her to veer towards Svenson. He bowed as she approached.

‘The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza,’ he said to his guard, ‘a gentlewoman from Venice.’

The guard’s reply, and her own guards’ desire to interpose, was brusquely overridden. ‘Doctor Svenson, thank goodness. I’ve just been with Her Majesty now’ – this clearly for the benefit of the guards – ‘and I would speak to Mr Schoepfil – yet I may not have time, you see. Because of Her Majesty.’ She pointed past Svenson. ‘Is that where you’ve been waiting? May we speak?’

‘I am at your service,’ replied Svenson.

‘Mr Schoepfil wants you to wait,’ managed one of her guards.

‘Of course I’ll wait,’ she cried. ‘But if the Queen requests my presence, what do you suggest? This way I may convey to Doctor Svenson – who also waits for Mr Schoepfil – my own account of the matter, so he may pass it on – in case. Don’t you see?’

She strode down the windowed passage, unseen heels clipping the floor like the hoofs of a performing horse. ‘I will knock when I am finished,’ she told the guard. ‘What is that, beer? Two more of the same. I am parched.’

She sailed inside and sat in the only chair. Svenson smiled apologetically at the guard and began to shut the door.

‘The beer,’ the Contessa snapped.

She flounced her dress into place. The knot of soldiers stared past him at the woman. Svenson accepted the beer and shut the door with his heel.

‘What are you waiting for, trumpets?’

She snatched a mug from his hand and drank deeply, paused to breathe, then finished it off. ‘Drink. Drink or give it to me. There is very little time.’

He looked to the door. ‘Surely everything we say is heard –’

The Contessa took hold of Svenson’s belt and yanked him sharply to one knee. She took his mug and set it down, slopping beer across the varnished cork.

‘We have unfinished business.’

‘Madam, nothing between us –’

She jerked his belt to stop his rising. ‘Speak quietly,’ she whispered. She put her mouth near his ear. ‘We have all manner of unfinished business, Abelard Svenson. Do not deny it.’

‘I will not.’ He swallowed. ‘But this morning – I cannot –’

‘Cannot what?’

‘You took the life of Mrs Dujong –’

‘Someone had to.’

The crack of Doctor Svenson’s open hand across her cheek split the room. He leapt to his feet, furious, appalled.

Her eyes blazed. ‘You’ll pay for that.’