The Chemickal Marriage

‘You’re wrong. Come see.’

The Contessa gamely scrambled up, holding her dress with one hand and groping with the other until she could reach a beam to steady herself – an action that launched another spray of brick dust. She spat it from her mouth.

‘Look!’

Miss Temple raised the light. Perhaps ten feet above, the darkness opened to black space.

‘But where does it lead? We could be trapped in a hole.’

‘We are trapped in a hole.’ Miss Temple handed the candle-box to the Contessa. ‘Keep it steady. I will do my best not to bury you as I go …’

It was just like climbing a monkey-puzzle tree, not that she had done that for a decade, but Miss Temple’s limbs remembered how to wriggle from one branch to another. Only one of the beams gave way, a heart-stopping moment when – in the midst of a cascade of pebbles and dust and, from below, Italian profanity – the light went out. Miss Temple clung to where she was in the dark, waiting for all the debris to settle.

‘Goffo scrofa!’

‘Are you all right?’

A snap of a match and the light returned, to show the Contessa covered in dust, black hair like an old- fashioned powdered wig. ‘Climb.’

The distance was not far, and once she had a solid brace for her feet Miss Temple raised her head to the edge of a floor. ‘Half a moment … shut your eyes …’

She pounded the broken lip with a fist, breaking away weakened brick until she was sure that what remained would take her weight. Then Miss Temple writhed up over the edge. The air was warm and dank. She could not see, but the sounds around her – water and machines – echoed from a distance.

‘Pass everything up,’ she whispered. ‘We are inside.’

The Contessa joined her with an extremely sour expression, her person filthy, and shone the candle around the room: a barrel-shaped ceiling, a door cracked off its hinges and a line of furnaces, all cold.

‘You’ll be happy for a swim now, I wager,’ said Miss Temple as they padded on.

The Contessa did not reply and Miss Temple realized that they must be silent now, that around any corner might be a foe. They continued on, past standing pools and buckled plaster, finally reaching a gas-lit spiral staircase. They climbed one turn to a door. The Contessa faced her.

‘Put the hamper down.’ Miss Temple did, warily. The Contessa held out the leather case. ‘Take it.’

Miss Temple did, then backed away. ‘Why?’

‘Because I cannot carry everything. Because now I do not need it. I took it from you so you’d have no weapon.’

Miss Temple glanced at the hamper, wondering if she could snatch that up as well – and, with both books, run.

‘I thought you needed me. I thought I would be used.’

‘And did you want that?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What do you want, Celeste?’

‘I want to stop him,’ she said boldly. ‘Stop all of this. I want to save Chang. And Svenson.’ She hesitated. ‘And myself.’ The Contessa pursed her lips, sceptical. Miss Temple wanted to kick her. ‘What do you want?’

‘To find Oskar.’

‘What?’

The Contessa was silent. The knife was somehow in her hand.

‘But why?’ Miss Temple did not understand at all. ‘And how? Oskar is dead. And he wants to consume you. You’ve seen the painting. Those people get boiled down – they get killed and cooked in tubs and what’s left is given to him, to revive.’

‘Reincarnate. There’s a difference.’

Miss Temple remembered, quite vividly, the Comte’s last moments on the airship, his rage at the death of Lydia Vandaariff. His intention to wring the Contessa’s neck had been stopped only by Chang’s sabre. ‘You do not understand. He is mad. He was dead –’

‘But what if he wasn’t any more? What if he was just wicked old Oskar?’

‘He isn’t.’

‘Then you can kill him, if I’m wrong. And become his little Bride if I am not. You’ll want to go upstairs. And don’t confront anyone. Stay alive to the end.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Into the works, of course. Do you remember the tomb?’

‘What?’

‘Really, Celeste, try not to be completely stupid.’

‘I am not stupid. If it wasn’t for me you’d still be on the landing.’

‘As ever, Celeste Temple, you underestimate everything.’ The Contessa picked up the hamper and slipped through the door.

Miss Temple stood, undone at being suddenly alone and resenting the feeling extremely. She had not underestimated anything. She could sense the Comte’s death in the back of her throat. Why would the Contessa risk her life to restore him? She narrowed her eyes, anger building now the woman had gone. If she could not save herself, she would be damned if their two fates would be any different.

She climbed to another door. The landing was damp and wet footprints climbed the stairs. One of the prints, the right foot, carried a swirl of red. Against all reason she wondered if this was Chang. She stopped herself from calling out. The prints continued up, past the next door, which she tried to open out of curiosity. The door squeaked – it was locked – and at the squeak Miss Temple heard a noise above her on the stairs. She did not breathe. Then faint footfalls, coming down. Miss Temple retreated in silence until she was out of sight. The footfalls stopped on the platform, and she heard the same squeak of the door being tested, then the sound of a key. The door was opened … then closed again … silence. The man had gone through. If she moved quickly she could get past without, as the Contessa warned, confrontation.

She hurried around the turn to find Mr Foison on the landing. He leapt at her like a cat, grunting with pain as he landed and snatching at the tail of her robe. She dashed away and down, fumbling for the door at the next landing, but it was only half open before Foison was there. She swung the case at him. He dodged the blow and took her wrist.

‘How are you here?’ he hissed. ‘Where is she?’

‘Where is Chang?’

‘Chang is lost.’

His cold voice brought Miss Temple back to the Raaxfall works. She kicked at a bandage on his right thigh and yanked her wrist with all her strength. Foison’s grip broke, but then his fingers caught on the case. For an instant they strained against one another, but he was too strong. She let it go. He toppled back and Miss Temple raced away.

She burst through the next door down and ran until the corridor met another pool. She looked back and realized that Foison hadn’t followed. Of course not: he’d opened the leather case and seen what she’d been fool enough to lose.

Back on the floor where she’d started, Miss Temple stopped to think. What had Foison been doing here? A man like Foison did not repair machines. Had he been chasing someone? And what explained his being so wet?

Across the pool she saw water pouring through an open grate, forced from above. She peered upwards, shading her face from the spray, and her heart quickened. Had Foison followed someone into Harschmort on such a dangerous route – someone like Chang?

But if Foison had been following Chang, he would not have come after her, and he would have shouted for help. For some reason she did not understand, Mr Foison had made his own secret entry into Harschmort, through the guts of his master’s new construction.