The Chemickal Marriage

that might show her as she had once been. She took his hand and glanced at the machines. ‘The star map. It shows every coupling, every wire and box.’

‘Star map?’ asked Svenson, fumbling his hand into a pocket.

‘In the leather case with the book. It does not matter. How much of this do you understand?’

‘Enough – perhaps as much as Trooste.’

‘Good.’

‘It isn’t good. Vandaariff showed me a book. Eloise – a scrap of her. God help me. In that rack, not ten yards away.’

Miss Temple’s voice was cold. ‘Eloise would be ashamed. Destroy everything.’

With that she pushed past him, to the glass. She pointed to the enclosed room’s blazing honeycombed ceiling. ‘That is a technique from the Vandaariff tomb. Each shaft draws light from the surface, passing it through different layers of treated glass – each shaft with its own alchemical recipe. The tempered light generates a reaction, and the turbines amplify it. Why did you want me to know?’

‘In case, Celeste,’ replied the Contessa. ‘And because you might have made something of the knowledge. Did you? No – only a sweet knot of regret in your stomach. But that is enough for me.’

‘How can such an insignificant person as myself command such malice?’

‘You have earned it ten times over.’

‘Why do you risk everything to restore a man who wished your death? Are you so lonely? Are you so old? Are your lovers sickened by your scars?’

The Contessa called with impatience, ‘Professor Trooste, we are past time. Strap the Bride to her marriage bed.’

Acolytes secured Miss Temple to the second table, next to Chang. She did not fight them.

The Doctor shouted to the Contessa: ‘This serves no purpose, madam – her participation is completely unnecessary!’

‘On the contrary, Doctor, it serves several aims in one thrust. Shall I explain? First, Cardinal Chang dies. Second, so does Celeste Temple. Third, Robert Vandaariff is restored.’

‘You know very well that Vandaariff is long gone.’

‘Robert Vandaariff will be restored.’

‘And you will become the next lady of Harschmort? Is it that simple?’

‘I am Robert Vandaariff’s heir!’ Schoepfil insisted, wiping his face on a sleeve. ‘Not that inert felon –’

Miss Temple did not mark the rest of his complaint, nor anyone’s reply. She turned her gaze to Chang. His face was wedged into a gap in the table, but his naked back offered its own portrait, muscles, nicks and scars. His strong arms were sheathed in black rubber, sprouting wire, like a bird’s wings stripped of feathers. Her heart ached for him, as it had never done for herself. Professor Trooste worked between them, connecting hoses and wires from Chang’s table to Miss Temple’s body at the hands and feet. He brought up the rubber mask, dangling cords.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘I want to see him.’

‘You will know him inside yourself, to every detail, before you succumb.’

Trooste smoothed her hair aside and cinched the mask in place, so hard her eyes began to tear. With a lurch the table was tipped to the same angle as Chang’s. She could look only forward through the narrow slits, straight at the equally faceless Contessa in her den. The room fell silent. Trooste came forward, dipped his head to the Contessa and began to speak.

‘The tale of The Chemickal Marriage is ancient, a true account of the defeat of corruption and perfect rebirth. A band of chosen guests make possible through their faith a resurrection. First, the royal party is sacrificed. Then the King and Queen, the Groom and Bride, are reborn. Some of this is metaphor. Much more is fact.’

Trooste bowed again to the Contessa. ‘Lord Vandaariff named you Virgo Lucifera, angel of light, the heaven- sent overseer – the celebrant of this most sacred rite. He knew a certain volume would arrive in your possession, madam. He relied upon it.’ Trooste indicated the glass book he had taken from the hamper. ‘Now death is immaterial and the marriage can begin. The ritual will remove the taint of corruption that consumed his body, and thus enact a new covenant. The flesh of life is remade to the flesh of dreams.’

Trooste’s last words were echoed by acolytes as if it were part of a liturgy.

The Contessa nodded gravely. ‘As he was ever the most mighty, so shall Robert Vandaariff be first redeemed.’

Trooste laid a hand on Chang’s scar. ‘The vessel has been prepared, seasoned through the progress of metals. As his essence is restored from the book, our master’s soul will pass through infusions of six sacred alloys, and so by each be cleansed.’ Trooste knelt at an empty slot beneath the table. ‘The glass volume is placed in a chamber charged with quicksilver, the seventh metal. An eighth metal, tincture of bloodstone, protects the vessel himself, serving as an alchemical sieve. The soul will take root in its new home.’ Trooste indicated the hoses that linked Chang to Miss Temple. ‘While the corruption of death is passed on. Into the Bride.’

Miss Temple’s throat burnt. The more fully Trooste detailed the path of violent energy, the more the Comte’s memories confirmed her doom. Trooste moved to where Miss Temple could see his earnest expression. ‘Thus she becomes the embodiment of pure love.’

‘It will kill her,’ declared Svenson.

‘Not immediately. We should have several hours for study.’

‘Wait.’ Mahmoud stepped forward, eyeing the metal tubs with suspicion. ‘Six metals? You’re not going to kill anyone else.’

Trooste blinked and said nothing.

‘You are not,’ repeated Mahmoud, ‘going to kill anyone else!’

‘Of course she is!’ bleated Schoepfil. ‘Don’t be a damned fool!’

‘I’ll do it this instant if you don’t be quiet,’ said the Contessa. She called to Trooste: ‘And his mind will be whole again? The corruption, the madness –’

‘All cleansed, madam. Purity. Rapture. Eden.’

Mahmoud began to protest but Svenson touched his shoulder and addressed Trooste: ‘How do you know this? Today, healing Mrs Kraft, you had no more idea than I.’

‘Lord Vandaariff instructed me, this very night.’ Trooste was a priest describing a revelation. ‘Just as his incarnation informed the child. And all has come to pass as he foretold. The Vessel returned for consumption, the Bride to accept the sin, the Virgo Lucifera to enforce heaven’s will. He knew. And he will know again.’

Trooste raised his hands like the conductor of an orchestra. A snapping sound came from Doctor Svenson’s hands. In a stride he reached Trooste and plunged the broken tip of a blue glass key into his neck. The blood around the wound stiffened to glass, cracking as Trooste’s throat filled. The wound bulged and his face darkened to purple. Trooste’s gasp of shock was swallowed in a gutteral crackling and he fell. Svenson stepped away and lifted his empty hands, three carbines and a revolver aimed at his chest.

‘You bloody imbecile!’ shouted the Contessa. ‘You – you –’

Svenson’s voice cut through her anger like a sword. ‘If I am killed, this ends. None of you know enough about the Comte’s science. Without me nothing can continue.’

The Contessa snarled with frustration. She nodded the helmet, ruefully it seemed and, despite her fury, with a certain appreciation. ‘And, let me guess, you refuse to do so?’

The Doctor reached into his tunic for a cigarette. ‘Not at all. But there will be conditions.’

At once the weapons shifted to Mahmoud and Schoepfil, each of whom had moved towards Svenson. Svenson blew smoke from the corner of his mouth, eyeing them coolly.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. At some point a man’s just had enough.’

With a feeling of dread Miss Temple watched Svenson approach the rack of books. His eyes were as absent