The Chemickal Marriage

‘Go?’ She glared at him. ‘How? Where? We all heard that white-haired serpent – that you were the property of a jealous man. Can you walk away? Can the Doctor, after Eloise? Can I? Is that all you think of me?’

Svenson cleared his throat. ‘Celeste –’

‘Our agreement holds. To the death of the Contessa. To the death of the Comte – whatever body holds him. After these things, I do not care.’

Her last words carried an air of drama, and the men exchanged a tactful glance. Again, Miss Temple reacted with fury.

‘Eloise is a corpse because we were not stronger, and both of you – and I – would be rotting too but for blind chance – how many times? I will not have it. Who else will do our work? Who else will stop them?’ She flung herself back and appealed to the ceiling. ‘O this is not what I wanted to say.’

Chang did not require Svenson’s look to know he must say nothing. The Doctor’s voice was gentle. ‘We have all been frightened –’

‘Being frightened is appalling,’ Miss Temple whispered. ‘There is nothing for it but rage, and I am so tired of being angry.’ She looked down at her hands, flushing red, though her eyes remained fierce. ‘I’m sure it is easy for you to laugh.’

‘No, Celeste.’

‘I do not believe you. I do not believe either of you.’

Chang jerked his head to Svenson. ‘What has he done?’

‘He is unpleasantly kind. As if I could forget how I have failed – as if I ought to. You have no idea.’

‘Idea of what?’ asked Svenson.

‘How late. How late it already is.’ Miss Temple abruptly stood, and reached the door before the Doctor had gained his feet.

‘Celeste, wait –’

‘She has Francesca and the book. He has the money to make his madness real.’

But Svenson held out an open hand. ‘All that is true. But please … what else did you want to say? The three of us. When you say it is “late” –’

‘I’m sorry. I would not want to further bruise Mr Phelps’s feelings,’ said Miss Temple. The door slid shut behind her.

Svenson struck a match and puffed his smoke to life. ‘She is agitated.’

This did not strike Chang as worth reply. He recalled the sabre scar across the Doctor’s chest and wondered, not for the first time, what truly drove the man.

‘Celeste has changed. Her sense – her moral sense.’

‘Did she tell you this?’

‘Of course not. I cannot explain it otherwise. She has ever been collected –’

‘Unless she is bursting into tears or a rage, certainly.’

Svenson’s tone grew sharp. ‘Perhaps you have your own answer.’

‘What does that mean – why should I?’

‘You question my observation – I ask for yours.’

‘I’ve no idea in the slightest!’

Svenson passed the hand with the cigarette over his brow, wreathing his head with smoke.

‘We are men. We meet our fate as a duty – as our lot. But her fate surpasses expectation. The book that held the Comte’s corrupted mind – it was in Celeste’s possession. Did you not wonder how she could guide us through the munitions works?’

‘Of course I wondered.’

‘You did not ask.’

‘When should I have done so? When the dock was exploding? In the damned pipe?’

‘Well, that is why, I think. She has touched that book, gazed inside.’

‘Why did you even go to Raaxfall?’

‘I told you, Celeste received a map of the works, in glass, from the Contessa.’

‘And you went! Of all the idiocies –’

‘Our journey saved your life.’

‘Do you think that is the end of it? What else did you accomplish without understanding? What task did you perform for her?’

Svenson rose and stalked from the compartment. Chang suppressed the urge to call the man back. He shut his eyes behind the stonecutter’s goggles and settled deeper in his seat.

His thoughts rushed elsewhere, worrying a phrase of Miss Temple’s like a sore tooth: ‘Whatever body holds him.’ She had referred to the Comte, his essence scattered to Vandaariff, a glass book, even part of Miss Temple herself – and as long as that book existed, what prevented his incorporation into one new victim after another? Chang was not concerned with imaginary incarnations. He could think only about himself, chained to the table, suffering the procession of elemental glass cards. No sleep came.

When the train met the tunnels outside Stropping Station, Chang rejoined the others. He was surprised no one had come to fetch him – taking it either as a measure of respect for his ordeal or disapproval of his temper – and so simply stood and faced them, cracking the knuckles of both hands.

‘The conductor is gone to the front,’ said Phelps.

‘Good. As soon as the train stops we will exit through the rear. Follow me. We will cross the tracks and leave the station in secret.’

They waited at the rear of the train. Miss Temple’s eyes were red. Chang looked to her right hand and saw the fingertips smeared, as if she had been reading newsprint. A bead of black stained her collar.

The train’s brakes seized with a screech and Miss Temple staggered, steadied by Doctor Svenson. Chang peered out of a compartment window. Setting off from the platform at a trot was a squad of brown-coated, truncheon-wielding constables. Across Stropping, similar knots of lawmen prodded passengers into groups, escorting them through the station like criminals.

‘Open the door! We will be stopped any second.’

Cunsher, in the lead, called back, ‘It is locked!’

Chang rushed into the corridor. ‘Kick it open! The place is thick with policemen!’

‘Policemen?’ cried Phelps. ‘But why?’

Chang shouldered through to Cunsher, whose kicks had done nothing. The train gave out the massive hiss of an exhausted dragon. The air was split with police whistles. Svenson pulled them aside and extended the long Navy revolver, firing three rounds point-blank into the lock plate. Chang kicked and the door flew wide. He leapt to the gravel and turned for Miss Temple. A constable shouted to stop. Letting the others come after, Chang raced away, Miss Temple’s hand tight in his, headlong for the nearest train.

‘Under! Under!’ he cried, and dived first. The stones stung his knees and elbows, but Chang rolled out the other side. He caught Miss Temple’s shoulders as her head appeared and they were up and scrambling towards another train. Miss Temple held up her dress (the clutch bag leaping about on its strap), all attention focused on keeping her feet.

Out from under the next train, Chang finally looked back: no police in sight. He sighed with relief. If the search had been particular to them, the constables would not have given up so easily. From the number of officers spread across the station floor, he guessed their orders had been limited to managing passengers in general – and to give chase would have meant leaving other travellers with little or no escort. Besides, lacking Chang’s knowledge of the remote corners of Stropping, the harried lawmen would assume that any fugitives must return to their cordon sooner or later, when their capture would be far less strenuous.

Svenson slithered from under the last train, smeared with soot.

‘You spoke the truth about unrest,’ Chang called.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ huffed Phelps, just behind the Doctor.

‘Who could order such measures?’

‘Any number of utter fools,’ Phelps replied grimly. ‘But it means the Privy Council.’