The Chemickal Marriage

another cigarette.’

Svenson took the papers and handed the Contessa his case, making sure she was occupied before beginning to read. She exhaled a jet of smoke and then, rolling her eyes at his caution, crossed to the divan, swatted a dusty corner, and sat.

The first document brought a lump to Svenson’s throat: a dispatch from the Foreign Ministry’s attache in Macklenburg describing the upheaval in the aftermath of the Crown Prince’s death. Konrad, Bishop of Warnemunde – the ailing Duke’s brother – was now the power behind the throne, filling vacant positions with his own appointees. Svenson sighed. Konrad had been the Cabal’s hidden agent in Macklenburg, enabling their acquisition of lands rich in indigo clay. He refolded the letter with a heavy heart. Had the Cabal reached Macklenburg as intended, Konrad would have remained a strictly managed puppet. In the absence of his masters he had simply adopted their ambitions. Had their success in destroying the dirigible accomplished anything at all?

Svenson read the second document twice, then extended both pages to the Contessa. She nodded without interest to the divan next to her and he dropped them on it, stepping nearer. The second page was the Contessa’s death warrant, signed by Matthew Harcourt.

‘I thought he was your creature.’

‘Serpent’s teeth, Doctor – we all have felt them.’

‘I am surprised you did not end his life.’

‘You do not know what the glass has shown him.’ She suddenly chuckled. ‘And the perfection of his people returning to find him thus – it is a small compensation.’

‘His career will be ruined?’

‘His career is nothing to me – but his heart, his dreams? Those have been spoilt forever.’

Svenson collected his case and lit a smoke of his own. He nodded to the folded paper. ‘What will you do?’

‘That changes nothing. It has not gone out. And if it had – well, you are a fugitive yourself. If caught, your head will be pickled and sent back to Macklenburg in a cask, evidence of this government’s friendship.’

‘And what of you?’

‘Being a woman, as befits an honourable nation, I will be treated far worse.’

She looked up at him, and then to the archway.

‘What is it about an open door that so fires a body for mischief? As simply joyful as a sweet breeze or the embrace of hot water – do you not agree? About open doors, I mean, about their spark.’

The Contessa ground her cigarette into the divan and hooked a foot behind the Doctor’s knee, pulling until he stood between her legs. She parted his greatcoat with both hands, eyes fixed somewhere near his belt buckle.

‘That is an intrusive, large pistol in your belt. Do you mind?’

Before Svenson could reply she had eased the weapon from its place, sliding the long barrel clear, and dropped it atop her papers. He looked into the crease of her white breasts. Perfume rose from her hair. He ought to take hold of her soft neck and squeeze. This woman had killed Eloise. No greater good, no compromise could justify –

The Contessa laid one hand – still in its thin silk glove – flat upon the Doctor’s groin, her palm conforming to the stiffening shape beneath. He gasped. She did not look up. Her other hand caressed the outside of his leg. He looked wildly about and saw the jewelled bag, pushed away, the spike inside. Her fingers closed about his length. She dragged along the fabric with her thumbnail. He quickly gripped her hand with his.

‘You – ah – you mentioned a bargain …’

‘I did … and you never answered me about open doors.’

‘Your point seemed indisputable.’

‘What a charming thing to say – I appreciate being indisputable … most ardently …’

She pulled away his hand, taking the cigarette from his fingers. She inhaled once, then flicked it into a corner. As she exhaled, the Contessa unbuckled the Doctor’s belt with three sure, unhurried movements. Her fingers returned for a single delicious slow stroke, and then, with the same easy efficiency, set to unbuttoning his trouser- front. Unable to contain himself, Svenson reached down and gently sank his fingers under the Contessa’s bodice and corset. For the first time she met his eyes. She smiled, warmly – to his shame the whole of his heart leapt – and shifted her posture to give his hand more room to grope. His fingers went deeper, until the tips curled beneath the curve of her breast, the edge of his hand dragging against the soft stud of her nipple. His other hand smoothed the hair from her eyes with a tenderness at odds with his desire.

With a two-handed wrench the Contessa peeled his trousers to his thighs and then with another ripped open his knitted woollen undersuit, bursting the buttons to his ribcage. She laughed at the flying buttons and then chuckled more deeply – with pleasure and, Svenson wanted to believe, appreciation – at the sight of his arousal. One gloved hand wrapped around his extended flesh, the grip of silk perfectly exquisite. The Contessa coyly bit her lip.

‘True bargains are tricky things, Doctor … would you not agree?’

‘They are the soul of civilized society.’

‘Civilization?’ Her hand resumed its measured stroke. ‘We live in the same riot as old Rome and stinking Egypt … my goodness, there it is …’ Her free hand reached to push aside his underclothes and expose the pink whorl of his scar. ‘That you did not die is a miracle.’ Her hand slid upwards, and, as she stretched, the Contessa’s full mouth came closer to her stroking. ‘But bargains, Doctor … between the likes of us, we have no need for such veneer.’

‘What would you offer, then?’

The Contessa grinned at his dry tone. ‘Well … I could give you what I gave Harcourt. The card is in my bag.’ She smeared a bead of fluid across the sensitive plumskin with the flat of her thumb and the Doctor hissed with pleasure. ‘The experience it holds is singularly transporting … if transport is what you want.’

‘And if I decline?’

‘Then perhaps I could give you the key to Oskar’s grand strategy.’

‘You know what he plans?’

‘I have always known. He is complicated, but still a man.’

As a man well in her power Svenson let this pass. ‘And in exchange I would do my best to stop him. Is that why I am alive?’

‘O Doctor Svenson,’ she cooed disapprovingly, ‘we are alive for pleasure …’

Her head dipped and the Doctor gasped with anticipation of her tongue, but instead he felt only the cool tease of her blown breath. The Contessa rose and with both hands took his greatcoat’s lapels and shoved him into her place on the divan. Bared and straining, trousers balled at the knees, with the pistol to one side and her jewelled bag to the other, he looked up at her. The Contessa gathered her dress – revealing her splendid, shapely, stockinged calves – and knelt astride him, her thighs upon his own, the mass of red silk covering his body near to the neck. His stiffness pulled against her petticoats. He gripped her waist.

‘This means nothing to you,’ he gasped.

‘What a ridiculous thing to say.’ Her voice was husky and low.

‘I remain your enemy.’

‘And I may kill you.’ She nudged her hips forward, sliding herself along his length. ‘Or make you my slave.’

‘I would rather die.’

‘As if the choice were yours.’

She drew her tongue over the gash below his eye. Svenson shifted his hips, seeking her with a blind nudge, but the Contessa edged away. His hands slid to her buttocks and pulled her closer, encountering another tangled layer of frustrating silk. The Contessa chuckled and raised her face. Too late he saw that she had reached into her bag. Before he could blink her gloved fingers had a blue glass card before his eyes, sticking Svenson as fast as an insect impaled on a board.

The Doctor’s mind traversed the entire cycle of experience inside the card but without understanding. So immersive were the colours that he lost all sense of space, and so vivid the curving lines and modelled forms that