The Chemickal Marriage

talons of a bird. He smeared butter into the bread, then dipped a spoon into a Chinese pot and withdrew a gleaming lump of plum jam. He shook this onto the butter and cut – the shaking knife edge ringing on the plate – a wedge of soft white cheese. The finger’s-width of cheese fell off the knife, and with an exasperated grunt Vandaariff smeared it into the roll with a gnarled thumb. He wiped his hand on a napkin and sighed at the effort.

Miss Temple’s last meal had been at Raaxfall, and so poor she’d left half on her plate. She watched the tray closely. Her arm throbbed.

‘One must eat, you know, for strength.’ He swirled the eggs with a fork and raised a quivering morsel, dripping yolk. He swallowed with difficulty, as if it were a mouthful of small bones. He set down the fork and took an awkward bite of the roll. Vandaariff’s teeth were not ill favoured for an older man, but his hesitation to bear down made Miss Temple wince that one might break away. Vandaariff chewed, breath flaring his nostrils, and finally forced the bolus through. He wiped his lips and grimaced, dropping the napkin onto the tray.

‘Does it not agree?’ Miss Temple asked. ‘I would have thought you ate for pleasure. Even for art. The Comte d’Orkancz told me everything in life came down to art. Then he made me pay for his coffee. I suppose that is an art as well.’

An appreciative smile graced his lips. ‘Do you not worry for your life?’

‘I am alive to be ransomed.’

She could not tell if he laughed at her delusion or at the chance to correct it. ‘You are like a fox intent on its prey, never noticing that the forest around her is aflame.’

‘I am not. And, if I am, my prey is still you.’

‘But when you so brightly speak of ransom, you should realize that those who might reclaim you do not know to what extent you have been harmed. One bit of glass has scratched your arm – who is to say five more did not scratch your face? What if one exploded straight into your mouth and turned your tongue to stone? You could not tell them what had happened. You could never tell anyone anything.’ He poked the cane at the hem of her dress and dragged it up above the knee. ‘The trick about art, Miss Temple, is to understand how each moment is compounded into another, tempers another. You see the weakness in my body. I see the fever in yours. Does either one of us see true?’

‘I have no fever.’

Vandaariff snorted derisively. ‘I could light a match by touching the tip to your skin.’

He flipped the cane in the air and caught the opposite end, then pushed the handle – a smooth brass ball – along her calf.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Claiming my property.’ The brass ball slid up her thigh. Miss Temple squirmed.

‘You are vulgar and coarse – and no gentleman!’

‘An artist is never a gentleman. And a lady ought to be a better liar than you.’

The cane nudged the seam of her silk pants. Miss Temple shrank from its touch.

‘You are withered and old! You torment me because you cannot do anything else!’

He turned the brass ball with a delicate, teasing motion, and spoke with an airy distraction. ‘If I wanted your submission, I could put a piece of glass before your eyes. If I sought your degradation, I could summon Foison’s men to rape you through the afternoon. Do you think I would not dare?’

Miss Temple shook her head quickly. The cane pressed hard against her and she whimpered in fear. Vandaariff tugged her dress above her waist, and then her petticoats. He looked down with a musing expression, as if she were a food locker whose jumbled contents might just constitute a meal. He spread his palm against her pelvis, measuring the soft flare, then pressed down. He took her hips with both hands, hefting her body. His stiff fingers cupped her buttocks and squeezed.

‘Wide enough,’ he announced, ‘should other plans fail and you still live. I do appreciate your spark.’ He shoved her petticoats higher.

‘I beg you,’ she whispered. ‘Please –’

‘My interest is entirely contingent, I assure you.’ He caught the waist of her silk pants and pulled. The silk ripped. He pulled again, with a grunt, and they came away. ‘After Rosamonde’s book, you are not intact in any practical sense of the word. Time enough has passed to show you made no mistakes with young Bascombe. But since then, with your mind so swimming – and I know it’s swimming, Celeste – have you remained so careful? This last day with Chang … more time with the Doctor … and how many others have crossed your path at that hotel?’ His thumb stroked the curls between her legs. ‘Have you surrendered or been strong? Or have you found strength to be something else?’ He laid his palm above the hair, against her belly, as if to listen through it. ‘I prefer to think you failed – the guilt burning even as you’ve quenched your need, with one of those paid-off soldiers – yes, Mr Ropp behind you, thrusting away. I imagine you soaked in the history of the world, so many generations of mindless rut.’ His hand slid lower, his thumb dragging along her folds.

Miss Temple flexed her fist again, but Vandaariff merely took her gasp as a sign of enjoyment.

‘What do you want?’ she pleaded.

‘Your confession.’ His motions became forceful, his smile more fixed and contemptuous.

‘Confess to what?’

‘Futility.’

‘You are hurting me –’

‘Pain is nothing. Desire is nothing.’ Vandaariff’s lips had stretched with effort, tight across his teeth. ‘Trappings of useless vessels … flawed from the start …’

Miss Temple yelped. Vandaariff raised his fingers, pinching between them three reddish hairs. He flicked them away and plucked again.

‘What are you doing! Stop it!’ She cried out over her shoulder towards the door: ‘Mr Foison!’

‘All signs of age must be expunged. Age is corruption, ash, decay –’

‘Stop! Mr Foison!’

‘The alchemical Bride bears no blemish. She is without colour, holds the moon – she cannot be marked –’

His fingers sank into Miss Temple’s hair and seized hold, tugging her pubis. She raised her hips to stave off the painful wrench, whimpering –

The door opened behind her. Vandaariff turned, eyes unfocused.

‘Lord Robert?’

Vandaariff followed Foison’s gaze to Miss Temple’s exposed body and released his grip. He wiped his hand across the apron. ‘Is there word?’

‘Just now, my lord.’ Foison extended a folded page to his master. Vandaariff slid a crabbed thumb beneath the wax seal. In her shame Miss Temple did not look at Foison. She stared at Vandaariff, watching the paper tremble with his fingers.

‘We will depart at once.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

With an easy movement Foison caught the upturned hem of Miss Temple’s dress and swept it down, over her legs. Vandaariff stuffed the note into his pocket.

‘It plays out exactly to plan.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Vandaariff awkwardly pulled the apron strap over his head. Foison slipped behind to untie the knot, draped the apron on the chair and handed Vandaariff his stick. Vandaariff brought the brass handle to his nose, sniffed, then dabbed his tongue across the ball. He gave a disapproving grimace and hobbled from the room.

As efficiently as he had bound her, Foison released the leather straps. Only after sweeping her legs together could Miss Temple meet his gaze, yet Foison was watchful and withheld. Not unlike Chang, but without Chang’s animal temper … yet that was not true – they were different animals. Where Chang was a loping cat, Mr Foison was a cold reptile.

‘Can you walk?’ he asked simply. ‘It is only to the coach.’

‘And then where?’ What she wanted was to curl into a ball.

‘Where else?’ Foison said, helping her to stand. ‘The Contessa.’