The Chemickal Marriage

They entered a courtyard ringed by tall stone buildings. Miss Temple gazed around her.

‘The Royal Institute,’ said Foison. ‘Lord Vandaariff is a significant patron.’

‘I believe the Comte d’Orkancz conducted experiments here, with Doctor Lorenz. Did you know them?’

But Foison’s attention was taken by smoke rising in a cloud from what looked like an open cellar door, across the grassy court. Green-coated guards hovered around it with buckets of water and sand. Two black coaches waited under a massive archway. Foison hoisted Miss Temple into the first coach. She slid into place opposite Vandaariff. Foison glanced over his shoulder.

‘A moment, Lord Robert –’

‘I have no moment. Get in and order the men on.’

‘There is a small fire –’

‘Let the scholars deal with their fire.’

‘Evidently supplies of chemicals have been stored nearby – it will be a matter of minutes to shift them and then attack the blaze. Not doing so risks –’

‘Risks what?’ snapped Vandaariff.

Foison hesitated. ‘Why, the Institute itself, my lord.’

‘Fascinating.’ Vandaariff leant to the open coach door and sniffed. He sat back in his seat. ‘Let it burn. I’m done with the place.’

‘But Lord Robert –’

‘Get in, Mr Foison, and order the men on. I have no spare time. Not in this world.’

With a grim expression, Foison shouted to the men to drop their buckets and be about their orders. He swung himself next to Miss Temple and rapped on the roof to set the coach in motion. Vandaariff’s seat was piled with the day’s newspapers and, already deep in the Courier, he did not acknowledge their departure.

The other newspapers announced two more explosions, at the Circus Garden and the White Cathedral, with a death toll of at least a thousand, for each blast had provoked a violent riot. A second headline blamed the disaffected populace of Raaxfall – a man from that distant village was recognized before the Circus Garden blast destroyed him. Miss Temple guessed the man was another of Vandaariff’s prisoners, repurposed as a weapon. The Ministry had announced new measures to protect the national interest.

Vandaariff closed the newspaper. If he took any pleasure in his success, his flat interrogation of Foison did not betray it.

‘All is prepared?’

‘Yes, my lord. The second coach follows. I have instructed the driver to follow the Grossmaere, as it is lined with hussars.’

‘Your face is bruised.’

‘It is, my lord. Cardinal Chang.’

‘I find it ugly.’

‘I will strive to avoid further injury.’

Vandaariff paused, measuring possible insolence. ‘We have not discussed your failure at the Customs House. Six men, and yourself – against two men and a negligible woman. And how many of your six are of any use to me now?’

‘None, my lord. The explosion –’

‘I did not ask for excuses.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘The men are of no account. I must rely upon you.’

Vandaariff slipped a finger between the black curtains of the coach window and peered out. Miss Temple knew she should keep silent. But Vandaariff had shamed her, and as she watched him – withered neck and knobbed hands – she felt her hatred rise.

‘I saw your painting.’ Vandaariff looked up, without expression. ‘O I am sorry, I meant to say the Comte’s painting. I forget of course that the Comte d’Orkancz is dead.’

‘He is dead,’ said Vandaariff.

‘And thank goodness. What an odious, vulgar, canker-brained, preening madman. Perhaps it’s something in your manner that recalls him.’

‘Gag her mouth.’

Miss Temple laughed. ‘Don’t you even want to know which painting? Or who showed it to me? You are so very sure of yourself –’

Foison had a cloth between her teeth, but paused at a sign from Vandaariff.

‘I have quite a collection of the Comte’s works at Harschmort.’

Miss Temple spat the kerchief from her mouth and flexed her jaw.

‘Bought for Lydia’s wedding – yes, so thoughtful. Is it St Rowena and the Vikings that shows a rape on a church altar? The Viking bracing himself on the crucifix –’

‘This was the painting you mean?’

‘No, the painting I saw was not at Harschmort. It was called The Chemickal Marriage.’

The smile on Robert Vandaariff’s lips became perceptibly more stiff.

‘You cannot have seen that painting. It does not exist.’

Miss Temple smirked. ‘Perhaps you tried to buy it and were refused! Of course the composition is demented – depicting a marriage, I suppose, but of symbols. An allegory.’ She turned to Foison. ‘Allegory is for donkeys.’

‘That painting was burnt.’

‘Was it? Well, it’s odd because the Bride in question wears a mask of the Contessa’s face. Isn’t that strange? The Groom is black as coal, with a red apple in his hand, except it isn’t really an apple – more like a beating heart, and made entirely of red glass –’

Foison pulled the handkerchief tight between her lips. Vandaariff leant closer.

‘Sooner than you imagine, Celeste Temple, I will reclaim you, and service you on an altar. In that the Comte d’Orkancz had things exactly right!’

Vandaariff sank back. He shut his eyes and reached a shaking hand to Foison.

‘The bottle.’

Foison opened a satchel and removed a squat bottle of dark glass. Vandaariff drank, a thin line of milky fluid escaping down his chin. He wiped his face with a black silk handkerchief, folded it over and then mopped his brow.

Composure restored, he addressed her again. ‘I have not thanked you for the delivery of such excellent mules, Mr Ropp and Mr Jaxon. Discharged soldiers, they told me – amongst other things. Amongst every thing. And Mr Ramper as well – still, even a stricken animal can be used. You must know that from your plantation. Scrape off the meat and burn the bones for fuel. Will you be pleased to see the Contessa?’

Miss Temple made a noise in the back of her mouth.

‘Tell her anything you like.’ He reached into his coat and came out with another handkerchief, white silk this time. ‘But when you have the chance, Miss Temple – and you will, for the Contessa will underestimate you, as she always has – you would serve us all by cutting the lady’s skin … with this.’

In the opened handkerchief lay a blue glass spur. He chuckled, a guttural wheeze, and refolded the handkerchief. His crooked fingers reached across the coach and stuffed it down the bosom of her dress.

‘Created expressly for our own shared nemesis. Dig it into her arm, across her lovely neck – wherever is in reach. Then I suggest you run.’

The coach came to a halt. She heard the ring of bolts being drawn and the scrape of an iron gate. Vandaariff nodded, and Foison bound Miss Temple’s hands.

Her heart went cold. She had not truly believed it until the handkerchief had been tucked into her dress. She was being given to a woman who sought her death. Why not to Chang and Svenson? What could the Contessa offer