The Chemickal Marriage

whip. The coach broke forward and the shouts began to fade. Pfaff slapped his hands together.

‘That should peel them off.’

At the high-pitched cry of distressed horses behind them, Miss Temple peered through the broken window. Another coach had been stopped in the road, surrounded by an angry mob. The blasts had brought the unrest of Raaxfall to the city proper – and Pfaff had exploited the discontent to strip away pursuit. Who knew how close they’d come to harm as well? If the driver had been injured, or a coach wheel snapped … she was appalled at the reckless disregard.

‘So where are we going now?’ she demanded.

Pfaff laughed aloud. ‘Where else, little mistress? Home.’

Pfaff said nothing more, and Miss Temple would not ask. Roger’s notebook lay on her lap, but she had no wish to open it until she was alone and unobserved. While it might contain useful information, she did not trust her own reactions. What if there was fawning praise for Caroline Stearne’s ankle or her opalescent skin? Opalescent was exactly the sort of word Roger would have used.

They arrived at the Hotel Boniface. She gripped the notebook tightly as she climbed down, ignoring Pfaff’s outstretched hand. She considered shouting to the footmen, but she’d no firm idea how she stood with the hotel or the law, and further scandal might allow the management finally to expel her. Instead, she advanced to the desk and asked for any messages. There were none, but her asking allowed the clerk to take in the scorch marks on her dress, and her bandaged arm.

‘You see what has overtaken me.’ Miss Temple swallowed bravely. ‘St Isobel’s Square … I cannot speak of it.’ The clerk’s suspicion turned to cooing sympathy. For the moment, at least, Miss Temple had outflanked disapproval.

‘Very good!’ Pfaff chuckled, as they climbed the staircase. But Miss Temple found she actually was unsettled – and truly unable to speak of what she had seen in the square and at the Customs House. She had no experience through which to comprehend such carnage. Her eyes began to burn. Why now, treading soft familiar carpets, should she weaken? She quickened her pace to keep ahead of Pfaff, so he would not see.

‘Are you well?’

‘My arm hurts.’ They were at the door. Pfaff cut in front and rapped three times. Miss Temple turned to dab her eyes. The door opened to Marie’s anxious face.

‘O, O mistress –’

Miss Temple pushed past – all she wanted was to be alone. ‘I will need a wash and new clothes and supper and tea – strong hot tea before anything –’

‘Mistress –’

‘I am perfectly well, I assure you. I – I –’ Miss Temple clutched Roger’s notebook and groped for words. ‘Marie – Corporal Brine –’

Pfaff easily took Marie’s shoulder. ‘Briney’s all right, Marie – he’s with the others, asked we pass along his regards – what about that tea?’

‘But – but – mistress –’

Disgracefully grateful for Pfaff’s imposition, Miss Temple pushed on as if she had not heard. Three steps brought her bedchamber and she shut the door and turned the key. She dropped Roger’s notebook on a side table … and went ice-still.

The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza sat on Miss Temple’s bed, her cigarette holder smouldering like a stick of Chinese incense. She did not smile.

‘Once more, circumstances prevent me from taking your life.’ The Contessa savoured the catch of smoke, then spat a blue jet from the corner of her mouth. ‘You look a fright.’

Miss Temple retreated to her writing desk. Were there scissors in the drawer?

‘Is Mr Pfaff your creature?’ Her voice cracked. In shame, she forced it low. ‘I saw no scars around his eyes.’

‘Not everyone requires the Process – in point of fact almost no one does.’

‘But he – for several weeks, I employed –’

The Contessa sighed. ‘Do you still not understand? The cream of this city ached to be chosen for the Comte’s machines. Clawed each other like cats for the privilege. Slavery amongst the mighty is simple – one only has to make it fashion.’

‘Mr Pfaff is no one’s idea of cream.’

‘He is his own. Enough – you cannot look like you’ve been tumbled in a cowshed.’ Miss Temple turned to the door. ‘Do not call your maid. She has been sent away.’

‘Sent where?’

‘Downstairs for tea or to the surgeon’s with a broken jaw – I’ve no idea. We will pretty you and depart, without incident and without notice.’

‘I will not budge.’

The Contessa raised her voice to an authoritative bark. ‘Mr Pfaff!’

At once came a sharp yelp of pain from beyond the door, unmistakably from Marie. Miss Temple shot to her feet.

The Contessa spoke swiftly, with annoyance. ‘You can do nothing to help her but obey.’ She tugged the cigarette from its holder and dropped the butt to the floor, snuffing it as she stood.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Not until you change, Celeste.’ For the first time, the Contessa smiled. ‘Afterwards, everything. But first you must at least pretend to be civilized …’

The woman’s fingers pulled at the back of her dress, each touch pecking apart Miss Temple’s concentration. She had fought at the Customs House, and tried to strangle Vandaariff in his coach, but now it was all she could do to stand.

The Contessa peeled the fabric from Miss Temple’s shoulders and then the sleeves over each hand, like a magician extracting two scarves from a hat. The Contessa yanked the dress to the floor. Miss Temple obediently stepped free of the pile.

‘What happened to your arm?’

‘It was cut by flying glass. At the Customs House.’

‘And were you very brave?’ The Contessa’s hand traced its way without hurry around the circuit of Miss Temple’s hips.

‘Why are you here?’ she whined.

‘Better to ask why you are here,’ replied the Contessa.

‘This is my room.’

‘I thought it belonged to sugar and slaves.’

‘Then who owns your suite at the Royale – pulchritude?’

Miss Temple cried out as the caressing hand struck her buttock hard enough to leave a mark. The Contessa crossed to the wardrobe. Miss Temple plucked the Comte’s silk handkerchief from her corset, but she’d no time to unwrap the glass spur before the Contessa had returned. Her breath blew warm against Miss Temple’s nape.

‘You smell like a pony.’ The Contessa snatched up an amber bottle, Signora Melini’s Mielissima, and came back with a basin of water. ‘Arms up.’

Miss Temple complied. The Contessa roughly swabbed Miss Temple’s armpits with a cloth, then her bosom and neck, and last, with smaller strokes, the planes of her face. Miss Temple held still, a kitten submitting to the ministrations of its mother’s tongue. The Contessa dropped the cloth into the basin. With pursed lips she applied the perfume far more liberally than Miss Temple ever had, under her arms, at her wrists, behind her ears, and then, like a drunken signature to end a night of gambling, dragged the moistened stopper across the nooks of her collarbone. She replaced the stopper and threw the bottle carelessly onto the bed. With a sudden flicker of suspicion, the Contessa thrust a hand down Miss Temple corset, probing for anything hidden, and then swept in either direction, searching beneath each breast. Finding nothing, she pulled her hand free and then bent forward for a last sniff.