The Chemickal Marriage

the grenadier and studied the man over his glasses, an ugly stare. The Lieutenant met it for perhaps two seconds.

‘How do I know you’re from the Archbishop?’

‘You don’t.’ Chang reached into the cleric’s coat and extracted a scrap of paper.

‘This is a prison warrant.’

‘Do you know how many criminals have been taken these last two days alone? Do you think the prisons can bear it?’

‘What is this to Lady Axewith?’

‘That’s for her to decide. Your choice is whether thwarting an archbishop puts paid to your career.’

It would be an exceptional junior officer to withstand such rhetoric, and the way was cleared. Chang stumped into the courtyard, leaning hard upon his stick, wondering if the Contessa had already spied him from a window.

Born Arthur Michael Forchmont, Lord Axewith succeeded to his title only after a withering year had claimed the uncle, cousins and father standing in his way. Lacking opinions of his own, he happily accepted those of the Duke of Staelmaere, and at His Grace’s demise this tractability marked him as a reliable heir. Earnest, bluff, and blessedly disinterested in drink, the future Privy Minister had spent the bulk of his first forty years in the company of horses (even a fondness for stage actresses was affectionately tolerated by the public, as the assignations seemed limited to actual horseback riding). Upon his ascension to the title and entry to politics, Lord Axewith had chosen a wife and in turn that wife had doggedly given birth on a regular basis – seven births in near as many years, with four surviving. And for her pains, his child-ridden spouse now found herself the first lady of the land.

Chang could imagine the tide of flattery that had swelled around the wife of the new Privy Minister, bringing with it inclusion and isolation in equal measure. The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza could hardly have found better circumstances in which to insinuate herself; too insignificant for any real interest at court, she would appear to be the safest soul in whom Lady Axewith might confide …

Two more guardsmen stood inside. A butler advanced with a tiny silver tray.

‘I have no card,’ Chang told him. ‘Monsignor Lucifera, sent by the Archbishop – Lady Axewith will not know me.’

The butler indicated a well-proportioned parlour. Chang’s eyes fell on a soft upholstered chaise. The prospect of stretching upon it pulled at him like a throbbing tooth. He shook his head.

‘No doubt many suitors beg for Lady Axewith to intervene with her husband. I have come for the lady herself, on a most private – if you will understand me – and intimate matter.’

The word hung in the air and Chang wondered if he had gone too far. An ‘intimate matter’ first and foremost meant accusations of scandal.

‘From the Archbishop?’ asked the butler.

Chang nodded gravely. The butler glided off without seeming to move his legs.

Chang stood in silence with the guards. The well-made walls would have muffled a gunshot. He wondered if the furnishings resembled what Celeste Temple had desired for her house with Roger Bascombe. A house was the venue through which a young woman’s every social ambition would be expressed. For the first time he realized that Celeste must have been well into the work before Bascombe had severed their engagement. Did her desk at the Boniface still contain those lists, the letters of inquiry to tradesmen, or had she burnt them, ashamed at those catalogues of outlived desire?

The butler returned, his voice as warm as old amber. ‘If you would follow me.’

Cardinal Chang had been employed by his share of wealthy clients, but strictly through a veil of intermediaries. His presence in a fine home usually came about through a forced lock or an unguarded window – which was only to say that Chang’s experience of the polite society of women was limited in the extreme. He knew there was a proper protocol, laid out with iron-bound rigour; yet, as he entered the foyer of Axewith House to call on the wife of the new head of the Privy Council, Chang might as well have been calling on the Empress of Japan.

‘He told the newspapers that trains were not stopping because of the rebels. But his diary claims otherwise. In truth, the entirety of the line from Raaxfall to Orange Canal –’

Upon Chang’s entrance the speaker went silent. He recognized the dress and hair – this was the lady who had preceded him through the gate – but the whole of her face, like that of the other eight women in the room, was concealed behind a mask of hanging tulle. What was more, despite the greedy cadence of gossip, Chang very much felt as if he had interrupted a formal report.

The butler murmured an introduction and slipped away. The women sat without any indication of precedence. Chang fell to a respectful bow. He did not know what Lady Axewith looked like.

‘How kind of you to call, Monsignor.’ This was a woman to his left, thick forearms poking from tight satin sleeves. ‘I do not recall you amongst the Archbishop’s retinue, though it seems a face one is bound to remember.’

She sniggered into one hand. Chang nodded in reply. At this the woman giggled again, along with several others.

‘Would you care for tea?’ Another lady, with a ribbon around her throat.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Then we shall go straight to your intimate matter. A provocative entrance.’

‘And unpleasant, Monsignor.’ The woman with tight sleeves shook her head. ‘A pernicious preamble used to justify anything.’

‘Even to put soldiers in one’s foyer,’ added the woman with the ribbon. ‘For protection, of course. Have you come to protect us too?’

‘Having met the Archbishop, I should not expect charity.’ This was the woman with tangerine hair, whose voice had lost its lilt.

‘Lucifera is a wicked-sounding name, for a churchman,’ observed the woman with the ribbon.

‘The name is from the Latin, meaning light.’ Chang addressed the far end of the room, the women who were so far silent. ‘As Lucifer is Lightborn, the first of the angels. Some say the Virgin Lucifera presides over executions, weddings and rebirth. An angel.’

‘Presides how?’

This woman had not yet spoken. Her pale hair, the colour of sea-bleached wood, fell onto a sable collar. Moderately stout, not too old. Just above the collar, he saw a silver necklace with blue stones.

‘Presides how?’ she repeated.

‘Some would call it alchemy.’ A disdainful twitter danced around the room.

‘I’m sure the Archbishop cannot have sent you to raise such forbidden topics.’

Chang silently crossed to her. He took the teacup from her saucer. He brought it to his nose – he could not smell a thing – and sniffed. ‘That you hide yourselves shows you have some minimal awareness of the risk …’ He emptied the contents onto the floor and then released the teacup. It landed on the carpet with a bounce, unharmed. The woman laughed.

‘If you suspect the tea, I am already doomed. That was my second cup!’ The other women laughed with her, their amusement falling suddenly silent at the realization that, as they had watched the cup, Chang had slipped a dagger from his stick. The blade hung inches from the chain of blue stones that ringed – Chang was sure – Lady Axewith’s throat.

Chang kept his voice as courtly as before. ‘With the confusion at the cathedral, how simple would it be for a man to bluff an entry and end this woman’s life?’

He brought his heel down onto the teacup, grinding the shards. ‘Are you so very sure of yourselves – your network of intelligence? Did she tell you nothing?’

Lady Axewith could not help but touch her throat. ‘She?’

‘Where is the Contessa?’

‘What Contessa? Who are you?’

‘Someone who has seen her face in a bride’s mask.’

‘What bride?’