The Chemickal Marriage

‘Under the Old Palace is a tunnel to the Royal Institute. At one point the Comte d’Orkancz used the Institute for his research, and employed the tunnel to ferry test subjects –’

The Colonel looked accusingly at Gorine and Mahmoud. ‘Did they tell you that?’

‘Of course not. But it explains why the Old Palace continues to operate – you have demanded access to the tunnel in exchange. Which sets your companion in an entirely new light – not a patron, but perhaps a Ministry official, an engineer, a Doctor of metals –’

Gorine could bear it no more. ‘Doctor Svenson –’

‘Silence!’ Bronque’s lips curled like a twist of uncooked meat. ‘I apply the same logic to you, Doctor. You were attached to the Prince’s party as a spy –’

Svenson shook his head. ‘I am only here to attend Mrs Kraft.’

‘I do not believe you.’ Bronque stepped back, all amusement gone. ‘The tunnel is watched. Consider yourself watched as well.’

The Colonel strode out as quickly as he’d come.

‘Threaten away,’ Svenson muttered. ‘I already face a death sentence …’

Neither Mahmoud or Gorine replied. Both men were gazing intently at Madelaine Kraft, whose large brown eyes were open.

Despite the raised voices that had woken her, Mrs Kraft’s attention was entirely taken with Francesca, and the child returned the woman’s gaze with a directness ordinarily reserved for odd-looking insects or younger siblings.

‘What will you do?’ Mahmoud whispered to Svenson. He shook his head.

The girl gently patted Mrs Kraft’s foot under the blanket. ‘I am Francesca Trapping.’

‘And I am Doctor Svenson.’ He pulled a chair near to sit. The cost of her subordinates’ well-intentioned treatments – extending to leeches and quicksilver – were etched on the woman. He laid a palm across her forehead. How long could anyone survive in such a cocoon?

As he had hoped, Francesca watched his every move. She glanced conspiratorially at the tray of chemicals. ‘What did you send for?’

‘Nothing that will cure her. We must search Mrs Kraft’s mind.’

‘Can she hear us?’

‘Yes … but does she understand?’ Svenson shifted his attention to the child. ‘Now it is time for you to say what you know, Francesca.’

The girl covered her mouth with one hand, stifling a belch.

‘How else am I to help her, dear?’

Francesca shook her head.

‘Do you feel ill?’

‘No.’

But her eagerness had fallen before her discomfort. That was natural enough – and as long as she felt sick, the girl would be afraid. Svenson patted the chaise-longue, inviting her closer.

‘The Contessa has put us together, Francesca. Let us pool our thoughts. Now, everything I know of the glass tells me Mrs Kraft’s condition is permanent. I met another lady with such a hole in her mind. She’d taken just a peek into a glass book – and in a trice some of her memories were gone. Nothing so serious as our patient here, but though she tried with all her strength, this lady could never recall them.’

Doctor Svenson placed Mrs Kraft’s hand, heavy with metal rings, onto Francesca’s lap. The girl began to stroke it, as if it were a kitten.

‘When I asked what the Contessa had sent to help, you said she had sent you.’

Francesca’s voice was thick. ‘She did. But I do not –’

‘And I believe you. You have absorbed some of the Comte’s book – a frightening thing, I know, which you cannot think on without discomfort.’ Svenson kept his voice easy and calm. ‘However, the Contessa wastes no time on trifles. She believes Mrs Kraft can be cured – and therefore, my dear, you are the puzzle, not Mrs Kraft, and our task is to divulge your secrets safely. We must be clever and we must be brave. Are you brave enough to try?’

Francesca nodded, and clutched the hand to her stomach.

‘Good. You need not fear.’ Svenson forced a smile. The girl’s dull teeth peeped back trustingly.

The Doctor peeled off his greatcoat, laid it over his chair and then rearranged the supply of chemicals. He felt their expectant eyes upon him as he crossed to Mahmoud’s tray, bent to sniff and then poured the still-steaming black coffee into a mug. By the time the cup was drained – just the limit of his audience’s patience – he had chosen his course.

‘The Old Palace stands hostage to Colonel Bronque’s use of your tunnel. What so commands his concern? Could the Institute be a staging area for the attacks upon the city?’

Gorine waved this away. ‘The Institute is a gaggle of scholars in black robes.’

‘Scholars like the Comte d’Orkancz?’

Mahmoud shook his head decisively. ‘The Comte was only allowed on the premises at the insistence of Robert Vandaariff.’

‘But the Comte is dead,’ said Gorine. ‘Without him Vandaariff is just a wealthy man.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Svenson. ‘Does Colonel Bronque?’

He used a handkerchief to extract the blue glass card from his greatcoat. Francesca’s eyes were wide. Svenson ignored her and, keeping his voice gentle, addressed his patient.

‘I am going to show you a thing, Mrs Kraft. Do not be afraid. Nothing will harm you.’

His patient did not resist when he gently angled her head, but she inhaled with force at first sight of the card, her pupils swelling black. Svenson eased the card into her fingers and they clutched it tight. Madelaine Kraft was completely immersed.

Svenson kept his voice low. ‘Has either of you ever seen blue glass such as this?’

‘Never,’ said Gorine.

‘Once.’ Mahmoud knelt at the foot of the chaise-longue. ‘Angelique. Mrs Kraft took it away.’

Gorine watched with suspicion. ‘What does she see?’

‘Dreams. Potent as opium.’

Immediately Mahmoud reached for the card. Svenson caught his hand.

‘It is dangerous. It is deadly. But nothing you have tried has penetrated her mind. This will.’

Mahmoud threw off Svenson’s arm. ‘And cause her death? Michel –’ Mahmoud appealed to Gorine, but Gorine stared at their mistress.

‘Look.’

Madelaine Kraft’s breathing had deepened and her face had changed – cheeks flushed with colour, with life. Gently, Svenson retrieved the card. Madelaine Kraft looked up. He took her hands, speaking softly.

‘The Bride and Groom … did you see them?’

She blinked at him, and then nodded.

‘Do you know those words now, Mrs Kraft? Bride?’

‘Bride …’ Her voice was tender with disuse.

Svenson nodded encouragement. ‘You saw the faces … the angels … the feathered mask and the mouth below, you saw the teeth … the Bride’s teeth –’

‘Blue.’ The word was a whisper. Mahmoud and Gorine pressed forward, but Svenson warded them off, fixing his eyes on hers, making sure.

‘And the ball … the ball in the black Groom’s hand?’

Madelaine Kraft’s mouth worked, as if she were calling forth a key she had swallowed. ‘Red.’