The Chemickal Marriage

But in that half-hour Doctor Svenson learnt more than he had ever desired about indigo clay: conduction, amplification, and the power Trooste termed ‘reciprocal cognition’. He now perceived in the tangles of wire and hose a mechanical intention: the operative essence of indigo clay eluded him as much as ever, but laid bare were the physical means to translate memory into a glass book, to infuse a book’s contents into an empty mind, to overwhelm a victim’s will with the Process – each action a relatively straightforward matter of force and direction. The restoration of Madelaine Kraft, however, depended on knowledge Trooste did not have.

Svenson had seen the toxic effects of prolonged exposure and bodily ingestion, but Madelaine Kraft’s affliction could not be put down to physical proximity – it was not as if blue glass had touched her brain. Moreover, she could form new memories – so how to explain her continued vacancy? Perhaps the chemical exchange wherein blue glass captured memory carried a charged violence, enough to leave the psychic equivalent of scar tissue. Could the power of these machines overcome that artificial barrier? And if so, would the action reveal her memory intact, like a forgotten city beneath a dam-formed lake? Or would the necessary intensity simply destroy her?

Svenson gazed down at Mrs Kraft and squeezed the woman’s honey-coloured hand. Whatever he was supposed to find, there was precious little time in which to do it.

‘She will be herself once again,’ he said. ‘Is that not right, Francesca?’ The girl had brought her knees up to her chest and sat rocking, dirty ankles exposed. ‘Perhaps you might tell Mrs Kraft yourself.’

Francesca shook her head, lips tightly shut. Hating the lie, he smiled encouragingly. The girl hiccupped and shook her head to stop him talking, but Svenson kept on.

‘I know you feel ill, but you must trust the Contessa. Look at Mrs Kraft – or, even better, take her hand.’ He lifted the child to the table, ignoring the worry on the faces of the other men. ‘Excellent, now, think of what we know … when I look into a glass book, which is to say, when I touch it with my gaze, this contact allows its entrance to my mind –’

The child’s hacking spattered black onto Svenson’s sleeve.

‘Doctor –’

‘Please do not interrupt, Mr Mahmoud. Physical contact is different, Francesca, yes? For example, I was able to remove glass from Cardinal Chang’s lungs with an orange liquid that dissolved the glass into phlegm, so it could be expelled. But even if we possessed that mixture –’

‘Bloodstone,’ Francesca croaked.

‘Bloodstone?’ Svenson had never heard the name.

‘An al-alch …’ She stumbled on the words with an unhappy squeak. ‘… alchemical catalyst.’

‘Compounded out of what – what elements?’

Francesca choked again, spraying Svenson’s coat. Mahmoud turned on Trooste. ‘Do you have any on hand? Bloodstone?’

‘Lord Vandaariff has procured a broad range of chemicals –’

Trooste indicated an apothecary’s cabinet, a tall draught-board of tiny drawers. Mahmoud leapt to it, opening an entire row. Svenson carried the child over, so she might peer inside, but Francesca shook her head at each. Her eyes were wandering and wild. Mahmoud slammed the drawers as they went and wrenched at the next row.

‘What does it look like?’ he asked.

‘The liquid was orange,’ said Svenson. ‘I have seen an orange metal as well, but that was refined, and no doubt an alloy –’

Francesca dismissed this row as well. Mahmoud set upon another and growled at Trooste, ‘Have you no idea?’

‘I am sorry, good fellow,’ Trooste replied. ‘Lord Vandaariff is not one to share a secret. Naturally I regret Mrs Kraft’s condition – she has been a friend to the Institute – although, as a regular visitor, and I am not alone in this opinion, one might merit a reduction –’

Mahmoud squared on Trooste, but Svenson caught his fist before it could swing. The sudden gesture loosened his grip on the girl and she sagged forward. Francesca inhaled, nostrils flaring, and began to whine like a chastened pup. The nearest drawer was filled with brownish rock. Svenson held a chunk to her nose. She gagged and squirmed away, unable to breathe.

‘You will kill her,’ cried Trooste. ‘Jesus Lord –’

Svenson ignored him. ‘Francesca! What do we do? How do we use it?’

Francesca met his eyes, fearfully, plaintively, and opened her mouth wide, as if she were showing him a broken tooth. Black fluid poured down her chin.

‘Dear God!’ Trooste protested.

‘It is nothing at all,’ Svenson snarled. ‘Mahmoud – bloodstone – mortar and pestle, grind it as fine as gunpowder –’ He thrust a finger at one of the brass gearboxes. ‘Professor Trooste, we will need that machine. Make it ready at once.’

‘You have no idea –’

‘Move, damn you!’

‘The smell …’ Francesca’s voice was a stricken complaint. Svenson wiped her face.

‘Do not mark it, my dear – two minutes more and we shall whisk you to clean air –’

‘The smell …’

‘Yes, I am so sorry –’

‘The smell is when.’

Francesca’s eyes rolled back into her skull.

The child lay shivering in Svenson’s greatcoat. She would not revive.

‘A terrible shock,’ he muttered, ‘a marvel she could help as she did. We will let the poor thing rest, and get her to safety as soon as possible.’

Mahmoud’s silence was its own condemnation, but the steady grind of the pestle bespoke the man’s determination. Trooste cleared his throat into a closed pink hand.

‘I believe Mrs Kraft would be better restored with a garlic soup.’

Mahmoud merely lifted the mortar with the pounded bloodstone for Svenson to see.

‘That is excellent, I’m sure. If Professor Trooste will deign to assist …’

Trooste did so, adjusting the brass knobs on a gearbox, though not without a glance at the door. Mahmoud’s worry seemed no less acute.

‘Why has no one come?’

‘We do not know what has happened in the courtyard.’ Svenson poured a handful of ground bloodstone into the gearbox.

Trooste frowned. ‘If there were a crisis, Mr Foison would have told me.’

‘He trusts you that much?’

‘He trusts no one – but Lord Vandaariff has shown every confidence. Why not stop all of this and let me address him on your behalf?’

Svenson made sure of the hoses and wires. The black rubber mask left only Mrs Kraft’s mouth exposed to breathe. Trooste inserted a heavy lozenge of blue glass into the crucible chamber. Svenson connected the copper wire to the crucible leads.

‘Mahmoud, please step back from the table.’

‘What will happen to her?’ asked Mahmoud. ‘All of this wizardry –’

‘She will be cured.’

‘She won’t,’ declared Trooste.

‘Correct me if I am wrong, Professor. This’ – Svenson pointed to a switch inside the wooden box – ‘ignites the crucible. The initial charge sent through the glass is amplified by passage around the chamber and feeds back again into the gearbox. There the collected charge reacts with the bloodstone, and – when the gearbox valve is opened – infuses the subject with its properties.’

‘That is the map of it,’ replied Trooste. ‘But a map is only half of the matter. How much bloodstone? You’re only guessing. Just as you take the word of an incoherent child that it’s bloodstone to begin with – or that bloodstone isn’t fatal. How long do you wait before opening the valve? Not long enough, and the force is too weak.