The Chemickal Marriage

Svenson’s panel.

Svenson spun to Schoepfil, but the man eagerly nodded him back to the window. A second figure floated into view. Svenson could not breathe.

‘And the Contessa’s companion …’ The speaker paused to suggest her disapproval. ‘A Miss Celestial Temple.’

The scar above her ear peeped from the turban and fresh abrasions dotted her cheeks … but it was her. She was alive.

Alive and with the Contessa, and somehow here, at an unimaginable audience with the Queen herself. Schoepfil rocked with satisfaction, like a schoolboy.

‘For God’s sake,’ Svenson whispered, ‘who are you?’

Schoepfil shifted to better press his mouth to Doctor Svenson’s ear.

‘Who else could I be, Doctor? I am Robert Vandaariff’s heir!’

Seven Therm?

Following Colonel Bronque down a corridor of silver mirrors, Miss Temple was so taken with excitement at their destination as to forget the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza walking beside her, until that woman reached out to flick Miss Temple’s arm. Miss Temple snapped her mouth shut, abashed to find it had been open. The Contessa’s expression had changed as well. Deference cloaked her animal confidence. Glancing back, Colonel Bronque appraised the women with a gaze that promised nothing.

They reached a bright room where well-dressed men and women gathered, palpably expectant. Bronque did not pause. Twice more their uniformed Virgil ignored similar weigh-points of privilege, delivering them at last to a strange oval door, made of metal and opened by a wheel at its centre instead of a knob. The wheel was spun by a footman and they descended to a shabby landing. Here waited a single man, whose broad face seemed a size too large for the wiry hair that gripped his skull. He consulted a pocket watch. Colonel Bronque came to a military stop and clicked his heels.

‘My Lord Axewith.’

‘Ah. Bronque.’

The Colonel waited. The Privy Minister, marooned, only sighed.

‘My lord?’

Bronque followed the Minister’s wary glance at the women, whose attention was dutifully turned – Miss Temple taking the Contessa’s lead – to the peeling paint.

‘I do not require Her Majesty’s seal, Bronque, but Lord Vandaariff is insistent. Of course he is correct. Measures of historic consequence ought to be enacted by the monarch. But it leaves me waiting until I am a wilted stick.’ Axewith – whose lantern jaw and spatulate nose suggested the face of a stranded turtle – tugged at his collar. ‘And just when so many other pressing matters are … well … pressing.’

Bronque nodded to the satchel under Axewith’s arm. ‘May I wait in your stead, my lord, while you attend to business in a more congenial place?’

‘Damned kind of you.’ Axewith sighed sadly. ‘But Reasons of State, I’m afraid. Reasons of State. And I cannot disappoint Lord Vandaariff …’

Another flick on the arm brought Miss Temple’s attention to the arrival of an elegantly dressed older woman, of an age and grudging mutter with Miss Temple’s Aunt Agathe. She addressed the Contessa without a word of greeting.

‘You will remain silent unless spoken to. At a signal from the Duchess of Cogstead, who will make your introduction, the interview is terminated. Now, the attiring rooms are here …’

The older lady opened another oval door and lifted her dress, stepping over the sill. The Contessa went next, eyes darting once behind. Miss Temple glanced in turn, curious to catch Lord Axewith’s reaction, but Lord Axewith was tapping at the clouded face of his pocket watch. It was Colonel Bronque who met Miss Temple’s gaze, his eyes as dull as two tarnished coins.

‘You will be collected. Do not forget the Duchess’s signal.’ Their guide’s voice sank to a vicious warning. ‘And do not stare.’

As she stalked off, female attendants appeared, one for each of them.

‘Stare at what?’

‘At whom, Celeste. Pay attention.’

The attiring room’s floor was yellowed marble, its walls pebbled with paint blisters. The air was moist and warm, as if they were calling upon the Queen at her laundry – an impression reinforced by the attendants gently guiding them to alcoves hung with linen curtains. Inside stood a wardrobe. A touch from her attendant had Miss Temple sitting on a wooden stool.

‘If the lady would lean her head …’

Miss Temple did so and the attendant gathered up her curls. To her left, the Contessa’s brilliant black hair disappeared into a deftly wound white towel that was quickly pinned up like a Turk’s.

‘If the lady would straighten …’

Miss Temple, her hair tucked tightly away, felt fingers picking down her back. In a trice her dress had been unlaced. The attendant tugged at the ties of her corset, and then removed her shift. The attendants unlaced the ladies’ boots and peeled each stockinged leg until both women sat, apart from their turbaned heads, completely nude. The Contessa kept a grip on Miss Temple, squeezing hard.

‘Do you recall what we spoke of, Celeste, in the coach?’

Miss Temple quite helplessly shook her head.

‘We spoke of redemption – and a certain person you claimed to care for. You quite correctly assumed an ulterior reason for your visit to the tomb. My friend Oskar was new to this city when he received that particular commission. Given all he went on to achieve, the project seems but a trifle and even he – or especially he – may have dismissed his efforts. And yet – pay attention, Celeste – you should know that every artist is a cannibal, feeding relentlessly on those around them, yet feeding on themselves even more. Do you see? You went there because, if you will forgive the figure, those oldest bones may make a reappearance on our evening’s menu.’

The attendants had gone, and each woman stood in a muslin bathing costume, sleeveless, their legs bare from the knee. Miss Temple rocked on cork-soled slippers. She tried her best to recall the details of the Vandaariff tomb, but her fragile concentration was undermined by the Contessa’s nearness and her insidious frangipani scent. The tip of the Contessa’s scar arched like a comet from under her shoulder strap. Miss Temple tottered closer, the muslin rough on the tip of each breast. Her breath touched the Contessa’s skin. The Contessa was speaking. She could not follow the words. She could not stop herself from leaning forward –

The Contessa slapped Miss Temple hard across the cheek. Miss Temple staggered, but kept her feet.

‘Wake up. If you ruin this, I’ll have you skinned.’

‘I am perfectly well.’ Miss Temple swallowed. ‘I will be the one skinning you.’

‘Say nothing if you can help it. Respectful silence, pliant nubility – listen to me.’ She reached out and pinched Miss Temple’s nipple. Miss Temple squeaked. ‘And don’t stare.’

‘Stare at what?’ Miss Temple whimpered.

The Contessa turned to the opening door and slipped into a curtsy Miss Temple just managed to echo.

‘Signora.’

It did not seem that the portly, grey-haired woman in the doorway approved of the Contessa, any more than she enjoyed her unflattering bathing costume, soaked through and dripping.

‘Your Grace,’ murmured the Contessa.

The Duchess of Cogstead exhaled without pleasure. ‘Follow.’