The Chemickal Marriage

of feeling as they’d been in the Therm?. She had passed him Francesca’s key, as they discussed the star map, in the hope that he could somehow open the book and save Chang’s memory, but he had thrown away the tool to secure his own freedom. She had told him to save himself …

Svenson took a handkerchief from his pocket to protect his hand. He pointed to one of the volumes in the padded book rack and looked at the acolytes.

‘This volume has been lately brought by the Contessa – I’m sorry, the Virgo Lucifera?’

The acolytes nodded. Svenson pointed to another book, near it. Despite their disapproval, the acolytes did not prevent his reach. He carefully slid the second book from its slot, keeping a layer of cloth between his skin and the glass.

‘I will want this.’

‘And what is that?’ the Contessa sneered. ‘Lost love?’

‘It is my business, madam.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No. Safe passage – let us say a ship sailing east – and a supply of funds. As Lady Vandaariff in all but name, I doubt this is beyond your power.’ He broke off to address the acolytes sharply. ‘Is the quicksilver alloy prepared?’

When they did not immediately reply, he called to those attending Chang. ‘The quicksilver for the book! Has it been compounded?’ He turned back to the acolyte slipping the Contessa’s book from the rack, his hands insulated by the thin silk robe. ‘By God – not with your robe! Get away!’ He tucked his own book under one arm and used the handkerchief to lift the book containing the Comte. A properly gloved acolyte came forward to assist, but Svenson simply strode to Chang’s table. ‘Where is the mercury?’

‘Be careful!’ shouted the Contessa.

‘The interior of the chamber is already bathed,’ explained an acolyte, indicating the book-sized slot beneath Chang’s table. ‘A sheath of compounded glass plating –’

‘I must examine it …’

‘We have obeyed every instruction –’

‘And I do not care! You – every one of you – before this day wore other clothes! What were you – a banker? A shiftless second son? Parrot all you want – but I must know what has been done! I believe trust has been proven quite bankrupt in this enterprise!’

Svenson went to his knees, squinting at the brass undercarriage. He shifted the books from arm to arm as he changed position and probed gingerly with his fingers into the slot where the book would go. Finally he stood and thrust a book into the hands of the gloved acolyte. ‘It will need cleaning. There cannot be the slightest blemish or smear.’

‘Doctor Svenson,’ called the Contessa. ‘I admire this zeal for survival, but your demands? Is that all?’

He glanced at Miss Temple. The Contessa clucked her tongue.

‘You cannot save them. Chang is gone already. Celeste will die at your own hand.’

‘Better mine than someone who does not care.’

‘I’m sure she values the distinction. Can you hear us, Celeste? Have you gone to sleep?’

‘Robert Vandaariff was your enemy.’ Miss Temple was ashamed at the quaver in her voice. ‘His restoration will mean your ruin.’

‘Celeste, while you persist in refusing to see yourself, I do not. I am very good at some things, and not at others.’ She laughed. ‘Spelling, for example. Robert Vandaariff will be wise enough to see the many advantages I can offer. It is a circle returning to its start, for he and I began this whole affair. Doctor, what are you doing?’

‘I am protecting my charge.’ Doctor Svenson crouched near the rack of books, and for the first time Miss Temple saw the leather case, the same she had lost to Foison. The Doctor swivelled it to the Contessa. ‘I do not want my book broken in any disturbance.’

But before Svenson could place his book in the leather case, he had to remove the one that lay inside. He slipped it out and then juggled the two books arm to arm, for he’d only the one handkerchief with which to shield his skin, even as he also awkwardly moved the cigarette from his fingers to his mouth.

‘Doctor, please, what is that other book?’ called the Contessa impatiently.

Svenson raised it to the light, squinted, shrugged. ‘Mr Foison could tell us for sure, but I believe this book holds Cardinal Chang.’

‘Is Foison alive?’ asked the Contessa. ‘I thought not – rouse him! Rouse him! And rouse that idiot as well.’

This last was to the green-coat at her window, who gave a stiff kick to Jack Pfaff’s inert form. Acolytes hurried to Foison, turning his body and tapping his face, and the man rose stiffly to a sitting position.

‘The book in the leather case,’ Svenson explained. ‘Cardinal Chang?’

Foison nodded. ‘What has happened?’

‘Your master is dead,’ Svenson replied. ‘And about to be reborn.’ He knelt and set the other book into the case, standing again with the one Foison had agreed held Chang.

Svenson weighed it in his hands. ‘Perhaps I will take this too, as a condition.’

‘No,’ said the Contessa.

‘Why not?’

‘I do not trust you, Doctor.’

‘Then we are matched.’ He turned to Miss Temple. ‘Forgive me, Celeste. I did try.’

Without another word Doctor Svenson heaved the glass book into the air, straight past the green-coated guard and through the open trapdoor, where – to everyone’s ear – it burst to pieces on the iron steps.

The Contessa exploded with anger – the book was hers, the waste, it could have been reused – but Miss Temple only closed her eyes. When Pfaff had told her Chang’s mind was gone, she had been stricken, but at the book’s destruction he was finally, truly lost. With a dreadful relief Miss Temple exhaled, expelling with her breath all hope and all despair. For the first time in what felt like years, her mind was clear.

And the men before her were fools.

‘Would Colonel Bronque stand so idly by? Would your mother?’ The words were thick in her mouth, but she did not care. ‘She’s going to kill them all. She’s going to kill you.’

Mahmoud looked at Schoepfil. The Contessa’s cold voice cut in: ‘I can kill them now. But I will not, if I do not have to. Do I have to, Doctor Svenson, for the procedure to work?’

Svenson had returned to Chang’s table, bending low to peer beneath. ‘I am examining the Professor’s work – obviously he intended that they should be consumed –’

‘All must be consumed!’ warned an acolyte. They stood in a menacing ring around the machines.

‘Indeed. However,’ Svenson went on blandly, ‘art is not science. As Mr Schoepfil has taught me, what satisfies alchemical symmetry may be superfluous to the desired result.’ He indicated the tubs with distaste. ‘Mr Harcourt gives us iron … Mr Kelling copper … poor Colonel Bronque lead. Now … iron serves the blood, of course … ’

Miss Temple’s head swam. The more Svenson spoke, the more the Comte rose within her. She coughed wetly through the mask. Each insight felt like a knife turning inside Miss Temple’s chest. Was this what had happened to Francesca? She pictured the ravaged corpse, each ruined organ excised –

‘What is going on?’ asked Jack Pfaff. Miss Temple saw him stand through a haze. He was looking at her. ‘Is she being made to talk?’

‘She’s being made to die,’ said the Contessa. ‘Do not intervene.’

Pfaff said nothing, but his face was pale.

‘What report from the gates, from the perimeter outside?’

This was Mr Foison, hobbling to the green-coat with the revolver.

‘The party at the gate was taken in hand, sir.’

‘That was an hour ago. What since?’

‘There is nothing since,’ called the Contessa.