The Chemickal Marriage

passage, she felt the whole of her body reclaimed.

The corruption of the Comte d’Orkancz had been scoured away. Her eyes streamed, and with her tears went his memories … from this much of her burden, at least, she was set free.

The air reeked of burnt flesh and indigo clay. Mahmoud and Doctor Svenson lay on the ground, a guard with a carbine over them. Madelaine Kraft was gone. The Contessa’s hands were pressed against the glass. Every acolyte had gathered. Foison had come forward, along with Pfaff. Every one of them was looking at Chang.

The scar on his back had lost its flaming shade, was now white and smooth like so many of his older wounds. Chang’s muscles strained as he fought to rise.

He was alive … and awake.

‘Is it him?’ cried the Contessa. ‘Did it work or not?’

Acolytes lowered the table to a horizontal position and loosened the restraints. Six together lifted Chang gently and turned him on his back. Then they bowed their heads. Chang groaned.

‘We require an answer! Are you these men’s master come back to life?’

Chang raised a hand against the light. His voice came raw.

‘Who is there? What is this place? What has happened?’

The Contessa raised her hand so that no one else might speak. ‘You are at Harschmort. Are you Robert Vandaariff restored?’

Chang turned and met Miss Temple’s gaze. What had the Doctor done? His final changes had redirected the flow of power, and the bloodstone had effected her cure. But what had he done to Chang?

‘What is your name, damn you?’ This was Mr Schoepfil, still on his knees. ‘Do you know me?’

Chang pushed himself up, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Drusus Schoepfil. Nephew.’

‘And do you know me, Lord Robert?’ called the woman in the brass helmet. ‘Can you name my role?’

‘I know your voice … Rosamonde.’ Chang hesitated. ‘My Virgo Lucifera.’

The acolytes erupted with praise, fairly singing their master’s return. Mr Foison, Miss Temple noted, said nothing. Nor did Jack Pfaff. Chang held out a hand.

‘Something to drink. To return from so far away is thirsty work …’ The acolytes helped him off the table. One offered a white robe that Chang refused, another a bottle that he scrutinized and then accepted. He clutched the table for support, his body not yet under full command. His gaze fell on Svenson and Mahmoud. ‘Are those men dead?’ He turned again to Miss Temple, without expression, and her blood went cold. ‘Does this woman live?’

‘This is not my uncle!’ declared Schoepfil, edging closer. ‘I do not believe it.’

Chang ignored him, drinking deeply. ‘Come out, Rosamonde. If I owe this delivery to your kindness, I would thank you.’

‘Are you truly healed?’ she asked.

‘In every particular.’

‘Then you cannot be offended by a test. Much depends upon it. Poor Mr Schoepfil’s inheritance, for one.’

‘Does he have an inheritance?’ asked Chang drily. ‘Surely new provisions have been made. As for tests … try me as you see fit.’ Chang inhaled deeply and drew his fingers along the canvas hoses, the blackened hanks of wire. He gazed into the porcelain coffins. ‘What a provocative arrangement … what sacrifice.’ With a shiver Miss Temple saw his gaze fall on a small table of metal tools. He nodded to it and addressed the acolytes. ‘Take that woman down. She ought to be examined while the infusion is fresh …’

The acolytes leapt to the task. With two successive jerks Miss Temple was brought flat on her back. As the straps were loosed and the mask none too gently peeled free, she heard more questions fly at Chang.

‘How did Harald Crabbe perish?’ asked the Contessa.

‘What do you know about Ned Ramper?’ called Pfaff, who had pulled the tray of sharp tools from an angry acolyte.

‘When did we last speak?’ demanded Schoepfil. ‘The two of us alone?’

‘Excellent questions …’ Chang approached Miss Temple’s table. She felt the exposure of her bare limbs and a helplessness in her heart.

‘What would you have me do now, my lord?’ asked Mr Foison.

Chang ignored the question and brought his scarred face up to hers. With his thumb Chang wiped the black drool from Miss Temple’s chin. An acolyte offered him a cloth.

‘The Bride has accepted the corruption, my lord. Consuming the flesh of life –’

‘To make the flesh of dreams. By whose command?’

‘By your own,’ answered the Contessa.

‘I do not recall it.’ For the first time Chang noted the corpse of Robert Vandaariff. ‘But I am apparently indebted for your … assistance.’

‘There will be ample time to discuss debts.’

‘I would expect no less.’ Chang’s arm slipped and he fell back, catching himself on the table, his mouth near Miss Temple’s ear. His words were scarcely more than a sigh. ‘Remember the rooftop. Stay alive.’

Miss Temple did not move. ‘Rooftop.’ Happily – so very happily – she saw the Doctor had exchanged books – his fussy juggling, his insistence that the glass be cleaned, the leather case turned for an instant from all eyes. And the Contessa’s book had shattered on the iron stairs. If nothing else, the Comte could never return.

Acolytes moved at once to help him up. Chang pushed them away. He faced his audience and snapped his fingers. ‘I am perfectly well – but underclothed. A shirt. For the rest of you, Harald Crabbe died on a dirigible, slain by that woman’s hand. You and I, nephew, have not spoken alone for years. As for this Ned Ramper, I confess to never having heard the name.’

‘A lie!’ Pfaff smacked a fist into his palm. ‘He was your captive in this very house!’

‘I do not recall it,’ replied Chang. ‘But neither do I recall the changes made to this room. So many beautiful machines. Have I been … asleep?’

Before any of the acolytes could reply, the Contessa spoke forcefully: ‘Unfortunately the procedure was not completely successful. The blood fever has clouded Lord Vandaariff’s memory of recent events.’

‘Then have I answered you? Or is there more?’

Chang smiled thinly, as if his patience had been exactly spent. He held out his arms as an acolyte returned with a crisp white shirt and allowed himself to be dressed.

‘What I would have you do, Mr Foison,’ he went on, gesturing to the bodies on the floor and in the tubs, ‘is to gather these men up. If they are dead take them away; if they live, let them wake and receive judgement. Assuming I command my own house, of course. Do I?’

The acolytes bowed at once. After a moment’s hesitation, the green-coats came to attention. Chang turned his gaze to the glass.

‘And you, Signora? Will you not join us?’

Miss Temple rolled her head slowly from side to side, as if in delirium. She counted, to her right, four acolytes bending over Mr Cunsher and Mr Gorine, and one guard at the trapdoor. Directly before her two acolytes stood between the still bodies of Svenson and Mahmoud, and with them the sentry from the Contessa’s window. To her left stood Chang, with Foison, Pfaff and Schoepfil – in the excitement no longer meriting his own guard – and at least six more acolytes. Beyond them all were the last two green-coats at the main door.

The Contessa ignored Chang’s invitation. Instead, her fingers tapped restlessly on the rostrum. Chang could do nothing without revealing himself. Once that happened he would be assailed by all.

Miss Temple leant to one side and retched, an act whose vulgarity stopped conversation. Very little foulness remained in her mouth to void, but she covered the lack with an ugly croaking. She looked up with wild eyes.

‘Poor Mr Schoepfil. The Duchess will have her revenge. As least Colonel Bronque is spared the disgrace of being shot.’

Schoepfil’s mouth worked, and his goatee shuddered like a small mouse in the cold.

‘And Mr Foison,’ Miss Temple called, ‘are you a child? You know whom that book