The Chemickal Marriage

held.’

‘He is not my uncle,’ cried Mr Schoepfil with a rising zeal. ‘My uncle is dead and this man is nothing – a criminal! An assassin!’

Pfaff – more warily now – stepped back from Schoepfil. Miss Temple located a new supply of drool and let it fly.

‘And do you think she will lie with you, Jack Pfaff? With you?’ She heaved herself up to a sitting position. ‘What have any of you won? If she – she – is still in there?’

The words hung in the rancid air, and the acolytes and soldiers – for their loyalty determined the power in the room – shifted their attention back and forth from Chang to the Contessa.

‘I will come out,’ the Contessa at last replied, ‘but I will not be fooled.’

‘What else would you have me do?’ Chang asked.

‘I want you to choke the life out of her. Kill Celeste Temple in front of us all. That will convince me. And nothing less.’

‘And if I prefer to study her condition?’

‘You cannot. It is my price for your restoration.’

Chang smirked. ‘That alone? I expect your price to extend well into infinity.’

‘It is my price now.’

‘Or what?’

The Contessa cocked her head. ‘Don’t you know?’

Chang looked at the glass book in its slot. ‘My restoration does not extend to these latest days. The exact details of this chamber elude me.’

‘That is a pity. Watch.’ The Contessa slipped the cover from another knob and the light struck a glow inside the glass. From the ceiling dropped a small glass globe, bursting into a bloom of blue smoke amongst the acolytes minding Cunsher and Gorine. In an instant all four toppled senseless. The guard at the trapdoor retreated, his hand over his mouth and nose, waving his arm. But the Contessa had chosen her target deliberately: the men were far enough apart for the fumes to disperse before reaching anyone else.

‘The entire chamber may be so fumigated,’ warned the Contessa. ‘After which it might also be required that I come amongst you and cut a few more throats. In the interests of our higher purpose, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ replied Chang.

‘So. Will you kill her now, Lord Robert, or am I to feel … unappreciated?’

Pfaff turned with a pained expression. ‘Come now, whatever her offence –’

‘Be quiet, Mr Pfaff –’

‘But she’s already going to die –’

‘Then a quick death is a mercy.’

Miss Temple laughed. ‘The most powerful man in the land, forced to murder a woman, by a woman! There’s restoration for you! There is transcendence!’

‘Do it!’ shouted the Contessa.

In the mansion of Miss Temple’s heart, pity was consigned to a very small pantry nook, and so it was with a cold eye that she watched Jack Pfaff exhaust his disapproval with a tight-lipped slap on his thigh.

Chang advanced to Miss Temple and she braced herself for his touch – but then behind him came a blur of movement. Chang spun round, but that did not stop the blow that turned his jaw.

‘I am master here!’ Schoepfil cried. ‘Harschmort is mine! Every last stick!’

He fell on Chang in a fury, battering his chest, his face. Two acolytes, loyal to their new lord, hurled themselves at his assailant. Schoepfil easily dispatched them and returned his attention to Chang, who had stepped back and stood ready. Schoepfil feinted, several blows in sequence, and Chang’s arms moved in instinctive response to block them. Schoepfil’s face darkened with a strange mixture of rage and glee. He raised his arms to the ceiling and crowed.

‘Questions be damned! Come and see – all of you! This cannot be Robert Vandaariff! Robert Vandaariff does not fight! Robert Vandaariff could not kill a sleeping rat with an axe!’ Schoepfil aimed an accusing finger at the Contessa. ‘Your enterprise has failed, madam! We have been duped! This is no one but Cardinal Chang! Nothing but criminal slime!’

The spinning leather case struck Schoepfil’s head and bounced off, splitting open as it struck the floor. The glass book inside flew free and shattered directly before the knot of acolytes. The robed men tottered and fell, screaming and clutching their ruined legs. Svenson called from his hands and knees, off-balance from throwing the case, his face a mask of blood.

‘Run, Celeste! Run!’

Chang launched himself feet-first into Schoepfil, sending the small man sprawling. Miss Temple leapt off the table. Glass balls dropped and burst across the chamber. Miss Temple held her breath. She saw Chang in a swarm of bodies, Doctor Svenson wrestling with Jack Pfaff, and – with a shock – Mr Foison, limping directly for her. Broken glass blocked her way to the trapdoor. She could only run for the main door, where two green-coats stood guard.

‘Stop her!’ shouted the Contessa.

Miss Temple ducked the swinging carbine of the first man, but the barrel of the other’s caught her on the shin and tripped her flat. She clawed for the doorway but a guard caught her waist. She kicked out, lungs on fire, eyes watering chemical tears. The second guard had his carbine high to strike when Mr Foison, not one for mincing matters, drove a knife into the soldier’s back. The second guard dropped Miss Temple to grapple with Foison.

‘Go!’ He put a fist into the guard’s abdomen, then bashed the knife hilt across his jaw, but speaking even that word brought the gas into Foison’s lungs. He clutched his throat and sank to the floor. Miss Temple scrabbled to the corridor and ran.

Past the first corner she took deep breaths, forcing herself to think, to see. This was where she’d been before – when she met the party of acolytes and let loose with the revolver. Now she needed the other direction. Her bare feet pounded down the corridor.

She burst into the fountain chamber and rushed straight to where she’d first come in, hopping like a schoolgirl across the tiles back to the band of gravel. With desperate fingers Miss Temple snatched up lump after lump of the black explosive stone and heaped it onto one of the robes, fast as she could, heart pressing at her throat. Not after regaining herself, not after regaining him. She would not see him perish.

Each second was agony – she could bear it no more – it must be enough – and Miss Temple gathered the robe like a tramp’s bundle. She returned over the tiles – stepping now, never a hop – and to the open room.

Two soldiers in blue stood in the charred doorway that had been blown wide, bayonets fixed – Colonel Bronque’s men, bloodied and bareheaded.

‘Help me!’ she hissed, before they thought to run her through. One had stripes on his sleeve. ‘Sergeant – I beg you –’

Miss Temple flinched at the crack of his rifle. The doorway to the carpeted hall was crowded with green- coated men. One flew backwards at the Sergeant’s shot, and then another from the second grenadier’s. Both men raised a terrifying shout and charged past Miss Temple. The green mercenaries could not withstand such ferocity – despite their greater number no two amongst them wanted to receive the bayonets – and broke away. The grenadiers thundered after, bringing down the rearmost with a shriek.

Miss Temple let them go. She dashed to the doors covering this side of the Contessa’s cell and swung them wide.

She retreated quickly as the Contessa leapt towards her, behind the glass. Miss Temple swept the bundle round her head, for momentum.

‘Celeste Temple – what in all hell –’

She gave her improvised explosive its release and dropped to the floor. The bundle struck the glass and every particle of air roared into smoke and flame.

When her mind returned her skin ached and it felt as if her body had been showered with sharp stones. Smoke hung low in the room, thick and grey. Her right side was painfully tender. She touched a sharp protrusion