The Chemickal Marriage

with terror before her slow wits told her the corset had absorbed the worst of the blow, that these were shafts of broken whalebone poking through the rips. She pushed the scraps of her shift between her legs to preserve her decency, coughed thickly and sat up.

The Contessa’s room no longer existed. Both walls of glass were blown clean through, the rostrum obliterated. The ceiling of light lay in chunks of twisted piping on the floor. Of the Contessa, Miss Temple saw no sign.

She stumbled forward, stepping over fallen pipes, searing hot to the touch, and finally into the far room. Her foot recoiled at the touch of something soft. She looked down to see Jack Pfaff, the orange coat shredded and his naked back, even up to the base of his skull, studded with daggers of glass. His face lay twisted to one side, lips curled in an expression of endless dismay. Beyond Pfaff, shielded from the blast by their grappling, Doctor Svenson lay rolled on his side, spitting dust. The blast had dispersed the blue smoke. The brass machines sparked and steamed, toppled and tipped, black hoses spurting like severed limbs.

He looked up and saw her. ‘Celeste …’

She passed Svenson by, her foot sliding in the blood of an acolyte. Another body lay across a tub, face down in the dregs – she extended a fearful hand and felt the rough wool of a guard’s green coat. She stumbled on to the tables. A hand caught hers, gripping, strong. She flinched and saw it was Chang. He lay on his back. She sank to her knees. He rose to meet her.

‘Celeste –’

‘You cannot die.’ Her tears poured out. ‘I could not bear it – not again –’

He squeezed her hand and reached to cup her cheek with an indelible soft care. She fell upon him, kissing his face until at last her lips found his, and there she stayed, sinking her need and her fear into his mouth, moaning, sobbing. Her fingers snaked through his hair and she cradled his head. At last she lifted her mouth to breathe.

‘I am so sorry,’ she gasped.

‘Do not. You are superb.’ Chang coughed and blinked. ‘Forgive me – the gas –’

More coughing came from behind them and Miss Temple turned. Svenson on his knees, hacking into one hand.

‘O dear Doctor …’

He waved vaguely to her, turning unsteadily towards the smoke. Miss Temple followed his gaze to the case of glass books, blown over, every felt-lined slot emptied. The shards of every book lay jumbled in a vast shining bed.

Abruptly Svenson doubled over and fell.

‘He is wounded!’ Miss Temple cried and struggled to rise.

‘He will die,’ Mr Schoepfil corrected her, emerging from the cloud, stepping over the groaning Svenson. Blue flesh showed through the tatters of Schoepfil’s clothes. ‘You will all die. Harschmort will be mine.’

He struck Miss Temple and she went down. Schoepfil glared at Chang with hatred.

‘You. You are no one at all.’

His swift hands dropped fast around Chang’s throat. Miss Temple scrambled up. She tried to break his grip but again Schoepfil thrust her away.

‘You can have Harschmort!’ she screamed. ‘You can have it all!’

Schoepfil laughed – then grunted as Chang jabbed a knee into his stomach. Chang thrust out his leg, shoving Schoepfil back over one of the tubs. In a flash the small man regained his feet. He rubbed his belly tenderly and licked his lips.

‘I can have it, can I? Well … well, perhaps –’

‘You can have nothing,’ said Chang, standing. ‘Harschmort will drown, and the Vandaariff fortune with it.’

‘O no.’ Schoepfil shook his head. ‘Never heard anything so absurd in my life. No. If you imagine – that anyone – that this world would allow – good Lord, such sums do not vanish – especially – ha – not – O mercy – not at the behest of the likes of you –’

Schoepfil’s amusement got the better of his words and he tipped back his head to laugh. The blade shot through his neck clean as a needle, emerging with a crimson spray in tow. Schoepfil gargled his surprise, eyes as wide as two eggs. The strength left his body and the Contessa shoved him down in the debris.

Without doubt the brass helmet had preserved her life, for her body was burnt, and she bled from a dozen oozing lacerations. Even with its protection, the Contessa’s face was divided by blood dripping from her hair.

‘Well.’ Her voice was as dry as sand. ‘Inevitably.’

Chang came forward, standing unsteadily before Miss Temple and Svenson.

‘I’ll kill you first,’ the Contessa said. ‘And then I’ll kill them.’

‘You should run,’ said Chang.

‘No one’s running.’ The Contessa brushed a blood-wet lock of hair from her eyes.

She swept the blade at Chang’s face, but she was not near enough and the tip stopped short. Chang tried for her wrist, but she twisted the knife so the tip nicked Chang’s forearm.

Miss Temple gasped. Neither Chang nor the Contessa reacted at all. The stakes were clear: if the Contessa won, Chang would die. If she missed, if he took her arm, then he would take the weapon from her and drive it home, or simply end her life with his hands.

Miss Temple could not bear it. She looked about her for a weapon, but did not see a thing. Then her arm scraped on the broken corset. She plucked a broken strip of whalebone from its sleeve.

The Contessa jabbed at Chang and set off a vicious clockwork of blows between them that ended with the Contessa’s blade shooting past Chang’s throat and her wrist pinned in his hand. She dug for his groin with a knee but he blocked it on his thigh. She clawed his face with her free hand, but he caught that too. The Contessa lunged to bite his face. Chang thrust her back at arm’s length.

‘Stop this –’

‘Never.’

The Contessa turned to Miss Temple’s stumbling arrival, bloody lips curled in a sneer, but Miss Temple’s arm was already in motion and the Contessa, hands held by Chang, could not move. Like a sharp stick of toast into the soft yolk of an egg, the slip of whalebone broke the surface of the Contessa’s right eye and then messily ripped free so all within spilled wide, onto her face and in the air.

The Contessa shrieked and – Chang releasing his grip in shock – tripped backwards and crashed down. Miss Temple did not move. The scream dipped just long enough for the Contessa to draw air and then blazed out again, a blistering klaxon of pain and rage.

Doctor Svenson pushed past Miss Temple, on his knees at the Contessa’s side. She thrashed against his attempts to touch her, spitting curses in her native tongue. Then a handkerchief was in Svenson’s hand. From the silk he withdrew a spur of blue glass. With a sudden force the Doctor pressed it hard into the exposed flesh, below her throat.

At the contact the Contessa arched her back, suspended in sensation. Her legs shook. One hand seized Svenson’s arm. Her cries gave way to the laboured pants of an agonized animal.

‘O … O God damn you … what – what … O damn you to hell …’

Her words collapsed to a devastated whine. Doctor Svenson’s hands moved gently to her face. ‘Let me see … just let me see –’

In a scramble of limbs the Contessa broke free and crawled. She somehow stood and careened back through the shattered room. She tripped on the pipes, fell with a grunt of pain, staggered up again and vanished in the smoke.

Doctor Svenson remained on his knees. Miss Temple said nothing. Chang collected the Contessa’s knife.

‘I’m sorry, but – should I not – should not someone –’

Svenson’s words were drowned out by a clatter of boots. Through the main doorway marched a crisply uniformed cavalry officer at the head of a dozen hussars. The officer waved the smoke from his eyes and viewed the carnage with a pinched dismay.

‘This house is under royal writ. All present will disarm themselves and be detained.’

Chang dropped the knife. The officer advanced to the sound. He bent his face to Miss Temple, sniffed, and