The Chemickal Marriage

by Gordon Dahlquist

  Miss Temple held up a hand and waved, making tiny shadows. The decorated ceiling was honeycombed by dozens of shafts that rose high to the surface and drew the sunlight down, directing the beams with mirrors and colouring their glow with glass.

  More grimly, however, the shafts meant Miss Temple’s earlier assumption had been wrong. No one else had entered the tomb – she had been abandoned. She looked for an edge to slice through the cord binding her wrists, but the walls and floor were smooth. The room’s only feature was a slab of white marble, carved to depict silken bedclothes pulled open across it.

  Two names were carved: Clothilde Vandaariff and, in fresh-cut letters, Lydia Vandaariff. No dates or epigraphs accompanied the names – nor, in the case of Lydia, could the tomb contain a body. Miss Temple wondered if it was her fate to serve as Lydia’s proxy.

  She sank down against the stone. Her forearm throbbed, and it seemed she had not slept in days. She curled on her side, yet, despite her fatigue, the solitude only gave Miss Temple’s mind more opportunity to seethe …

  When they had collided with Mr Harcourt and the Palace guard, Chang had seized her hand. They did not speak as they fled, but then a reckless turn left them in a dead-end room, with no time to double back.

  ‘The wardrobe,’ he hissed, pushing her to it. Chang leapt to a writing desk and dragged it beneath the room’s single high window.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Get in the wardrobe!’

  Chang vaulted onto the desk and opened the window. Did he think to draw pursuit away? He hauled himself through to the waist. He held a handful of papers from the desk and flung them out.

  ‘A trail to follow,’ he said, jumping down. ‘The ledge is wide and the roof is flat – why are you not in the damned closet?’

  Chang yanked it open and propelled her into a line of hanging garments.

  ‘There is no room!’

  The back of the wardrobe had hooks from which cloaks had been hung and Chang shoved her beneath them. Then the doors were shut and he was with her, limbs overlapping, bodies crammed together. Chang squeezed her arm, his words faint as a sigh.

  ‘They are here.’

  Miss Temple heard nothing. She had reached to steady herself and taken hold of Chang’s belt in the dark. Chang had shifted, settling his weight, and one knee rolled forward, gently, to press between her legs. The corners of her mind began to crawl.

  From outside came a scrape of floorboards – someone climbing on the desk. She tightened her grip. She wanted to lean forward and kiss his mouth. She tipped her body against the hardness of his knee. She bit her lip to keep silent.

  With another shudder she heard his breath in her ear. ‘Do not be afraid …’

  She almost laughed aloud. He thought she shook with fear. She squeezed his hand. It would be the simplest thing to guide it to her breast.

  The door to the wardrobe opened. The hanging clothes were jostled. She went still at the chok of a blade thrust home above her head. Another thrust, near her hand – chok! – and then a third, piercing the cloak directly between them. The blade was pulled free and the wardrobe door slammed shut.

  They waited, Miss Temple at the edge of her control. Chang patted her hand. She rocked her body forward in a last sensual grind before he crawled cautiously out.

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  She pushed the cloaks away, feeling the heat in her face. He reached to extricate her. She did not meet his gaze.

  Miss Temple opened her eyes. She jumped up, sure she had heard the jingle of metal.

  A key scratched at the lock, slipped in, then turned. Miss Temple crept to the wall. The door swung inwards. She would kick as hard she could, jump through the door –

  ‘I know you are there. Do not attempt to break my head.’

  It was a voice she knew. ‘Mr Pfaff?’

  Jack Pfaff peered around the doorframe. ‘As ever.’

  Miss Temple restrained herself from rushing to his arms, content to present her still-bound wrists. Pfaff drew a knife and smiled as the cords gave way. Miss Temple began to rub the vivid marks, but Pfaff put his own hands on hers, chafing the skin to life.

  ‘What have they done to you? And your poor arm!’

  ‘It is nothing.’ She pulled her hands away, disquieted by a lingering ache from her dream. ‘Where have you been? How did you get a key to this awful prison? Who told you I was here?’

  ‘First, we’ll make you safe.’ Pfaff took Miss Temple’s uninjured arm. ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘Do not doubt it.’ Miss Temple made a point to lift her dress with both hands, despite a stab of pain. ‘But you must answer as we go. Where have you been?’

  ‘Following the glass, as we agreed.’ Pfaff laid a hand against her back, yet such was her relief that she did not slap it away. ‘As for the keys to this place, I found them in the outer door, as was arranged.’

  ‘Arranged?’ Miss Temple spun to face him.

  ‘We’re not out of it yet, miss. You must trust me and play along.’

  ‘Play along with what?’

  ‘Kicking and cursing will be enough. I shall take your weight with my other hand, so it will appear that I drag you by the hair. Here we go!’

  Pfaff shoved the vault door wide. One insolent hand snaked round her waist while the other seized her curls. Before she could protest, Pfaff deftly tripped her ankles, so he entered the lane dragging her behind. She did her genuine best to kick and scratch, and shrieked aloud when – having jostled him off balance – Pfaff did yank her hair so hard she feared it would rip.

  He staggered through the Egyptian gate. No black-cloaked men, no green uniforms, only a single coach with a shabby fellow holding the reins.

  ‘There!’ Pfaff cried, speaking loudly. ‘And I’ll have no more of your nonsense!’

  He shoved her in the coach. She scrambled onto her back, kicking out. He caught her foot and closed the door. The driver cracked his whip and eased his team forward. Pfaff paused … listening … then sat back with a smile.

  ‘I think we’ve done it –’

  Her boot landed square on his kneecap. He clutched it with both hands, hissing with pain. ‘O! O – damn you to hell!’

  ‘If I had any weapon now you would be dead,’ she spat. ‘If you ever take such liberties again I will see your back flayed white!’

  Pfaff rubbed his knee. ‘You’re an ungrateful witch. Do you know where we are? How many eyes observe our every move?’

  ‘I will not be trifled with.’

  ‘That is no answer!’

  ‘I am not obliged to answer. Do you remain in my employ or don’t you?’

  ‘I am not in the habit of accepting such abuse from anyone.’

  ‘But you are in the habit of flinging a woman without care like a bale of cloth?’

  ‘You’ve seen worse, I’m sure.’

  To these hot words she said nothing, taking the moment to settle her dress. Pfaff smirked at its condition.

  ‘What’s he like, anyways?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Robert Vandaariff. I once caught a glimpse of his hat, on Race Day at the Circus. Did he mention the Contessa?’ His gaze drifted across her body. ‘Did he … mistreat you?’

  ‘What is that?’

  She pointed to a leather notebook poking from Pfaff’s orange coat.

  ‘Why, do you know it?’

  ‘Of course I do. You were under the bridge. You took this from Minister Crabbé’s laboratory. That notebook belonged to Roger Bascombe.’

  ‘It did indeed. I’ll admit, Miss Temple, I only half believed your stories – but now …’ He broke off with a grin, showing his brown teeth. ‘I kept it for you. Don’t you want to peek inside?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Liar.’ He tossed the notebook onto her lap, then laughed at her discomfort. ‘You act like I’ve given you a scorpion.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Come, how else could I learn where you were, or collect you withou
t being killed? You thought the glassworks would lead to Vandaariff, but they led to her.’

  ‘Why should she want me saved? She hates me.’

  ‘She described you to Vandaariff’s messenger as her intimate.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  Pfaff gave his own sceptical shrug. ‘It saved your life.’

  She could not read him – did Pfaff remain her man or not? She did her best to soften her tone. ‘Do you know, Mr Pfaff, that every man you hired in my service has been killed?’

  ‘That’s a pity. I think Corporal Brine quite liked your maid.’

  Perhaps Pfaff never felt sorry about anything. Chang’s ill-will for the man stewed inside her. Why had she ever defended him?

  ‘Why was I taken to the Vandaariff crypt?’

  ‘Because it is isolated, I suppose, and easy to observe.’

  Miss Temple knew this was wrong, and berated herself for not having examined every inch of the place. But there seemed nothing to find – the Comte had so little expressed himself in its making. If the real Ishtar Gate indeed had blue tile, the Comte’s improved artistic version would have been made from coal and painted blood red.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Nowhere at all until I’m sure we aren’t followed …’

  Pfaff pressed his face against the window. Miss Temple scooted to the opposite side. She did not recognize these streets.

  ‘Was there a second explosion today? At the Shipping Board?’

  ‘Explosions all over.’ Pfaff peered out, distracted. ‘Terrible stuff.’

  ‘The blasts are Vandaariff’s doing – to provoke unrest. Who knows what he plans next, while you waste our time. Do you?’

  Pfaff closed the curtain. ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Know where he is!’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘And you smile to say it! Of all the imbecilic –’ Miss Temple’s tirade was cut short by a sharp knock against the coach. ‘What was that?’

  The window near her head was shattered by a fist-sized chunk of brick. She squeaked, flinching from the flying glass. Luckily most was caught by the curtain.

  ‘Perhaps you’d best lie down,’ offered Pfaff.

  Cries rose around the coach and Miss Temple recalled the faces on the Raaxfall dock. Their driver cracked his whip. The coach broke forward and the shouts began to fade. Pfaff slapped his hands together.

  ‘That should peel them off.’

  At the high-pitched cry of distressed horses behind them, Miss Temple peered through the broken window. Another coach had been stopped in the road, surrounded by an angry mob. The blasts had brought the unrest of Raaxfall to the city proper – and Pfaff had exploited the discontent to strip away pursuit. Who knew how close they’d come to harm as well? If the driver had been injured, or a coach wheel snapped … she was appalled at the reckless disregard.

  ‘So where are we going now?’ she demanded.

  Pfaff laughed aloud. ‘Where else, little mistress? Home.’

  Pfaff said nothing more, and Miss Temple would not ask. Roger’s notebook lay on her lap, but she had no wish to open it until she was alone and unobserved. While it might contain useful information, she did not trust her own reactions. What if there was fawning praise for Caroline Stearne’s ankle or her opalescent skin? Opalescent was exactly the sort of word Roger would have used.

  They arrived at the Hotel Boniface. She gripped the notebook tightly as she climbed down, ignoring Pfaff’s outstretched hand. She considered shouting to the footmen, but she’d no firm idea how she stood with the hotel or the law, and further scandal might allow the management finally to expel her. Instead, she advanced to the desk and asked for any messages. There were none, but her asking allowed the clerk to take in the scorch marks on her dress, and her bandaged arm.

  ‘You see what has overtaken me.’ Miss Temple swallowed bravely. ‘St Isobel’s Square … I cannot speak of it.’ The clerk’s suspicion turned to cooing sympathy. For the moment, at least, Miss Temple had outflanked disapproval.

  ‘Very good!’ Pfaff chuckled, as they climbed the staircase. But Miss Temple found she actually was unsettled – and truly unable to speak of what she had seen in the square and at the Customs House. She had no experience through which to comprehend such carnage. Her eyes began to burn. Why now, treading soft familiar carpets, should she weaken? She quickened her pace to keep ahead of Pfaff, so he would not see.

  ‘Are you well?’

  ‘My arm hurts.’ They were at the door. Pfaff cut in front and rapped three times. Miss Temple turned to dab her eyes. The door opened to Marie’s anxious face.

  ‘O, O mistress –’

  Miss Temple pushed past – all she wanted was to be alone. ‘I will need a wash and new clothes and supper and tea – strong hot tea before anything –’

  ‘Mistress –’

  ‘I am perfectly well, I assure you. I – I –’ Miss Temple clutched Roger’s notebook and groped for words. ‘Marie – Corporal Brine –’

  Pfaff easily took Marie’s shoulder. ‘Briney’s all right, Marie – he’s with the others, asked we pass along his regards – what about that tea?’

  ‘But – but – mistress –’

  Disgracefully grateful for Pfaff’s imposition, Miss Temple pushed on as if she had not heard. Three steps brought her bedchamber and she shut the door and turned the key. She dropped Roger’s notebook on a side table … and went ice-still.

  The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza sat on Miss Temple’s bed, her cigarette holder smouldering like a stick of Chinese incense. She did not smile.

  ‘Once more, circumstances prevent me from taking your life.’ The Contessa savoured the catch of smoke, then spat a blue jet from the corner of her mouth. ‘You look a fright.’

  Miss Temple retreated to her writing desk. Were there scissors in the drawer?

  ‘Is Mr Pfaff your creature?’ Her voice cracked. In shame, she forced it low. ‘I saw no scars around his eyes.’

  ‘Not everyone requires the Process – in point of fact almost no one does.’

  ‘But he – for several weeks, I employed –’

  The Contessa sighed. ‘Do you still not understand? The cream of this city ached to be chosen for the Comte’s machines. Clawed each other like cats for the privilege. Slavery amongst the mighty is simple – one only has to make it fashion.’

  ‘Mr Pfaff is no one’s idea of cream.’

  ‘He is his own. Enough – you cannot look like you’ve been tumbled in a cowshed.’ Miss Temple turned to the door. ‘Do not call your maid. She has been sent away.’

  ‘Sent where?’

  ‘Downstairs for tea or to the surgeon’s with a broken jaw – I’ve no idea. We will pretty you and depart, without incident and without notice.’

  ‘I will not budge.’

  The Contessa raised her voice to an authoritative bark. ‘Mr Pfaff!’

  At once came a sharp yelp of pain from beyond the door, unmistakably from Marie. Miss Temple shot to her feet.

  The Contessa spoke swiftly, with annoyance. ‘You can do nothing to help her but obey.’ She tugged the cigarette from its holder and dropped the butt to the floor, snuffing it as she stood.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not until you change, Celeste.’ For the first time, the Contessa smiled. ‘Afterwards, everything. But first you must at least pretend to be civilized …’

  The woman’s fingers pulled at the back of her dress, each touch pecking apart Miss Temple’s concentration. She had fought at the Customs House, and tried to strangle Vandaariff in his coach, but now it was all she could do to stand.

  The Contessa peeled the fabric from Miss Temple’s shoulders and then the sleeves over each hand, like a magician extracting two scarves from a hat. The Contessa yanked the dress to the floor. Miss Temple obediently stepped free of the pile.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’

  ‘It was cut by flying glass. At the Customs House.’

  ‘And were you very br
ave?’ The Contessa’s hand traced its way without hurry around the circuit of Miss Temple’s hips.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she whined.

  ‘Better to ask why you are here,’ replied the Contessa.

  ‘This is my room.’

  ‘I thought it belonged to sugar and slaves.’

  ‘Then who owns your suite at the Royale – pulchritude?’

  Miss Temple cried out as the caressing hand struck her buttock hard enough to leave a mark. The Contessa crossed to the wardrobe. Miss Temple plucked the Comte’s silk handkerchief from her corset, but she’d no time to unwrap the glass spur before the Contessa had returned. Her breath blew warm against Miss Temple’s nape.

  ‘You smell like a pony.’ The Contessa snatched up an amber bottle, Signora Melini’s Mielissima, and came back with a basin of water. ‘Arms up.’

  Miss Temple complied. The Contessa roughly swabbed Miss Temple’s armpits with a cloth, then her bosom and neck, and last, with smaller strokes, the planes of her face. Miss Temple held still, a kitten submitting to the ministrations of its mother’s tongue. The Contessa dropped the cloth into the basin. With pursed lips she applied the perfume far more liberally than Miss Temple ever had, under her arms, at her wrists, behind her ears, and then, like a drunken signature to end a night of gambling, dragged the moistened stopper across the nooks of her collarbone. She replaced the stopper and threw the bottle carelessly onto the bed. With a sudden flicker of suspicion, the Contessa thrust a hand down Miss Temple corset, probing for anything hidden, and then swept in either direction, searching beneath each breast. Finding nothing, she pulled her hand free and then bent forward for a last sniff.

  ‘At least no one will take you for an unperfumed pony.’

  The Contessa snatched up a dress, fluffed it wide and lifted it over Miss Temple’s head.

  ‘But that is a dress for mourning –’

  Her words were lost in a mass of black crêpe silk. She had worn it but once, for the funeral of Roger’s cousin, at the beginning of their courtship. The sudden purchase, entirely for his sake, had pleased her immensely.