The Chemickal Marriage

by Gordon Dahlquist

  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 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 surfac
e 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 took in the two men with an equal dismay.

  ‘I am sent for a young lady. She is wanted by Her Grace the Duchess of Cogstead. A Miss Celestial Temple. If any of you know what has become of her –’

  ‘I am Celestial Temple.’

  ‘Dear God. Indeed?’

  ‘The Duchess will know me. She will know my companions.’

  The officer considered this unlikely promise, then opted for discretion and stepped aside, offering Miss Temple his arm.

  ‘Her Grace waits outside with the rest of the regiment. Come.’ He wrinkled his nose and looked at the wreckage that now embodied Harschmort House. ‘This circumstance cannot be pleasant for you.’

  Epilogue

  Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson tapped the ash of a black cigarette into a brass dish bolted to the arm of his chair, which itself had been secured firmly to the cabin floor. His uniform was crisp and his new boots shone like black glass. He was clean-shaven, blond hair parted neatly, and nearly every bruise or laceration on its way to mending.

  As he spoke his voice did not shift tone, so that Miss Temple, who had retreated to her inner room, might not infer that the two men talked about her – although of course she did assume it and of course they were, however indirectly.

  ‘You are well?’ The Doctor exhaled at the inadequacy of his words. ‘I mean to say, you seem hale. But, yes, of course, all of this. Departure – and, I apologize, what word to use … alliance?’

  Cardinal Chang glanced at the damp ring of coffee in his white bone-china cup. He reached for the flute-nosed pot and poured, offered to Svenson, who demurred, returned the pot to the tray. He did not drink.

  ‘I have no earthly idea.’ Chang rubbed his eyes, pushing up the spectacles. He matched Svenson’s sigh, his lips unable to prevent the twitch of a smile. ‘I know that, from all appearances, the arrangement is absurd.’

  Svenson, less than helpfully, did not reply. Chang took the tiny cup in both hands.

  ‘Such constructions cannot exist in the world. In this world. She is impossible. I am impossible. We could not meet. Exist. There is no place for it.’

  ‘And so you hope to find one?’

  Chang shook his head. ‘Every land is the same. Every village has its order. I will be a criminal and Celeste a whore.’

  ‘You are too severe. Money changes minds.’

  ‘Not mine.’

  ‘Then marry.’

  Chang sniffed. ‘She will not.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘She.’

  The Doctor glanced towards the other room, where the tinkering of jars and tins spoke to Miss Temple’s persisting occupation. ‘So you will be tied together, but only by will. Can that last?’

  ‘I have no earthly idea,’ said Chang. ‘I will not be kept.’

  ‘She could not keep you. Nor does she need to – the Vandaariff estate, however entailed – despite everything, there is a quite valid claim, at least for a substantial settlement, and since there is no active rival claimant –’

  ‘Let it rot,’ Chang said coldly. ‘Let it burn and sink like the house.’

  Svenson reached the end of his cigarette and ground it out. He found his cup, half filled and cold. Chang leant forward to pour, self-conscious of the china, the chairs, carpet, brass, his own new boots, creased red trousers, silk waistcoat, white shirt and, hanging behind them on a peg, a newly made long coat of red leather. Small expenses all, yet the whole of his former life had been reclaimed with a scatter of gold coin. Chang set down the pot and now it was he who looked into the other room.

  ‘I understand,’ said Svenson. ‘About the fortune. I even agree.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So you will keep one another. On a ship without destination.’

  ‘She cannot be alone. Your trick took away the corruption that would kill her, but not the other memories, those that derange her … needs.’

  ‘She’s told you?’

  At Chang’s pointed silence the Doctor reddened and fumbled his slim fingers for another cigarette.

  ‘She will need protection. Wherever in the world she goes. She will need a man like me.’ Chang raised his gaze to the ceiling. ‘But she will drive me mad.’

  ‘Only as you will need her,’ observed Svenson. ‘And you were mad already.’

  Miss Temple, certain she had given them more than enough time, sailed back into the parlour with the tissue-wrapped box and settled beaming in the seat near to Chang. Her dress was aubergine wool and her boots again dark green. Despite the nicks and scrapes that still marked her skin, Celeste Temple – Svenson could not but notice, indeed could scarce but look away – glowed with an almost obscenely evident sensuality.

  ‘So,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tenerife?’

  ‘I believe so,’ replied Miss Temple, ‘but there are so many choices. East or West, the Indies or Recife, Zanzibar or Sarawak. And rather several places in between, as you know. Is there only coffee?’

  Chang took up the fatter pot that she knew very well held tea and poured. She watched with pleasure as he then slopped cream into the cup and stirred and passed it to her. She sipped and wrinkled her nose. ‘Lovely. Too long steeped, but that’s what I get for being busy. Doctor Svenson, please, this has just arrived, for you.’

  She held out the little box. Svenson set his cigarette in the dish. He tipped the box to see each side.

  ‘I worried it would not come in time – but, as I let the man know I saw no reason why it should not, it did!’ She laughed. ‘Open it!’

  Svenson pulled at the paper. Miss Temple glanced conspiratorially at Chang, but he watched the Doctor’s face.

  ‘O Celeste.’ Svenson lifted a silver cigarette case. ‘Thank you so much. My other was lost, you know.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ she said. ‘And there is an inscription. “Zum Kapitänchirurgen Abelard Svenson, vom C. T.” ’

  Svenson smiled, somewhat sadly, she saw, to read it. ‘That is almost what it was. But now from you. Thank you, my dear.’

  ‘I did not know the German myself, of course, except from memory.’ />
  ‘It will mean the world to me. Let me fill it now.’

  She smiled to see him take the tin of cigarettes from his pocket and carefully fill the silver case. She turned to Chang. ‘Cardinal Chang has a new walking stick. Very handsome.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ replied Doctor Svenson, somewhat drily.

  Miss Temple smirked at this, for she was no longer so shy, or shy at all. She began to think about when she and Chang could next be together, if there would be time after the Doctor departed – if she would in fact ever see Doctor Svenson again – and what piece of furniture to employ in exactly what manner.

  ‘Did they find her?’ she asked. ‘The Duchess’s men?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Svenson. ‘I have not heard.’

  ‘You would think, with an entire regiment surrounding the house – and going through the house. One injured woman, screaming like a witch?’

  ‘It was the fire,’ said Chang. ‘The fire drove them out and stopped the search.’

  ‘She set that fire,’ said Miss Temple.

  ‘I’m sure she did,’ said Chang. ‘And I would guess she fled to the lower depths, to the river, where no one could follow.’

  Miss Temple sipped her tea, and once more looked at Chang.

  ‘What did you do?’ she asked.

  Svenson closed the case with a snap of its clasp, and tucked it into his tunic pocket. He realized that Chang had not spoken and that the question was in fact for him. ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘When you went to her, Doctor. Why did she stop screaming and then damn you to hell?’

  ‘I believe it was a general curse, aimed at us all. I could do nothing.’

  ‘I thought you had a bit of glass.’

  ‘What? No, no.’

  ‘Well.’

  For a moment no one spoke, the only sounds echoes from outside the cabin, the muffled creak of the vessel, distant voices on the pier. Miss Temple sipped her tea.

  ‘That is not why we are leaving, I assure you. I am not afraid of her, no matter where she is or what she tries to do. I will never be afraid of anything again. I have had enough of it.’