The Chemickal Marriage

to
theatre
.’
    ‘Like the Chemickal Marriage?’
    She did not answer, for the white door of the mansion opened and a dozen green-coated soldiers poured forth. Behind them came a man whose Ministry-black topcoat belied his young face and fair hair. He stabbed an arm at the Contessa.
    ‘That woman is wanted by the Crown! Seize her!’
    Four soldiers broke forward. Chang only raised his hands.
    The Contessa’s nostrils flared with rage. ‘I will cut off that man’s –’ But then the soldiers had seized her arms.
    ‘The pride – the pride of it!’ Harcourt’s voice shook. ‘Truly, madam, are you so brazen? So arrogant to think no one might withstand you?’
    ‘Release her.’
    Foison stood far away in the open door, but his voice stopped the soldiers cold. Harcourt stamped up the steps like a schoolboy.
    ‘I beg your pardon! I am Deputy to the Privy Council – and this woman –
this woman
–’
    ‘Release her.’
    ‘Do you know Mr Foison?’ Chang ventured.
    ‘I had hoped he would be elsewhere,’ replied the Contessa. ‘But now I prize him above all other minions.’
    It was clear that Harcourt was terrified of Foison, but the young man hadenough pride – at least for his office – to stand firm. ‘This woman is a murderer, a spy, a saboteur –’
    ‘There is an arrangement,’ Foison corrected him, menacingly calm. ‘If that woman steps through these doors – I do hope you understand me – you will answer for Lord Vandaariff’s displeasure.’
    Harcourt wavered. ‘But – but surely she may be brought in – or if not brought in – surely remanded to the Marcelline –’
    ‘No.’
    Harcourt wavered and in the silence his authority gave way. The Contessa gently extracted herself from the soldiers. Harcourt wheeled to her, his slim hands balled to fists.
    ‘It is not finished, madam! You will be taken – you will be hanged!’
    The Contessa whispered to Chang, ‘
Au revoir
. Remember your pledge.’
    ‘Remember yours.’
    ‘Celeste Temple will be delivered to Doctor Svenson.’
    ‘Alive.’
    The Contessa laughed. ‘
Stickler
.’ She dipped her head and walked away.
    Chang knew she was lying, and that Celeste would be delivered to whomever the Contessa found most advantageous, or – in the absence of any advantage at all – to a grave. It made managing his mission now all the more vital. He noted with satisfaction a bruise below Foison’s eye.
    Foison relieved Chang of his stick, tugged it open and studied the blade. Chang gestured at her receding figure. ‘If only my stick were half as deadly.’
    One corner of Foison’s mouth twitched to acknowledge the remark. Ignoring Harcourt, Foison nodded to the soldiers and Chang was escorted inside.
    The renovations were not limited to the exterior. The carpets had been piled against a wall, and the floorboards were slippery with plaster dust. Harcourt disappeared with Foison deeper into the house. Despite a slammed door, their muffled argument reached Chang where he waited. He turned to his nearest guard.
    ‘A soldier cannot love taking orders from a rich man’s secretary – especially a man like that. An
Asiatic
.’
    ‘Aren’t you a Chinaman yourself?’
    ‘That’s why I
know
.’
    The soldier peered more closely at Chang. ‘
Are
you a Chinaman?’
    Foison reappeared, still carrying Chang’s stick. ‘Hold his arms. Search him.’
    The findings were presented to Foison, arrayed on the green-coat’s open palms like a tray: razor, money, key, the prison writ, the samples of glass from Pfaff’s room, including the broken key.
    ‘Dispose of it. Bring him in.’
    A man had been bound to a high-backed wooden chair, a canvas bag over his head. His once-starched shirt was stained with blood, some dried rust-brown, some still a festive red. Whatever he had endured, it had spanned hours.
    The man, whose head rose at their entrance, became more agitated at Foison’s approaching footsteps, pulling on the ropes that held him fast. Foison’s voice remained characteristically soft, with an absence of intent that nearly seemed kind.
    ‘Someone to help you.’
    The captive’s bare feet kicked against the cords. His voice was smothered by the bag. ‘Stop your torments! No one has come!’
    ‘By God – you have won your way with Lacquer-Sforza, but here you do trespass, Mr Foison! That man is
mine
!’
    Harcourt stood in the doorway with several Ministry men, reinforcements muttering at their superior’s collar.
    Foison nodded