The Chemickal Marriage

Doctor Svenson.’
    ‘How did he acquire her?’
    ‘At the Palace. The Contessa had hidden her.’
    ‘That isn’t true.’
    The words hung there. Phelps glanced desperately at Chang. Foison’s grip shifted on the knife. Chang knew it was a test, exerting pressure to establish how far he would go to preserve Phelps. Chang kept his face empty. If he made up anything now, it would make matters worse. Foison flicked his head, flipping a lock of white hair from his eyes. ‘Tell me about the painting.’
    ‘Which painting?’
    ‘You know very well.’
    Another test – Chang had no idea what Phelps had already confessed. ‘Anewspaper clipping. From the
Herald
, critiquing an art salon, especially a painting of the Comte d’Orkancz entitled
The Chemickal Marriage
–’
    ‘And you saw this painting yourself?’
    ‘None of us did.’
    ‘I will ask you once more. Did you see this painting?’
    ‘No. The salon was in Vienna.’
    The knife sliced through the earlobe. Phelps shrieked and hopped against his bonds. The gash streamed blood, the severed nub of flesh somewhere on the floor.
    ‘The salon burnt down with the painting in it!’ Chang shouted. ‘The clipping came from the Contessa – if you want to know more, ask her!’
    Foison ignored his anger. ‘Again, please, how did you acquire Francesca Trapping?’
    ‘I didn’t! We were separated in the Palace – when I found Svenson, he had the child –’
    ‘So Doctor Svenson had seen the Contessa?’
    ‘If he had, she would have killed him.’
    ‘She did not kill
you
.’
    ‘Doctor Svenson would have given her no choice. She murdered the woman he loved, Elöise Dujong.’
    ‘So he stole the Contessa’s property – this child – out of revenge?’
    ‘You do not know Svenson. He rescued a child in danger.’
    ‘Has the child been mistreated?’
    ‘You saw her yourself, you damned ghoul. She’s been poisoned by that glass book. By your filthy master. Who’s no more Robert Vandaariff than I’m the Pope – or you’re the God damned Queen!’
    The door opened, and Robert Vandaariff tottered in. He had aged even since the Customs House, his face grey and his bony fingers fiercely gripping the head of his cane. His throat was wrapped in a neck cloth, but a red bruise extended past its white border. Harcourt slipped in behind, eyes darting covetously between Chang and Mr Phelps.
    ‘Time ticks on,’ Vandaariff announced blandly. ‘Close the door, Mr Harcourt. We have no need of soldiers.’
    ‘But, my lord, your safety – Cardinal Chang –’
    ‘Is tied to a chair. Mr Foison will preserve me. Will you not trust him, too?’
    With a gesture somehow grudging and haughty at the same time, Harcourt sniffed at the grenadiers and shut the door in their faces.
    ‘And the
lock
,’ added Vandaariff.
    Harcourt turned the bolt. A curl of dread climbed Cardinal Chang’s spine. He had returned himself to this madman’s power. Every impulse cried out to fight, but he’d thrown away the chance.
    ‘Do you have … headaches?’
    Chang did not answer, and then Vandaariff repeated the question, turning to Harcourt.
    ‘Mr Harcourt? The pains – they grieve you, yes?’
    ‘Beg pardon, my lord –’
    ‘I think they must. Speak freely.’
    Harcourt shuffled back a step, aware of everyone watching. ‘Perhaps, my lord – but, given the crisis, regular sleep is impossible – much less regular meals –’
    Vandaariff tapped Harcourt’s forehead with a knuckled claw. ‘
There
. Is it not?’
    Harcourt smiled awkwardly.
    ‘And your eyes … have you seen your eyes, Mr Harcourt?’
    ‘No, sir. Should I?’
    ‘Take off your glove.’
    Chang had not noticed the gloves: a self-important prig like Harcourt would naturally wear them. Harcourt squeezed his hands together.
    ‘I know already that your nails are yellow, Matthew. That the cuticles bleed, that gripping a pen gives you pain.’
    ‘Lord Robert –’
    ‘Not to worry, my boy. I also know what to do about it.’
    Harcourt gushed with relief. ‘Do you?’
    Vandaariff drew a handkerchief and laid it on Harcourt’s open palm. Harcourt gently plucked the handkerchief apart. When a blue glass card was revealed, Harcourt went pale, licking his lips.
    ‘You have met such an object before.’
    ‘Excuse me, my lord – it is difficult – ah – it is extremely difficult –’
    ‘Take it up, Matthew.’
    ‘I dare not – I cannot – given the current –’
    ‘I insist.’
    Harcourt’s