The Chemickal Marriage

liquid that dissolved the glass into phlegm, so it could be expelled. But even if we possessed that mixture –’
    ‘Bloodstone,’ Francesca croaked.
    ‘Bloodstone?’ Svenson had never heard the name.
    ‘An al-alch …’ She stumbled on the words with an unhappy squeak. ‘…
alchemical
catalyst.’
    ‘Compounded out of what – what elements?’
    Francesca choked again, spraying Svenson’s coat. Mahmoud turned on Trooste. ‘Do you have any on hand? Bloodstone?’
    ‘Lord Vandaariff has procured a broad range of chemicals –’
    Trooste indicated an apothecary’s cabinet, a tall draught-board of tiny drawers. Mahmoud leapt to it, opening an entire row. Svenson carried the child over, so she might peer inside, but Francesca shook her head at each. Her eyes were wandering and wild. Mahmoud slammed the drawers as they went and wrenched at the next row.
    ‘What does it
look
like?’ he asked.
    ‘The liquid was orange,’ said Svenson. ‘I have seen an orange metal as well, but that was refined, and no doubt an alloy –’
    Francesca dismissed this row as well. Mahmoud set upon another and growled at Trooste, ‘Have you
no
idea?’
    ‘I am sorry, good fellow,’ Trooste replied. ‘Lord Vandaariff is not one to share a secret. Naturally I regret Mrs Kraft’s condition – she has been a friend to the Institute – although, as a
regular
visitor, and I am not alone in this opinion, one might merit a
reduction
–’
    Mahmoud squared on Trooste, but Svenson caught his fist before it could swing. The sudden gesture loosened his grip on the girl and she sagged forward. Francesca inhaled, nostrils flaring, and began to whine like a chastened pup. The nearest drawer was filled with brownish rock. Svenson held a chunk to her nose. She gagged and squirmed away, unable to breathe.
    ‘You will kill her,’ cried Trooste. ‘Jesus Lord –’
    Svenson ignored him. ‘Francesca! What do we
do
? How do we use it?’
    Francesca met his eyes, fearfully, plaintively, and opened her mouth wide, as if she were showing him a broken tooth. Black fluid poured down her chin.
    ‘Dear God!’ Trooste protested.
    ‘It is nothing at all,’ Svenson snarled. ‘Mahmoud – bloodstone – mortar and pestle, grind it as fine as gunpowder –’ He thrust a finger at one of the brass gearboxes. ‘Professor Trooste, we will need
that
machine. Make it ready at once.’
    ‘You have no idea –’
    ‘Move, damn you!’
    ‘The smell …’ Francesca’s voice was a stricken complaint. Svenson wiped her face.
    ‘Do not mark it, my dear – two minutes more and we shall whisk you to clean air –’
    ‘The smell …’
    ‘Yes, I am so sorry –’
    ‘The smell is
when
.’
    Francesca’s eyes rolled back into her skull.
    The child lay shivering in Svenson’s greatcoat. She would not revive.
    ‘A terrible shock,’ he muttered, ‘a marvel she could help as she did. We will let the poor thing rest, and get her to safety as soon as possible.’
    Mahmoud’s silence was its own condemnation, but the steady grind of the pestle bespoke the man’s determination. Trooste cleared his throat into a closed pink hand.
    ‘I believe Mrs Kraft would be better restored with a garlic soup.’
    Mahmoud merely lifted the mortar with the pounded bloodstone for Svenson to see.
    ‘That is excellent, I’m sure. If Professor Trooste will deign to assist …’
    Trooste did so, adjusting the brass knobs on a gearbox, though not without a glance at the door. Mahmoud’s worry seemed no less acute.
    ‘Why has no one come?’
    ‘We do not know what has happened in the courtyard.’ Svenson poured a handful of ground bloodstone into the gearbox.
    Trooste frowned. ‘If there were a crisis, Mr Foison would have told me.’
    ‘He trusts you that much?’
    ‘He trusts no one – but Lord Vandaariff has shown every confidence. Why not stop all of this and let me address him on your behalf?’
    Svenson made sure of the hoses and wires. The black rubber mask left only Mrs Kraft’s mouth exposed to breathe. Trooste inserted a heavy lozenge of blue glass into the crucible chamber. Svenson connected the copper wire to the crucible leads.
    ‘Mahmoud, please step back from the table.’
    ‘What will happen to her?’ asked Mahmoud. ‘All of this wizardry –’
    ‘She will be cured.’
    ‘She won’t,’ declared Trooste.
    ‘Correct me if I am wrong, Professor.
This
’ – Svenson pointed to a switch inside the wooden box – ‘ignites the