The Chemickal Marriage

crucible. The initial charge sent through the glass is amplified by passage around the chamber and feeds back again into the gearbox. There the collected charge reacts with the bloodstone, and – when the gearbox valve is opened – infuses the subject with its properties.’
    ‘That is the map of it,’ replied Trooste. ‘But a map is only half of the matter. How much bloodstone? You’re only guessing. Just as you take the word of an incoherent child that it’s bloodstone to begin with – or that bloodstone isn’t fatal. How long do you wait before opening the valve? Not long enough, and the force is too weak. Too long, and the charge alone will kill her.’
    Mahmoud looked to Svenson for an answer. He had none.
    ‘That is the truth!’ Trooste snapped.
    ‘Why did that woman send you?’ Mahmoud’s question was a dagger between Svenson’s ribs. ‘Madelaine Kraft is nothing to her. I cannot believe in her kindness.’
    Svenson spread his open palms. ‘I do not ask you to.’
    ‘Then you are here to kill her?’
    ‘If that were true, why drag you all this way?’
    ‘For your science.’
    ‘Not mine, Mahmoud.’
    ‘She will die on this table,’ insisted Trooste.
    ‘She will never heal as things stand,’ said Svenson gently. ‘She will waste to nothing.’
    Mahmoud gazed helplessly at the woman, limbs bound and face obscured, only the red mouth visible. In an instant of clarity Svenson saw the isolated line of Madelaine Kraft’s jaw exactly mirrored on Mahmoud’s younger, darker face. He was her son.
    ‘Do it.’ Mahmoud’s voice fell flat and hopeless. ‘She would rather die than live like this. Do it now.’
    Svenson pulled the switch. A rattle of current, like a rolling volley of musket-fire, leapt along the lines of copper wire, and the sharp stench of indigo clay burnt the air. The metal pipes that covered the walls took up the vibrations, escalating until the entire chamber throbbed with a deafening roar. Svenson clapped his hands over his ears, but it did not stop the pain. Like a fool he remembered the Comte’s brass helmets – and there they were, across the chamber, in a row. If only either he or Trooste had known what they were doing! But it was too late to reach them. Madelaine Kraft’s limbs tore against the restraints and her mouth gaped in an unheard howl. Mahmoud had a fist in his mouth, eyes fixed on his mother. Svenson lurched to the gearbox, ready to open the valve. Trooste tugged at his tunic, waving frantically. Svenson shook his head. Trooste tugged again. Madelaine Kraft arched her spine, rising off the table, higher, higher, until it seemed her bones must snap –
    He almost missed it, between Trooste’s attempts to shove him aside and the hammering noise, so loud he could scarcely link one thought to another. The current flooded the bloodstone, shaking the bolts that held the gearbox – then there it was, a burst of scent, bittersweet and musky, a rawness in his nostrils –
    The smell is
when
.
    Svenson opened the valve. The black hoses flared to life. Madelaine Kraft’s twisting body went stiff, fingers splayed, jaw wide, the waves of force pouring through –
    The current from the gearbox died as quickly as a candle flame, the bloodstone spent. Trooste leapt forward, closed the valve and groped in the boxfor the switch. The roar in the pipes fell away. The blackened wires snapped their final sparks and set to gently smoking.
    Svenson fell to the table, ears pounding. Mrs Kraft’s pulse was racing but strong. With a cry of relief he waved Mahmoud to him and together they peeled the mask from her face. She bore welts where it had pressed into her skin, but her eyes … her eyes shone with a life Doctor Svenson had not previously seen.
    ‘Mrs Kraft?’ He could not hear himself, but it did not matter. She nodded. Mahmoud freed her limbs and raised her to sit.
    ‘Merciful heaven,’ she managed. ‘I have been at the bottom of the sea. O my dear boy.’
    She buried her face in Mahmoud’s shoulder and his strong arms pulled her close. Mahmoud leant down, face to her hair, a spill of tears on his dark cheek.
    ‘Now,’ Mahmoud whispered. ‘Now we pay them back.’
    Svenson hurried to Francesca. The girl was cold to the touch, her breath shallow. He tapped her cheek to no response.
    ‘Is she alive?’ asked Trooste.
    ‘Of course she is!’ Svenson crossed to the still-open square drawer and heaped another load of bloodstone into the mortar. He sat on a bench