The Chemickal Marriage

make your introduction, the interview is terminated. Now, the attiring rooms are here …’
    The older lady opened another oval door and lifted her dress, stepping over the sill. The Contessa went next, eyes darting once behind. Miss Temple glanced in turn, curious to catch Lord Axewith’s reaction, but Lord Axewith was tapping at the clouded face of his pocket watch. It was Colonel Bronque who met Miss Temple’s gaze, his eyes as dull as two tarnished coins.
    ‘You will be collected. Do not forget the Duchess’s signal.’ Their guide’s voice sank to a vicious warning. ‘
And do not stare.
’
    As she stalked off, female attendants appeared, one for each of them.
    ‘Stare at what?’
    ‘At
whom
, Celeste. Pay attention.’
    The attiring room’s floor was yellowed marble, its walls pebbled with paint blisters. The air was moist and warm, as if they were calling upon the Queen at her laundry – an impression reinforced by the attendants gently guiding them to alcoves hung with linen curtains. Inside stood a wardrobe. A touch from her attendant had Miss Temple sitting on a wooden stool.
    ‘If the lady would lean her head …’
    Miss Temple did so and the attendant gathered up her curls. To her left, the Contessa’s brilliant black hair disappeared into a deftly wound white towel that was quickly pinned up like a Turk’s.
    ‘If the lady would straighten …’
    Miss Temple, her hair tucked tightly away, felt fingers picking down her back. In a trice her dress had been unlaced. The attendant tugged at the ties of her corset, and then removed her shift. The attendants unlaced the ladies’ boots and peeled each stockinged leg until both women sat, apart from their turbaned heads, completely nude. The Contessa kept a grip on Miss Temple, squeezing hard.
    ‘Do you recall what we spoke of, Celeste, in the coach?’
    Miss Temple quite helplessly shook her head.
    ‘We spoke of
redemption
– and a certain person you claimed to care for. You quite correctly assumed an ulterior reason for your visit to the tomb. My friend Oskar was new to this city when he received that particular commission. Given all he went on to achieve, the project seems but a trifle and even he – or
especially
he – may have dismissed his efforts. And yet – pay
attention
, Celeste – you should know that every artist is a cannibal, feeding relentlessly on those around them, yet feeding on
themselves
even more. Do you see? You went
there
because, if you will forgive the figure, those oldest bones may make a reappearance on our evening’s menu.’
    The attendants had gone, and each woman stood in a muslin bathing costume, sleeveless, their legs bare from the knee. Miss Temple rocked on cork-soled slippers. She tried her best to recall the details of the Vandaariff tomb, but her fragile concentration was undermined by the Contessa’s nearness and her insidious frangipani scent. The tip of the Contessa’s scar arched like a comet from under her shoulder strap. Miss Temple tottered closer, the muslin rough on the tip of each breast. Her breath touched the Contessa’s skin. The Contessa was speaking. She could not follow the words. She could not stop herself from leaning forward –
    The Contessa slapped Miss Temple hard across the cheek. Miss Temple staggered, but kept her feet.
    ‘Wake up. If you ruin this, I’ll have you skinned.’
    ‘I am perfectly well.’ Miss Temple swallowed. ‘I will be the one skinning
you
.’
    ‘Say nothing if you can help it. Respectful silence, pliant nubility –
listen
to me.’ She reached out and pinched Miss Temple’s nipple. Miss Temple squeaked. ‘And don’t
stare
.’
    ‘Stare at what?’ Miss Temple whimpered.
    The Contessa turned to the opening door and slipped into a curtsy Miss Temple just managed to echo.
    ‘
Signora
.’
    It did not seem that the portly, grey-haired woman in the doorway approved of the Contessa, any more than she enjoyed her unflattering bathing costume, soaked through and dripping.
    ‘Your Grace,’ murmured the Contessa.
    The Duchess of Cogstead exhaled without pleasure. ‘Follow.’
    The sanctum of squalid fairies, a cavern where gaslight laid a uric shimmer across the surface of the water. Miss Temple’s attention darted between the women in the pools, floating with the stolid determination of pondering frogs, and the hundreds more that stood along the walls, eyes lit with envy at those immersed – young and old, thin and fat, pink, pale, mottled, brown