The Chemickal Marriage

and veined. The mineral smell grew sharper as they walked, for the Duchess took them to the thick of the steam, to a wide bath whose far side lay in a cloud. She waded in, first down hidden steps and then, like a lumbering seal finding its ease, gliding gracefully to the centre of the pool. The Duchess stopped before a seat of mineral-glazed brass. Its equally substantial occupant – wide, fat, paste-coloured – was obscured by four servants, each tending to one floating, bloated limb. As the pool’s denizens watched, these servants wrapped and rewrapped their respective arm or leg with strips of cheesecloth, smearing between layers a greasy balm on their patient’s putrid, honeycombed skin.
    The Contessa stabbed a nail into Miss Temple’s palm and she obediently dropped her eyes to the water. The Duchess spoke too quietly to hear – the hissing pipes, the low voices, the lapping pools, all rebounded off the tile in a buzz. Miss Temple leant closer to the Contessa’s towel-wrapped ear. She wanted to ask why she was here, why she had been saved, what the Contessa hoped to gain from a despised monarch who, if one could credit popular opinion, cared less about the state of her nation than Miss Temple, a keeneater of scones, cared about grinding flour. But what she whispered instead was this: ‘Why does everyone here
dislike
you?’
    The Contessa replied from the corner of her mouth. ‘Of
all
people, you should know that counts for nothing.’
    ‘
I
have never cared.’
    ‘Lying scrub.’
    ‘She will not grant your request.’
    ‘I request
nothing
.’
    The Queen gave the Duchess her reply, a sibilant fussing that ended in a flip of one puffed hand, and the Duchess extended a formal wave to where they waited. The Contessa descended into the pool, allowing the water to reach her breasts before extending both arms with a pleasing smile and pushing forward. Miss Temple advanced more slowly. The water was very hot and contained an unexpected effervescence. She sank to her chin and pinched herself. The Duchess made the Contessa’s introduction.
    ‘Rosamonde, Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza, Your Majesty. An
Italian
gentlewoman.’
    ‘I am much honoured by Your Majesty’s attention,’ the Contessa murmured.
    The Queen’s eyes in their leprous folds showed all the emotion of a toad.
    ‘And the Contessa’s companion,’ continued the Duchess. ‘A Miss
Celestial
Temple.’
    Miss Temple bobbed her head, fixing her eyes on the floating basket that held cheesecloth and the greasy cruets.
    ‘I do not see
why
,’ wheezed the Queen in complaint. ‘Why should I see anyone when I am not
well
.’
    The Duchess gave the Contessa a dark glare. ‘I am told the news is
important
.’
    No one spoke. The water lapped against the tiles. The Queen huffed.
    ‘Funny … thing.’ The words came out in exhalations, as if the effort to form full sentences had been lost with her health, grammar perishing alongside mobility and hope. ‘Always to mind with an Italian. Roman honey. Gift from Sultan. Arab? African? Poppy?’
    ‘Her Majesty’s memory is far superior to mine,’ said the Duchess.
    ‘Sealed jug. Inch of wax if there was a dab – common clay pot – came with ribbons. Velvet sack. African velvet must be rare. I hope no one stole it, Poppy.’
    ‘I will consult the
inventory
, ma’am.’
    ‘Everyone steals everything. Italy?
Italy
.’ She poked a finger, thick as a gauze-wrapped candle stub, at the Contessa. ‘Jar of honey from the bottom of the sea. Roman ship, sunk by …’ The Queen paused, snorted. ‘
Whales
. Wicked. Whales eat anything. Still good. On account of the wax. Thousand-year-old honey. Ancient bees. My tenth year in the seat, or twelfth. Nothing like it on earth, rare as … rare as …’
    ‘Milk from a snake, ma’am?’ offered a lady clustered behind the Duchess.
    ‘
Never
,’ growled the Queen. ‘Notion’s absurd.’ The servants took her subsequent silence as an opportunity to work, wiping the mottled skin with a sponge and spreading a new strip of cloth, the yellow oil seething through the weave.
    ‘Did Your Majesty enjoy the honey?’ the Contessa asked demurely.
    ‘Ate it all with a spoon.’ The Queen wrinkled one eye against a bead of sweat. ‘Lady Axewith says I must see you.’
    ‘Lady Axewith is extremely kind.’
    ‘Bothersome scold. Husband should switch her raw.’ The Queen grunted. ‘
Venice
.’
    ‘Your Majesty’s memory is very fine,’ replied the