The Chemickal Marriage

with a bullet through the Duke’s heart, and his corpse’s resuscitation, by virtue of the blue glass, as a walking, croaking puppet.
    The Comte’s recollections flooded Miss Temple’s brain. She inhaled through her nose, the acrid steam clarifying her mind.
    ‘By accident, Your Majesty, I became separated from my fiancé, Roger Bascombe, who, before his untimely death, was to be the next Lord Tarr –’
    The Queen squinted – there were so
many
lords.
    The Contessa gripped her waist. ‘Her Majesty’s
brother
, Celeste …’
    ‘Just so. I was lost, you see, and the house so very large. I entered a strange room – and who else was in it but the Duke of Stäelmaere? He waved me to silence, and I saw that one entire wall was made of glass. We gazed into another room full of people, and not one of them paid the least attention, though we were as near as I to you. The glass was a one-sided mirror!’
    ‘Wicked invention.’ The Queen squirmed in her seat. ‘
Wicked
.’
    ‘
Very
wicked,’ agreed Miss Temple. ‘And through the mirror we watched a
parade
of distinguished figures, bowing and scraping to the same person, as if he were a king. At each fawning suitor the Duke clenched his fist as if to say “Damn you for a traitor, Lord Whatsit!” When the last had gone, His Grace swore me to secrecy, promising justice would be done.’
    The Queen furrowed an already layered brow. ‘But who … who was the
person
in the other room?’
    ‘I
do
beg your pardon,’ said Miss Temple, doing her best to imitate the Contessa’s tone. ‘I was at Harschmort House, of course, and the man the Duke caught planning to overthrow Your Majesty’s government was Lord Robert Vandaariff.’
    The ladies at the pool’s edge fell silent. ‘My intent is to warn Your Majesty of the threat to your own person,’ offered the Contessa. ‘Until now, we had put our faith in Lord Pont-Joule –’
    ‘And Lady Axewith,’ added Miss Temple rather boldly.
    ‘
Lady
Axewith, yes. Her husband, I fear, may be too naive for the role that has been thrust upon him. In his ignorance, the Privy Minister seems little more than Robert Vandaariff’s confidential secretary …’
    ‘Poppy?’
    The Queen was querulous. The Duchess swam to her. ‘You are safe, Your Majesty –’
    ‘Won’t see anyone! Won’t talk to a soul! Won’t sign a scrap!’
    ‘Of course not, Majesty. But if we can get news of Lady Axewith –’
    The Contessa tugged at Miss Temple’s bathing costume, signalling their subtle retreat.
    ‘Says she’s
poisoned
!’ hissed the Queen.
    ‘
We
will send word, Your Majesty, and hurry to Lady Axewith,’ the Contessa offered. ‘But I do urge every precaution be taken with regard to your person.
The threat is grave
.’
    The Queen groaned aloud and began to flail, her attendants moaning in choric sympathy. The Duchess pleaded uselessly for order. The Contessa hauled Miss Temple from the pool.
    ‘Meet no one’s eye, do not hurry, do not speak.’ They had not reached the doorway before details of Vandaariff’s plot echoed around them, rebounding in a dozen more dire variations. In the attiring room, the Contessa flung Miss Temple to an attendant and hurried to her own, the buttons of her bathing costume ripped free, dancing on the floor.
    ‘My dress!’ she barked at an attendant, and then to Miss Temple, ‘Stop staring, you imbecile! Move!’
    But Miss Temple could not move: too much was happening too quickly. Her bathing costume was stripped away and her skin chuffed to vigorous life by the attendant’s strong hands – hands that thrust the towel without apology, like a dog’s prodding nose, into every tender crevice. Again the Contessa stood nude, arms up, tearing the white turban and shaking her dark curls free. Her breasts shifted with the movement, a sketching measure of their soft weight, and with a whimper Miss Temple arched to her toes. Heedless of her distress, the Contessa primped with a practised economy, while the attendant worked the first stocking up her leg and towards the tangle of black hair.
    ‘With luck, if your Mr Pfaff is not a total donkey …’
    Miss Temple shut her eyes, yet in her mind she knew more, too much, the tips of her fingers tingled, a pearling cleft, her tongue –
    In utter frustration Miss Temple slapped her thighs until the white skin burnt with the imprint of each hand. The attendant retreated, in fear. The Contessa caught Miss Temple’s wrists.
    ‘
Celeste
.’
    Miss