The Chemickal Marriage

black. She recognized each from
The Chemickal Marriage
. Were these sketches to get the correct form? But what made any form correct? Just framing the question made her head throb – and, as she stared, each image seemed to swell, as if drawing life from her attention …
    She rubbed her eyes. When she looked up Miss Temple gasped aloud. How could she not have seen it? It was no star chart at all! With the memory of
The Chemickal Marriage
bright in her mind, she saw every part of its composition – the Bride and Groom, the floating figures, each allegorical flourish – represented on the star chart by a mark of white paint. Schoepfil had found the Comte’s blueprint for the entire canvas! Did he know what it was? Miss Temple tore the chart from the wall, rolling it tight. She looked about her and with a happy cry saw a cylindrical document case, sheathed in leather. She emptied the maps inside onto the floor, slid the parchment away, fitted the cap and then slapped the tube on her open palm, a diminutive boatswain ready to administer Sunday punishment.
    Her smile froze for, until that moment hidden by the document case, her eyes fell across Roger Bascombe’s notebook – taken from her purse and deposited, like any other bit of evidence, in Schoepfil’s trove. Her regret at having lost it unread rose within her, but now Miss Temple thrust it down. That life was done. She would be free of it, by force of will if nothing else. She snatched up the notebook and wrenched at the cover. The fibres of its binding gave and with another tug came free. Miss Temple hurled both vanquished halves at the wall.
    Abruptly she shoved a pile of Doctor Lorenz’s notes off the table, where it exploded like feathers burst from a seam-ripped pillow. In quick order therest of the papers followed. Between two stacks of books nestled a pair of fountain pens and bottle of black ink. With a grin she uncorked the ink bottle and flung the contents in wet bolts across the papered floor. She opened the books wide and heaped them together, tearing what pages she could on the way. She yanked the maps and canvases from the wall and balled them up atop the books. The painting of the hands she rolled into a tube and shoved its paint-clogged end into the gaslight sconce.
    She glanced at the door. Were those footsteps? They were. The knob was turned, but the chair held, catching on the floorboards. The knob was worked again, and then the key tried. The tip of the canvas blackened and began to curl. The door was pushed with force. Flame crawled up the canvas, turning green and blue as it licked the coloured paints. Miss Temple stepped to the table, the door now rattling hard, and plunged the flaming tip into the pile of papers, maps, canvases and books.
    ‘Open this door!’ shouted Mr Kelling. ‘Who is there?’
    He flung himself against the door, the chair skidding back an inch. The flame leapt across the maps with a sudden hunger. Kelling’s hand came through the gap, groping to dislodge the chair. Curls of white smoke climbed the wall. Miss Temple slipped into the servant’s passage. Holding the leather tube in both hands, she began to run.
    Her face glowed with the pleasure of mayhem. How long they must have searched to gather those artefacts together! Even if Kelling could smother the fire – she knew from childhood how hard it was to burn a book, especially a thick one – she’d ruined so
many
pages. She laughed at the hours needed to sort it back to sense – and who knew, perhaps it
would
catch after all!
    She tumbled into the brightness of the main corridors. The danger of being recognized and denounced for Lady Hopton’s death was as real as the prospect of Mr Kelling’s appearing at her heels, yet exhilaration lent an air of invulnerability. What was more, something in the atmosphere of the Royal Thermæ had changed. The crowds seeking favour had dispersed. In their place were preoccupied individuals rushing in opposite directions. No one paid her the slightest mind, and when her path was crossed by officialsor soldiers, they cared even less than the guests. What had happened while she’d been in the stable?
    Shouts echoed behind her and a glance showed a gang of men in shirtsleeves, faces black with ash. She prudently retreated to an empty reception room whose walls were hung with red draperies. The far door abruptly opened.
    ‘
Stop!
’
    Miss Temple froze. The uniformed man with his hand on the knob did not see her, his