The Chemickal Marriage

hand.
    They met the carriage in front of the hotel.
    ‘No word from Mr Pfaff,’ Miss Temple said, and handed her aunt’s novel to Doctor Svenson, who opened it to reveal the red envelopes. ‘You all ought to look into the glass, in case you recognize the building it shows.’
    Phelps studied the newspaper clipping. ‘Is it worth a stop at the
Herald
? The complete text might tell us where to find the painting, and thus the man.’ He saw the glass in Svenson’s lap and swallowed with discomfort. ‘I will never see that shade of blue without a headache. Are you sure it is safe?’
    ‘Of course I am.’
    Svenson looked up from the glass and blinked. ‘I have no idea what this is.’ He offered the envelope to Mr Brine. ‘Just look into it; do not let the experience surprise you.’
    ‘You seemed so sure they are watching us,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Still, we remain unmolested. Can it be they do not
care
?’
    ‘Perhaps they know where we will go,’ offered Svenson.
    ‘But how?’ asked Phelps. ‘Do we?’
    ‘If they have captured Cunsher or Mr Pfaff, they may know enough. Or’ – Svenson flicked a fingernail against the red envelope in his hand – ‘they have laid an irresistible path for us to follow.’
    Phelps sighed. ‘Like visiting the
Herald
.’
    Miss Temple turned to Mr Brine, lost in the blue card, and gently tapped his shoulder. Brine started and the envelope slipped off his knees, deftly caught by Doctor Svenson. Brine at once began to apologize.
    ‘There is no harm,’ Miss Temple said quickly. ‘The blue glass is
immersive
. Did you recognize anything?’
    Brine shook his head. Miss Temple wished he might say something clever, feeling that his dull presence reflected on her. Mr Phelps steadied himself to enter the glass. He came out of it moments later with a sneeze – again the Doctor saving the glass from breakage – eyes watering and his nose gone red. Phelps dug for a handkerchief and mopped his face.
    ‘My constitution has been spoilt. Dreadful stuff.’ He blew his nose. ‘But, no, I’ve no idea of the place, save to say it looks
large
.’
    ‘Could it be a portion of Harschmort?’ asked Miss Temple.
    ‘It could be anything.’
    ‘
Anything
can be anything.’ Miss Temple slumped back in her seat, taking in the passing street. ‘Why are we riding to the Ministries?’
    ‘We’re not,’ Phelps protested, ‘not
strictly
– yet I had thought, perhaps, if we did waylay Harcourt –’
    ‘Ridiculous,’ said Miss Temple. ‘I did not spend a miserable night in hiding to deliver myself to Ministry guards. By your own logic, we are in this coach – at liberty – because our enemies allow it. The Contessa has sent these envelopes to spur us to action. That means she must be desperate.’
    ‘If it were so pressing, her hints would be
clearer
.’
    ‘Perhaps they are clearer than we know,’ said Svenson. ‘A clipping about the Comte’s painting and an architectural plan – in glass, which links it too with the Comte. May we suppose the structure is the home of the painting?’
    ‘Then must we visit the
Herald
after all?’
    ‘Possibly,’ continued Svenson, ‘yet if the Contessa possessed the entire clipping, why send only this part?’
    ‘To force us to visit the newspaper.’
    ‘Or the opposite,’ replied Svenson. ‘She could have given the whole page. Do you see – in reducing the text she also omits extraneous facts that might distract us.’
    ‘You speak as if she can be trusted!’ cried Phelps.
    ‘Never in life, but her actions can be deduced from her appetites, like any predator’s.’
    Miss Temple plucked the clipping from Mr Brine, who currently held it. She reread the text and then turned it over. At once she snorted with disgust.
    ‘I am an outright ass.’ She held the scrap of paper out for them to see. ‘Our destination is Raaxfall.’
    Phelps gave an exasperated sigh and looked to the Doctor for support. ‘That is an advertisement for scalp tonic.’
    ‘
Yes
,’ said Miss Temple, ‘look at the
words
.’
    ‘Scalp? Tonic?’
    ‘No, no –’
    Phelps read aloud. ‘New guaranteed formula for medical relief! From Monsieur Henri’s Parisian factory! A recipe for healing, restored vitality and new growth!’
    Miss Temple stabbed her finger at the paper. ‘Factory – medical – formula – healing – new growth! Those words – in reference to the Comte d’Orkancz –’
    ‘But they aren’t in reference –’
    ‘
He
is on the