The Chemickal Marriage

– she said the realm was under attack. The
realm
.’
    ‘O stuff,’ muttered Schoepfil. ‘On
and
on …’
    ‘Robert Vandaariff is Our Majesty’s enemy. I do not know who is strong enough to stand against him – hush, Mr Nordling, your loyalty is noted – save perhaps these criminals. Mr Schoepfil, and this Italian murderess –’
    ‘And
that
German spy,’ observed Schoepfil, ‘awaiting the noose in two lands.’
    The Duchess looked to Svenson with dismay.
    ‘No tale is completely true, Your Grace. What can be done, will be.’ Svenson tipped his head. ‘And then – only then – will I consent to hang.’
    ‘Leather-skinned valise,’ growled Schoepfil. ‘Interfering sheepdog. Did you see the hairs on her chin? In her
ears
? Less a duchess than a horse blanket.’ He pounded on the ceiling and shouted to the coachman. ‘Run them down! There is a curfew!
They
are in the wrong!’
    They had extracted themselves from the Thermæ without issue, swift passage assured by the same duchess Schoepfil now hotly condemned.
    ‘To call
you
a criminal, sir,’ added Kelling. ‘And in such company.’
    ‘She will answer, Mr Kelling. Every last one will answer for every last thing. I have
friends
.’ Schoepfil sniffed at Svenson, who sat next to the crate of papers. ‘The way of the world, after all. Chemical equivalencies. Do you understand my meaning?’
    ‘Alchemy?’
    ‘You disapprove!’ Schoepfil laughed. ‘The fact is, so do I! And yet –
and yet
!’ He twirled a hand with a flourish. ‘My uncle is not, in fact, a fool!’
    Schoepfil turned his attention to Kelling, who nodded with a professional deliberation, memorizing his master’s commands. Svenson shut his eyes. His last cigarette had been sacrificed to calm his nerves after the Contessa’s departure. A foolish indulgence, for he’d been desperate for another after studying the glass spur.
    The grenadier had collected the mugs, scowled at the spilt-upon floor and come back with a rag, swabbing with an angry, protective zeal. Then Svenson had been alone. He had unfolded the square of silk, staring at the blue disc as if it were some faerie token that, wrongly handled, would serve his doom.
    The spurs found at the Xonck works had been infused with rage, and it seemed reasonable that the simplicity of the content was determined by the small amount of glass. But here was a spur made for the specific target of the Contessa.
    Such were both the Contessa’s power and Vandaariff’s invention that Svenson hesitated to touch the thing with bare flesh, much less gaze inside. He thought of Euripides’ sorceress giving a poisoned gown to her lover’s new bride, consuming the girl in flames … but that seemed wrong. The spur would never be so volatile, because of Celeste. Vandaariff could not depend on his messenger’s lack of curiosity – thus, unless Miss Temple wasits true target, which Svenson did not believe, the spur must be benign to Miss Temple yet deadly to the Contessa. Would it be safe for him as well?
    He grazed the glass with a fingertip and felt a flutter at the back of his neck. He took a breath and pressed his finger onto the flat side of the disc. The hair rose on his nape and his breath quickened …
    Svenson raised the spur to his eye.
    A hollow lightness filled his chest. He was with Elöise, standing on the sand. He was with Corinna in the trees, her hand in his, knowing he must release it before their walk ended and they could be seen. Tenderness overwhelmed him. His eyes brimmed and then spilt tears down the Doctor’s face.
    Of course. The deadly spur held love.
    They drove past soldiers and torches, angry crowds and noise, even the clatter of hurled stones bouncing off the coach. Doctor Svenson ignored it all. He was exhausted, disgusted by Schoepfil’s self-satisfaction and sick with worry for Celeste. Chang had delivered himself to death to save her, not unlike Svenson himself in the Parchfeldt woods. He twisted into the corner of the seat and felt the pull of the long, puckered scar. Why her, of all people? Why he and Chang? A more unlikely trio would be hard to imagine. Yes, he was a spy, and Chang an assassin – yet Miss Temple remained unlikely in the extreme. But was she the strongest of the three? He recalled their morning in the abandoned tower, the awkward conversation after so long, her palpable distress. Could he or Chang have borne such a torment?
    Schoepfil looked up from his papers. ‘Are you