The Chemickal Marriage

a bolt of blue glass, larger than a shell for an elephant gun. Several loops were empty, but in one the charge of blue glass had been replaced with the flask of bloodstone Svenson had brought from the Institute. He fished out a handkerchief and prised loose a bolt of glass.
    ‘This fits in the first chamber?’
    ‘It does.’ Schoepfil settled himself on a padded stool with each foot in a tub and flicked his toes in the water.
    Svenson slotted the glass in place and fastened the chamber’s hatch. Hebegan to gather the black hoses. ‘The Comte
did
attempt something like this, you know …’
    ‘Well, his mind
was
exceedingly fertile. One entire notebook dedicated to
hair
–’
    ‘Angelique, from Mrs Kraft’s brothel. I was called in to consult, after the fact.’
    Schoepfil shrugged, having no interest in a whore.
    ‘The experiment went wrong. It was as if she were drowned, without ever going underwater.’ Svenson strapped the hoses to Schoepfil’s bare legs and fitted his feet with webbed leather slippers. ‘His inability to reverse the effects led to her being substituted as the third glass woman, instead of Caroline Stearne.’
    ‘What exactly went wrong?’ asked Bronque.
    ‘I never learnt.’
    ‘Doesn’t help
us
, then,’ said Schoepfil.
    The whistle sounded. The train began to slow. Bronque consulted his watch.
    ‘Crampton Place. Once the train starts again we’ll throw the switch.’
    Through the next stations, from Packington to St Porte, every time the Colonel stepped from the carriage, two grenadiers entered to make sure Doctor Svenson did nothing to Mr Schoepfil, asleep on a straw pallet. Bronque had drawn a blanket around Schoepfil to his neck, as the last thing soldiers going into battle needed was to see a man with his limbs turned blue.
    The procedure went smoothly. Svenson followed the mechanics of energy, his understanding augmented by the ordeal of Mrs Kraft. Well into the change Schoepfil could still converse, guiding Svenson through tight-clenched teeth until the blue colour began to saturate his skin. Bronque caught Schoepfil’s head when he fell back insensible, but it was for Svenson alone to judge the moment when the power must be cut off, when going further risked the next stage of transformation, turning Schoepfil’s flesh to glass.
    Had he erred, he knew, Bronque would have taken his life. He wondered at the strange alliance between the two men, both possessed of a certaintalent, yet judged by their betters to be mediocrities. Were they kindred spirits of spite? Certainly they had staked their lives on this one throw. Without Schoepfil inheriting his uncle’s empire – that protecting influence – Bronque’s diversion of an elite regiment in a time of public crisis would bring a court martial and disgrace, if not a firing squad. And if Schoepfil failed, for his abuses at the Thermæ alone he would be banished or imprisoned. For the next hours, however, both men remained free as lords.
    With the second leg finished and Schoepfil collapsed into a stupor, Svenson was left alone with Bronque. He blew smoke at the rear of the train. ‘How is Mrs Kraft here, after what you did to her people?’
    Bronque laughed harshly and fished out his flask. ‘If Vandaariff dies, she won’t care about a few sticks of furniture and some trollops.’
    ‘You are an expert on women’s feelings?’
    Bronque screwed up his face and took a pull of whisky. ‘Still brooding about the Contessa? Well, you may indeed. I’ve never had a more
magnificent
–’
    ‘No, Colonel, I am not
brooding
. Nor do I desire your narrative of conquest. But I am obliged to ask, are you so sure she did not conquer
you
? And the details of this very campaign?’
    ‘What in hell do you mean?’
    Svenson said nothing. Bronque made to drink, but put the flask down.
    ‘I would
know
.’
    ‘Would you? She has learnt to make her own blue glass. With it, she could have stolen your memories or persuaded you with new ones. Ask yourself, Colonel, did you
ever
have her? Are you
sure
? I was there when she cut Pont-Joule’s throat. I did not know they were
en amour
, but it did not stay her blade. If you think she would not ransack your mind like a trunk, then you’re an ass.’
    Bronque flushed with anger but did not speak. Instead he pocketed the flask and rubbed his face with both hands. He stood and stalked to the door. Svenson heard him address his men, but not the words. Bronque came back and reclaimed his