The Chemickal Marriage

– and pulled with one arm. Bubbles nibbled her skin like the mouths of tiny fish. The water was cold, but as she went deeper she met plumes of different temperature. The warmest water fed the baths, but the colder moved more quickly. Was that the river? She kicked to the cold, her lungs beginning to pinch, and felt her hand slap rock. Miss Temple held on as her body, paused, sought to rise. She felt a current … was there a channel in the rock? Her searching hand grazed a soft tendril – a bit of grass? She caught it and felt the bump of a seam: a strip of the Contessa’s petticoat, looped around the rock.
    Miss Temple groped lower, into a pocket of cold, then wriggled through an opening well wide enough for her body. Her lungs were painfully tight. She kicked up into a faster current. Now that she wanted air the seconds grew unbearable.
    She broke the surface with a gasp, still in the dark, and immediately swallowed a mouthful of water. She choked and almost lost hold of the leather case. Her loud breath echoed. A current carried along. Miss Temple swam to the side, and eventually her hand struck not rock but slippery brick.
    She floated there, easing her breath, then felt her way along the bank. She’d begun to shiver. Her hands found a protrusion in the brick – it took her a moment to realize it was a ladder of inset rungs. Miss Temple climbed onto a dank but dry landing, but did not stand.
    She turned to the sound of creaking wood. The formless dark took shape with the glimmer of a candle, well away but coming near, an oval face just glimpsed beyond its glow.
    ‘At
last
, and what a fright you look. Hurry up.’
    ‘The problem, of course, is that we may need to swim again.’
    Miss Temple shivered under a heavy wool blanket, too chilled for her nakedness to cause disruption. Her teeth chattered and her bare knees pressed cold against her breasts. The Contessa, hair wrapped in a towel, wore a white robe and cork slippers, all purloined from the baths. She poured brandy into a teacup and passed it across.
    ‘Drink.
Slowly
.’
    Miss Temple took small, burning sips, hating the taste but grateful for the warming glow.
    ‘Now, will anyone follow?’
    Miss Temple shook her head. The Contessa glared, this not being enough of an answer, and so Miss Temple provided a brief account of Mr Schoepfil’s assault on propriety and her own escape. At the end her cup was empty and she held it out for more. The Contessa poured for them both, tucking the robe about her knees. Behind the Contessa, in an untidy pile, lay several open hampers. Miss Temple’s arrival had interrupted smoked oysters in sauce and the Contessa restored the jar to her lap. She dipped a finger in the sauce, frowned at the taste, dribbled some brandy into the jar and resumed her meal.
    ‘You should eat. The passage will take hours.’
    Miss Temple sniffed. ‘What passage?’
    ‘Channel between royal premises,’ replied the Contessa, chewing. ‘Enabling duplicity and outright crime. In a spasm of conscience the way was bricked up – those habits being
impure
. An astute adviser of this present queen made it his business to uncover the legend – in secret, opening the passage enough for one or two very sodden individuals, an
expedience
. And I made it my business to uncover
him
.’
    ‘Lord Pont-Joule.’
    ‘Would you like an oyster? They aren’t very good.’
    Miss Temple shook her head and the Contessa tossed the jar at the far wall. She frowned at the nearest hamper. ‘Cheese?’
    ‘No, thank you.’
    The Contessa brought a white-moulded
toque
to her nose. ‘It’s very ripe.’
    ‘Where does the channel lead?’
    ‘Well, that was the value of Pont-Joule. An older man, desire and capacity so rarely in twain, but philosophic and not sour. A life dedicated to nothing of course – to that moulting cow – but he saw the wind’s way. Can you?’
    ‘Royal premises,’ said Miss Temple with a sniff.
    ‘O who
is
a good pup?’ The Contessa broke the cheese with her hands and took an exploratory nibble. She raised her eyebrows with approval and then filled her mouth.
    ‘I expect they sent people to prison in secret,’ muttered Miss Temple, for the Contessa was no longer entirely listening. ‘Sent them all the way to Harschmort, underground.’
    Once the brandy had done its work, however, Miss Temple’s old troubles returned. The Contessa had wiped her fingers on the robe and gone to another hamper, this filled with clothing, her