The Chemickal Marriage

she
knew
it was – and yet she had done it! And in another circumstance of degrading need she would do it again! Miss Temple gripped the pole with both hands, hating the woman behind her, but loathing herself even more. In the coach, the Comte d’Orkancz had seized her throat – she was unable to resist … on the landing the Contessa’s hands had but cupped her thighs to bring her near.
    Did it matter that it was her desire instead of theirs? Miss Temple scoffed at the hopeful phrasing – as if the teeming contents of the glass book were
hers
.
Her
desire was long gone – with bitterness she recalled the filthy words of Mr Groft, her father’s overseer – like piss in a stream.
    And that was that. With nothing to be done, Miss Temple’s practical mind shoved the issue aside. She could not help what had happened, nor – for with the abating of need came clarity of mind (probably the Contessa’s exact intention) – did she regret it. And, besides, she was wrong: it would
not
happen again. Soon – and soon enough – either she or the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza would be dead.
    They travelled without significant conversation aside from an observation that Miss Temple could move less clumsily or move not at all. Miss Temple pushed away the wet strands of moss, which seemed to dip nearer as they went.
    ‘The water has risen,’ said the Contessa, both by explanation and by complaint.
    ‘What if we run out of room?’ asked Miss Temple. ‘What if Pont-Joule built another stop-hole further on, to keep people out?’
    ‘He did not.’
    ‘Have you been here?’
    ‘No one has been here.’
    ‘Then you don’t know.’
    ‘Be quiet. O stinking hell –’
    The Contessa ducked as they plunged through an especially sodden curtain of moss that swept the towel from Miss Temple’s head. She squealed with disgust, forcing her body flat. But then they were through and the skiff slowed into a lazy spin, the channel opening to a deeper pool. The ceiling rose, vaulted, the crusted tiles in different colours, a mosaic.
    ‘We have reached St Porte.’
    Miss Temple followed the Contessa’s gaze to an entirely different sort of landing. Where the others had been simple brick, this was carved white stone, with a wall of once-elegant glass-fronted doors, opaque with filth.
    ‘What was in St Porte?’ she asked.
    ‘A woman who was not the Queen.’
    Miss Temple considered this. The Contessa, in unacknowledged curiosity,had turned the tiller to slow their way. No one, not even the disrespectful young, had ever found the doors, for each heavy pane remained quite whole.
    ‘Who was she? Who was he?’
    ‘A king with a fat foreign wife.’
    ‘But what happened?’ Miss Temple looked back as the current carried them away.
    ‘She died. The King did not return.’
    ‘I suppose he couldn’t,’ said Miss Temple.
    ‘Of course he couldn’t,’ said the Contessa. ‘She died of
plague
. The rest of the place – above the ground – was razed flat.’
    After St Porte the landings became few and far between, the last but a stand of rotten pilings. The Contessa changed the candle, which had sunk low.
    ‘That is the final station before Harschmort, though we’ve still far to go. Harschmort was placed well away for a reason.’
    ‘What will we find there?’ Miss Temple asked. ‘What sort of welcome?’
    ‘How should I know?’ The Contessa tossed the old stub in the water with a
plonk
.
    ‘It is your expedition.’
    ‘The train was impossible, and our situation at Bathings precluded a coach.’
    ‘That is a lie. You had this route planned.’
    ‘I have many plans. But, as I had not seen the channel landing at St Porte, I have not seen the one at Harschmort either – because of Oskar’s construction, his great
chamber
. The foundation of the place was walled off, even as he exploited the channel itself for power.’
    Miss Temple frowned. ‘But that chamber was destroyed by explosives. Chang said so.’
    ‘Yes, I know.’
    ‘What if there
is
no landing?’ The Contessa did not reply. Miss Temple turned to look at her. ‘I am hungry.’
    ‘You should have eaten before.’
    ‘Did you bring food or not?’ Miss Temple reached for the hamper.
    ‘
Celeste
.’
    ‘If you try to stop me it will tip the skiff.’ Without waiting for a reply she flipped back the wicker lid. Inside were three squat bottles sealed with cork and a layer of black wax. Miss Temple plucked up the nearest and held it to the light.
    ‘Damn