The Chemickal Marriage

The knife was somehow in her hand.
    ‘But
why
?’ Miss Temple did not understand at all. ‘And
how
? Oskar is dead. And he wants to
consume
you. You’ve seen the painting. Those people get boiled down – they get killed and cooked in tubs and what’s left is given to him, to revive.’
    ‘Reincarnate. There’s a difference.’
    Miss Temple remembered, quite vividly, the Comte’s last moments on the airship, his rage at the death of Lydia Vandaariff. His intention to wringthe Contessa’s neck had been stopped only by Chang’s sabre. ‘You do not understand. He is mad. He was
dead
–’
    ‘But what if he wasn’t any more? What if he was just wicked old Oskar?’
    ‘
He isn’t
.’
    ‘Then you can kill him, if I’m wrong. And become his little Bride if I am not. You’ll want to go upstairs. And don’t
confront
anyone. Stay alive to the end.’
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘Into the works, of course. Do you remember the tomb?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Really, Celeste, try not to be completely stupid.’
    ‘I am not stupid. If it wasn’t for me you’d still be on the landing.’
    ‘As ever, Celeste Temple, you underestimate
everything
.’ The Contessa picked up the hamper and slipped through the door.
    Miss Temple stood, undone at being suddenly alone and resenting the feeling extremely. She had not underestimated
anything
. She could sense the Comte’s death in the back of her throat. Why would the Contessa risk her life to restore him? She narrowed her eyes, anger building now the woman had gone. If she could not save herself, she would be damned if their two fates would be any different.
    She climbed to another door. The landing was damp and wet footprints climbed the stairs. One of the prints, the right foot, carried a swirl of red. Against all reason she wondered if this was Chang. She stopped herself from calling out. The prints continued up, past the next door, which she tried to open out of curiosity. The door squeaked – it was locked – and at the squeak Miss Temple heard a noise above her on the stairs. She did not breathe. Then faint footfalls, coming down. Miss Temple retreated in silence until she was out of sight. The footfalls stopped on the platform, and she heard the same squeak of the door being tested, then the sound of a key. The door was opened … then closed again … silence. The man had gone through. If she moved quickly she could get past without, as the Contessa warned,
confrontation
.
    She hurried around the turn to find Mr Foison on the landing. He leapt at her like a cat, grunting with pain as he landed and snatching at the tail of her robe. She dashed away and down, fumbling for the door at the next landing, but it was only half open before Foison was there. She swung the case at him. He dodged the blow and took her wrist.
    ‘How are you here?’ he hissed. ‘Where is
she
?’
    ‘Where is Chang?’
    ‘Chang is lost.’
    His cold voice brought Miss Temple back to the Raaxfall works. She kicked at a bandage on his right thigh and yanked her wrist with all her strength. Foison’s grip broke, but then his fingers caught on the case. For an instant they strained against one another, but he was too strong. She let it go. He toppled back and Miss Temple raced away.
    She burst through the next door down and ran until the corridor met another pool. She looked back and realized that Foison hadn’t followed. Of course not: he’d opened the leather case and seen what she’d been fool enough to lose.
    Back on the floor where she’d started, Miss Temple stopped to think. What had Foison been doing
here
? A man like Foison did not repair machines. Had he been chasing someone? And what explained his being so
wet
?
    Across the pool she saw water pouring through an open grate, forced from above. She peered upwards, shading her face from the spray, and her heart quickened. Had Foison followed someone into Harschmort on such a dangerous route – someone like Chang?
    But if Foison had been following Chang, he would not have come after her, and he would have shouted for help. For some reason she did not understand, Mr Foison had made his own secret entry into Harschmort, through the guts of his master’s new construction.
    Steeling her courage, she returned to the stairwell. Foison was gone. In that case, Miss Temple told herself, she would chase
him
.
    The bloody prints continued to climb, despite – and Miss Temple’s heart leapt to her throat each time she slipped past