The Chemickal Marriage

pinched face red and wet with tears, unable to turn from the horrid remains in Colonel Bronque’s tub.
    The Contessa watched from the window, but her gaze most often returned to Miss Temple, who stared right back. This was the Contessa’s promise from Parchfeldt, a slow death after extinguishing all hope.
    Doctor Svenson stepped casually between them, facing Miss Temple.
    ‘My poor Celeste,’ he whispered.
    ‘Chang and I are lost. I saw what happened to Francesca. Save yourself.’
    ‘I will not allow it.’
    She looked into his blue eyes, despising his decency, even as she knew Svenson’s care was the only mirror that might show her as she had once been. She took his hand and glanced at the machines. ‘The star map. It shows every coupling, every wire and box.’
    ‘Star map?’ asked Svenson, fumbling his hand into a pocket.
    ‘In the leather case with the book. It does not matter. How much of this do you understand?’
    ‘Enough – perhaps as much as Trooste.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘It isn’t
good
. Vandaariff showed me a book. Elöise – a scrap of her. God help me. In that rack, not ten yards away.’
    Miss Temple’s voice was cold. ‘Elöise would be ashamed. Destroy everything.’
    With that she pushed past him, to the glass. She pointed to the enclosed room’s blazing honeycombed ceiling. ‘That is a
technique
from the Vandaariff tomb. Each shaft draws light from the surface, passing it through different layers of treated glass – each shaft with its own alchemical recipe. The tempered light generates a reaction, and the turbines amplify it. Why did you want
me
to know?’
    ‘In
case
, Celeste,’ replied the Contessa. ‘And because you might have made something of the knowledge. Did you? No – only a sweet knot of regret in your stomach. But that is enough for me.’
    ‘How can such an insignificant person as myself command such malice?’
    ‘You have earned it ten times over.’
    ‘Why do you risk everything to restore a man who wished your death? Are you so lonely? Are you so old? Are your lovers sickened by your scars?’
    The Contessa called with impatience, ‘Professor Trooste, we are past time. Strap the Bride to her marriage bed.’
    Acolytes secured Miss Temple to the second table, next to Chang. She did not fight them.
    The Doctor shouted to the Contessa: ‘This serves no purpose, madam – her participation is completely unnecessary!’
    ‘On the contrary, Doctor, it serves several aims in one thrust. Shall Iexplain? First, Cardinal Chang dies. Second, so does Celeste Temple. Third, Robert Vandaariff is restored.’
    ‘You know very well that Vandaariff is long gone.’
    ‘Robert Vandaariff will be
restored
.’
    ‘And you will become the next lady of Harschmort? Is it that simple?’
    ‘
I
am Robert Vandaariff’s heir!’ Schoepfil insisted, wiping his face on a sleeve. ‘Not that inert felon –’
    Miss Temple did not mark the rest of his complaint, nor anyone’s reply. She turned her gaze to Chang. His face was wedged into a gap in the table, but his naked back offered its own portrait, muscles, nicks and scars. His strong arms were sheathed in black rubber, sprouting wire, like a bird’s wings stripped of feathers. Her heart ached for him, as it had never done for herself. Professor Trooste worked between them, connecting hoses and wires from Chang’s table to Miss Temple’s body at the hands and feet. He brought up the rubber mask, dangling cords.
    ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘I want to see him.’
    ‘You will know him inside yourself, to every detail, before you succumb.’
    Trooste smoothed her hair aside and cinched the mask in place, so hard her eyes began to tear. With a lurch the table was tipped to the same angle as Chang’s. She could look only forward through the narrow slits, straight at the equally faceless Contessa in her den. The room fell silent. Trooste came forward, dipped his head to the Contessa and began to speak.
    ‘The tale of
The Chemickal Marriage
is ancient, a true account of the defeat of corruption and perfect rebirth. A band of chosen guests make possible through their faith a resurrection. First, the royal party is sacrificed. Then the King and Queen, the Groom and Bride, are reborn. Some of this is metaphor. Much more is fact.’
    Trooste bowed again to the Contessa. ‘Lord Vandaariff named you Virgo Lucifera, angel of light, the heaven-sent overseer – the celebrant of this most sacred rite. He knew a certain volume would