The Chemickal Marriage

Contessa said. ‘And then I’ll kill them.’
    ‘You should run,’ said Chang.
    ‘No one’s running.’ The Contessa brushed a blood-wet lock of hair from her eyes.
    She swept the blade at Chang’s face, but she was not near enough and the tip stopped short. Chang tried for her wrist, but she twisted the knife so the tip nicked Chang’s forearm.
    Miss Temple gasped. Neither Chang nor the Contessa reacted at all. The stakes were clear: if the Contessa won, Chang would die. If she missed, if he took her arm, then he would take the weapon from her and drive it home, or simply end her life with his hands.
    Miss Temple could not bear it. She looked about her for a weapon, but did not see a thing. Then her arm scraped on the broken corset. She plucked a broken strip of whalebone from its sleeve.
    The Contessa jabbed at Chang and set off a vicious clockwork of blows between them that ended with the Contessa’s blade shooting past Chang’s throat and her wrist pinned in his hand. She dug for his groin with a knee but he blocked it on his thigh. She clawed his face with her free hand, but he caught that too. The Contessa lunged to bite his face. Chang thrust her back at arm’s length.
    ‘Stop this –’
    ‘
Never
.’
    The Contessa turned to Miss Temple’s stumbling arrival, bloody lips curled in a sneer, but Miss Temple’s arm was already in motion and the Contessa, hands held by Chang, could not move. Like a sharp stick of toast into the soft yolk of an egg, the slip of whalebone broke the surface of the Contessa’s right eye and then messily ripped free so all within spilled wide, onto her face and in the air.
    The Contessa shrieked and – Chang releasing his grip in shock – tripped backwards and crashed down. Miss Temple did not move. The scream dipped just long enough for the Contessa to draw air and then blazed out again, a blistering klaxon of pain and rage.
    Doctor Svenson pushed past Miss Temple, on his knees at the Contessa’s side. She thrashed against his attempts to touch her, spitting curses in her native tongue. Then a handkerchief was in Svenson’s hand. From the silk he withdrew a spur of blue glass. With a sudden force the Doctor pressed it hard into the exposed flesh, below her throat.
    At the contact the Contessa arched her back, suspended in sensation. Her legs shook. One hand seized Svenson’s arm. Her cries gave way to the laboured pants of an agonized animal.
    ‘O … O God damn you … what – what … O damn you to hell …’
    Her words collapsed to a devastated whine. Doctor Svenson’s hands moved gently to her face. ‘Let me see … just let me see –’
    In a scramble of limbs the Contessa broke free and crawled. She somehow stood and careened back through the shattered room. She tripped on the pipes, fell with a grunt of pain, staggered up again and vanished in the smoke.
    Doctor Svenson remained on his knees. Miss Temple said nothing. Chang collected the Contessa’s knife.
    ‘I’m sorry, but – should I not – should not
someone
–’
    Svenson’s words were drowned out by a clatter of boots. Through the main doorway marched a crisply uniformed cavalry officer at the head of a dozen hussars. The officer waved the smoke from his eyes and viewed the carnage with a pinched dismay.
    ‘This house is under royal writ. All present will disarm themselves and be detained.’
    Chang dropped the knife. The officer advanced to the sound. He bent his face to Miss Temple, sniffed, and took in the two men with an equal dismay.
    ‘I am sent for a young lady. She is wanted by Her Grace the Duchess of Cogstead. A Miss Celestial Temple. If any of you know what has become of her –’
    ‘I am Celestial Temple.’
    ‘Dear God. Indeed?’
    ‘The Duchess will know me. She will know my companions.’
    The officer considered this unlikely promise, then opted for discretion and stepped aside, offering Miss Temple his arm.
    ‘Her Grace waits outside with the rest of the regiment. Come.’ He wrinkled his nose and looked at the wreckage that now embodied Harschmort House. ‘This circumstance cannot be pleasant for you.’

Epilogue
    Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson tapped the ash of a black cigarette into a brass dish bolted to the arm of his chair, which itself had been secured firmly to the cabin floor. His uniform was crisp and his new boots shone like black glass. He was clean-shaven, blond hair parted neatly, and nearly every bruise or laceration on its way to mending.
    As he