The Chemickal Marriage

gate. To either side of the kiln stood a fence separating the glassworks from its neighbours. From the right came the scuttle of poultry. Chang picked up a brick and heaved it over. The crash sparked an cacophony of squawking. He then vaulted the opposite fence, away from his diversion, landing on a pile of grain sacks. At once he continued to the next fence, vaulting it and then three more in turn, meeting only one dog – a speckled hound as surprised by Chang’s arrival ashe by it – and no human bold enough to interfere. The final leap set him on a stack of wooden crates stuffed with straw. Whether they held exotic fruit, blocks of ice or Dresden figurines, he never knew. He straightened his spectacles and walked without hurry past a family sitting to supper, out the front, and away from the curious crowd converging on the disturbance four doors down.
    He did not doubt Pfaff had been there. Was that why it had been abandoned? The crimped cigarettes conjured up the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. Was the marzipan a treat to buy Francesca Trapping’s good behaviour? Chang was late to meet the others, but even if he’d two more hours to search it hardly mattered – the trail was dead.
    He hurried north, slowed by streets crowded not only with the disaffected but also with all sorts of respectable men and women, wreathed in the grim determination of travellers at a railway station. Chang pushed on with an unpleasant foreboding. The crowd’s destination was his own.
    When he finally reached St Isobel’s, Chang had to crane his head to see the saint’s statue. Screeching street children dashed across his path, as high-spirited as feral dogs. The crowd around him recoiled – first from the children and then more earnestly from the black coach cracking forward in their wake. The driver lashed his team, threatening the whip to anyone in his way. The coach windows were drawn, but, as it swept by, a curtain’s twitch gave a glimpse of the white-powdered wig of a servant. Once the coach was past and the whip out of range, resentment swelled into curses hurled at the driver’s receding head. Chang wormed towards the statue, his patience frayed by the press of bodies.
    He realized that he was squinting, despite the hour, and looked up. The sky was aglow with torchlight from the rooftops of the Ministries lining the far side of the square. Was there an occasion he had forgotten? A gala for the Queen? The birthday of some inbred relation – perhaps the exact idiot inside the black coach?
    ‘Cardinal Chang!’
    Phelps waved his arms above the crush. Cunsher and Svenson stood near with Miss Temple dwarfed between them.
    ‘At last!’ called Phelps. ‘We had despaired of finding you!’
    Chang pushed himself through to meet them. ‘What in hell is happening?’
    ‘An announcement from the Palace,’ Svenson replied. ‘Did you not hear?’
    Before Chang could reply that if he had heard he would not have
asked
, Miss Temple touched Chang’s arm.
    ‘It is Robert Vandaariff!’ she said excitedly. ‘He has emerged, and will call on the Queen and Privy Council! Everyone looks to him for rescue! Have you ever seen such a gathering?’
    ‘We have waitied for you,’ Phelps yelled above the noise, ‘ but our thought is to move closer and observe.’
    ‘Perhaps even brave a rear entrance to the Ministries,’ added Svenson.
    Chang nodded. ‘If he meets the Queen, there will be a regiment around them – but, yes, let us try.’
    They edged around the great statue, the martyr scoldingly content in her sacrifice. Chang tugged Svenson’s sleeve and gestured to Miss Temple, who had taken the Doctor’s other hand. Svenson nodded. ‘The fabric
was
gone, and all purchased by a single customer.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Not who so much as
where
.’ Svenson pointed to the row of tall white buildings. ‘Sent to the Palace.’
    ‘The
Queen
?’
    ‘Or someone well placed at court.’
    ‘That could be one of five hundred souls.’
    ‘Still, it fits with where we thought the Contessa might be hiding.’
    Chang glanced at Miss Temple. ‘You were right after all, Celeste.’
    ‘I was indeed.’
    It was not a remark Chang had any desire to answer, so he called to Cunsher. ‘Did Pfaff leave word at the Boniface?’
    Cunsher shook his head.
    ‘The Contessa?’
    Cunsher shook his head again.
    ‘Anything?’
    ‘The maid is frightened.’
    Before Chang could ask Phelps about the
Herald
clipping, the air was split by the bray of