The Chemickal Marriage

dress.’
    ‘Many, many of them – nothing says beggar like fine clothes twice-worn.’ She lit her cigarette and exhaled. ‘How strong these are.’
    ‘Why Strackenz? She has no sway at court.’ Svenson puffed his cigarette to light, then answered his own question. ‘And that is the idea itself. Protection from the unloved Sophia provides sanctuary without exposure.’ He studied the sparsely furnished room. ‘And where are these many, many dresses? Does that explain your presence in the attic of Stäelmaere House – garment storage?’
    She sneered through blown smoke. ‘And what explains
your
presence? That Oskar comes to the Palace to save the nation? Did you hope to shoot him down?’
    ‘It seemed worth the attempt.’
    ‘
Peh
.’
    ‘Is it coincidence to find you here too, just when Lord Vandaariff has arrived?’
    Svenson had taken several steps as he spoke, and he realized she was watching him closely, as if he were near an open flame. He stepped decisively to the high-canopied bed.
    ‘Doctor Svenson –’
    Svenson extended the pistol and carefully flipped up the pillows. Underneath lurked a blue glass book, like a cobra at the bottom of a basket.
    ‘Poor Sophia,’ he said. ‘Does she sink her mind in its depths every night – living glories she’d never know on her own? Does she even bother to eat and bathe?’
    The Contessa laughed. ‘She was fat to begin with, and never fond of a wash.’
    ‘She will die.’
    ‘Not while I need her.’
    Doctor Svenson brought the pistol-butt down with a crack onto the book, starring the thick cover and punching a gritty hole in the centre.
    ‘Hell’s damnation!’ snarled the Contessa.
    Svenson struck the book again, cracking the cover into shards and splitting the layers below. The Contessa spat with fury.
    ‘Doctor! The Princess is an empty-headed, greedy – she is despised – O the waste!’
    A final blow broke the book to pieces, like the battered carcass of a horseshoe crab. Svenson wiped the pistol on the bedlinen.
    ‘You have no idea –’
    ‘But I do – and besides, you have another.’
    ‘I do not!’
    ‘You have the volume tainted by the Comte’s own mind. This isn’t it – the Princess would be driven mad. This was a book of allurement, a honeyed trap filled with pleasures. With any luck it is the last. And, now we come to the topic,
you
do not look ill – which means you’ve found a way to consult the Comte’s corrupted book without harm. Where is it?’
    ‘Safely stowed.’
    ‘Where is Francesca Trapping?’ the Doctor demanded. ‘In an attic room with your clothes racks?’ He gestured to the shattered book. ‘Is
she
enslaved? Have you flooded her mind with wickedness as well?’
    ‘As
well
.’ The Contessa laughed. ‘As well as Celeste Temple? Tell me, does she tremble? Does she drool? Can you smell her like a barnyard mare?’
    Svenson raised the pistol.
    ‘Doctor, if you act the fool we will be taken. They search from room to room – they are not all idiots – we are only safe here a few minutes more.’ She reached to what he realized was a second door, painted to appear flush with the wall. ‘If I intended to betray you, Doctor, I would not have brought you
here
.’ She put her head to the panel, listening. ‘Indeed, it did occur to me, while you strove to take my life, that our meeting might well serve us both.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘What do
you
think Oskar will demand, for his money and guns?’
    ‘Whatever it is,’ said Svenson, ‘Axewith will give it to him.’
    ‘What Oskar wants, Lord Axewith does not have.’
    She smiled, allowing Svenson to guess what things – or persons – she meant. From outside came the chime of a silver bell.
    ‘Exactly on time.’ The Contessa ground her cigarette on the tabletop. ‘If you would just tuck the gun behind your back?’
    She sailed into a lush corridor ablaze with light. Standing not ten yards away were three men in stiff black topcoats: a pair of Ministry officials and a grey-bearded figure with a blue sash.
    ‘My dear Lord Pont-Joule, what a relief it is to see your face!’ the Contessa cried. ‘The rumours one hears are frightful! Is Her Majesty safe? Has there truly been violence?’
    The blue-sashed lord bowed kindly, but his deep voice rumbled with disapproval. ‘Who is the man behind you, madam? Sir – what uniform is that? Whom do you serve? How are you here? Is that
blood
on your face?’
    ‘It is Abelard Svenson!’ The Contessa’s voice