The Chemickal Marriage

down with a musing expression, as if she were a food locker whose jumbled contents might just constitute a meal. He spread his palm against her pelvis, measuring the soft flare, then pressed down. He took her hips with both hands, hefting her body. His stiff fingers cupped her buttocks and squeezed.
    ‘Wide enough,’ he announced, ‘should other plans fail and you still live. I do appreciate your spark.’ He shoved her petticoats higher.
    ‘I beg you,’ she whispered. ‘Please –’
    ‘My interest is entirely contingent, I assure you.’ He caught the waist of her silk pants and pulled. The silk ripped. He pulled again, with a grunt, andthey came away. ‘After Rosamonde’s book, you are not intact in any
practical
sense of the word. Time enough has passed to show you made no mistakes with young Bascombe. But since then, with your mind so swimming – and I
know
it’s swimming, Celeste – have you remained so careful? This last day with Chang … more time with the Doctor … and how many others have crossed your path at that hotel?’ His thumb stroked the curls between her legs. ‘Have you surrendered or been strong? Or have you found strength to be something
else
?’ He laid his palm above the hair, against her belly, as if to listen through it. ‘I prefer to think you failed – the guilt burning even as you’ve quenched your need, with one of those paid-off soldiers – yes, Mr Ropp behind you, thrusting away. I imagine you soaked in the history of the world, so many generations of mindless rut.’ His hand slid lower, his thumb dragging along her folds.
    Miss Temple flexed her fist again, but Vandaariff merely took her gasp as a sign of enjoyment.
    ‘What do you
want
?’ she pleaded.
    ‘Your confession.’ His motions became forceful, his smile more fixed and contemptuous.
    ‘Confess to what?’
    ‘Futility.’
    ‘You are hurting me –’
    ‘Pain is nothing. Desire is nothing.’ Vandaariff’s lips had stretched with effort, tight across his teeth. ‘Trappings of useless vessels … flawed from the start …’
    Miss Temple yelped. Vandaariff raised his fingers, pinching between them three reddish hairs. He flicked them away and plucked again.
    ‘What are you doing! Stop it!’ She cried out over her shoulder towards the door: ‘Mr Foison!’
    ‘All signs of age must be expunged. Age is corruption, ash, decay –’
    ‘Stop! Mr Foison!’
    ‘The alchemical Bride bears no blemish. She is without colour, holds the moon – she cannot be
marked
–’
    His fingers sank into Miss Temple’s hair and seized hold, tugging her pubis. She raised her hips to stave off the painful wrench, whimpering –
    The door opened behind her. Vandaariff turned, eyes unfocused.
    ‘Lord Robert?’
    Vandaariff followed Foison’s gaze to Miss Temple’s exposed body and released his grip. He wiped his hand across the apron. ‘Is there word?’
    ‘Just now, my lord.’ Foison extended a folded page to his master. Vandaariff slid a crabbed thumb beneath the wax seal. In her shame Miss Temple did not look at Foison. She stared at Vandaariff, watching the paper tremble with his fingers.
    ‘We will depart at once.’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    With an easy movement Foison caught the upturned hem of Miss Temple’s dress and swept it down, over her legs. Vandaariff stuffed the note into his pocket.
    ‘It plays out exactly to plan.’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    Vandaariff awkwardly pulled the apron strap over his head. Foison slipped behind to untie the knot, draped the apron on the chair and handed Vandaariff his stick. Vandaariff brought the brass handle to his nose, sniffed, then dabbed his tongue across the ball. He gave a disapproving grimace and hobbled from the room.
    As efficiently as he had bound her, Foison released the leather straps. Only after sweeping her legs together could Miss Temple meet his gaze, yet Foison was watchful and withheld. Not unlike Chang, but without Chang’s animal temper … yet that was not true – they were different animals. Where Chang was a loping cat, Mr Foison was a cold reptile.
    ‘Can you walk?’ he asked simply. ‘It is only to the coach.’
    ‘And then where?’ What she wanted was to curl into a ball.
    ‘Where else?’ Foison said, helping her to stand. ‘The Contessa.’
    They entered a courtyard ringed by tall stone buildings. Miss Temple gazed around her.
    ‘The Royal Institute,’ said Foison. ‘Lord Vandaariff is a significant patron.’
    ‘I believe the