The Chemickal Marriage

it’s odd because the Bride in question wears a mask of the Contessa’s face. Isn’t that strange? The Groom is black as coal, with a red apple in his hand, except it isn’t
really
an apple – more like a beating heart, and made entirely of
red
glass
–’
    Foison pulled the handkerchief tight between her lips. Vandaariff leant closer.
    ‘Sooner than you imagine, Celeste Temple, I will reclaim you, and service
you
on an altar. In that the Comte d’Orkancz had things exactly right!’
    Vandaariff sank back. He shut his eyes and reached a shaking hand to Foison.
    ‘The bottle.’
    Foison opened a satchel and removed a squat bottle of dark glass. Vandaariff drank, a thin line of milky fluid escaping down his chin. He wiped his face with a black silk handkerchief, folded it over and then mopped his brow.
    Composure restored, he addressed her again. ‘I have not thanked you for the delivery of such excellent mules, Mr Ropp and Mr Jaxon. Discharged soldiers, they told me – amongst other things. Amongst
every
thing. And Mr Ramper as well – still, even a stricken animal can be used. You must know that from your plantation. Scrape off the meat and burn the bones for fuel. Will you be pleased to see the Contessa?’
    Miss Temple made a noise in the back of her mouth.
    ‘Tell her anything you like.’ He reached into his coat and came out with another handkerchief, white silk this time. ‘But when you have the chance, Miss Temple – and you will, for the Contessa will underestimate you, as she always has – you would serve us all by cutting the lady’s skin … with
this
.’
    In the opened handkerchief lay a blue glass spur. He chuckled, a guttural wheeze, and refolded the handkerchief. His crooked fingers reached across the coach and stuffed it down the bosom of her dress.
    ‘Created expressly for our own shared nemesis. Dig it into her arm, across her lovely neck – wherever is in reach. Then I suggest you
run
.’
    The coach came to a halt. She heard the ring of bolts being drawn and the scrape of an iron gate. Vandaariff nodded, and Foison bound Miss Temple’s hands.
    Her heart went cold. She had not truly believed it until the handkerchief had been tucked into her dress. She was being given to a woman who sought her death. Why not to Chang and Svenson? What could the Contessa offer more precious than Francesca Trapping?
    Foison opened the door and leant out to unfold a metal stair-step. Miss Temple drove her bound hands against his back and sent him flying through the door. She hurled herself at Vandaariff, snarling like a dog. Her hands found his throat, the rope between them digging his wattled flesh like a garrotte. He batted weakly at her face. He gaped, eyes wide, tongue protruding … and then let out a horrible stuttering gasp.
Laughter
. She met his insane,
encouraging
nod and squeezed as hard as she could –
    Foison’s strong hands wrenched Miss Temple away and hauled her out of the door. With a snarl of his own he flung her down with enough force to drive the breath from her body. Wet grass and earth were cold against her cheek. She gulped for air. Foison was tending his master. She heaved herself up – only to drop again secured in place. One of Foison’s knives – thrown from the coach – pinned her dress to the ground. Before she could yank it free her wrists were caught by a hand in a leather gauntlet. Miss Temple looked up to a semicircle of men in green uniforms.
    Foison emerged from the coach and called to the driver, who started his team, turning back the way they’d come. Foison retrieved his blade.
    ‘Make sure of her.’
    As they walked Miss Temple’s stomach rose. She shut her eyes against the bile in her throat and sucked air through her nostrils.
    Something in the smell … the Comte had been here before …
    She took the first statues for more green uniforms, for the stones had been overcome by moss. Soon they appeared in lines between the trees, stained by years of leaf-fall, tipped by sinking earth or knocked headless, even toppled, by falling tree limbs. A cemetery …
    Miss Temple’s nausea sapped any notion of escape, and she followed Foison through the woods and down a proper row of tombs. Even here the stones were cracked and crumbled, swathed in green, the names scarcely legible, abandoned … had so many families passed out of time? She turned her attention to the statues: mournful figures, some with wings, some humbly shrouded, facing down in grief or up