The Chemickal Marriage

driver had been injured, or a coach wheel snapped … she was appalled at the reckless disregard.
    ‘So where are we going
now
?’ she demanded.
    Pfaff laughed aloud. ‘Where else, little mistress?
Home
.’
    Pfaff said nothing more, and Miss Temple would not ask. Roger’s notebook lay on her lap, but she had no wish to open it until she was alone and unobserved. While it might contain useful information, she did not trust her own reactions. What if there was fawning praise for Caroline Stearne’s ankle or her opalescent skin? Opalescent was
exactly
the sort of word Roger would have used.
    They arrived at the Hotel Boniface. She gripped the notebook tightly as she climbed down, ignoring Pfaff’s outstretched hand. She considered shouting to the footmen, but she’d no firm idea how she stood with the hotel or the law, and further scandal might allow the management finally to expel her. Instead, she advanced to the desk and asked for any messages. There were none, but her asking allowed the clerk to take in the scorch marks on her dress, and her bandaged arm.
    ‘You see what has overtaken me.’ Miss Temple swallowed bravely. ‘St Isobel’s Square … I cannot speak of it.’ The clerk’s suspicion turned to cooing sympathy. For the moment, at least, Miss Temple had outflanked disapproval.
    ‘Very good!’ Pfaff chuckled, as they climbed the staircase. But Miss Temple found she actually
was
unsettled – and truly unable to speak of what she had seen in the square and at the Customs House. She had no experience through which to comprehend such carnage. Her eyes began to burn. Why
now
, treading soft familiar carpets, should she weaken? She quickened her pace to keep ahead of Pfaff, so he would not see.
    ‘Are you well?’
    ‘My arm hurts.’ They were at the door. Pfaff cut in front and rapped three times. Miss Temple turned to dab her eyes. The door opened to Marie’s anxious face.
    ‘O, O
mistress
–’
    Miss Temple pushed past – all she wanted was to be alone. ‘I will need a wash and new clothes and supper and tea – strong hot tea before anything –’
    ‘Mistress –’
    ‘I am perfectly well, I assure you. I – I –’ Miss Temple clutched Roger’s notebook and groped for words. ‘Marie – Corporal Brine –’
    Pfaff easily took Marie’s shoulder. ‘Briney’s all right, Marie – he’s with the others, asked we pass along his regards – what about that tea?’
    ‘But – but –
mistress
–’
    Disgracefully grateful for Pfaff’s imposition, Miss Temple pushed on as if she had not heard. Three steps brought her bedchamber and she shut the door and turned the key. She dropped Roger’s notebook on a side table … and went ice-still.
    The Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza sat on Miss Temple’s bed, her cigarette holder smouldering like a stick of Chinese incense. She did not smile.
    ‘Once more, circumstances prevent me from taking your life.’ The Contessa savoured the catch of smoke, then spat a blue jet from the corner of her mouth. ‘You look a fright.’
    Miss Temple retreated to her writing desk. Were there scissors in the drawer?
    ‘Is Mr Pfaff your creature?’ Her voice cracked. In shame, she forced it low. ‘I saw no scars around his eyes.’
    ‘Not everyone requires the Process – in point of fact almost no one does.’
    ‘But he – for several weeks, I employed –’
    The Contessa sighed. ‘Do you
still
not understand? The cream of this city
ached
to be chosen for the Comte’s machines. Clawed each other like cats for the privilege. Slavery amongst the mighty is simple – one only has to make it
fashion
.’
    ‘Mr Pfaff is no one’s idea of
cream
.’
    ‘He is his
own
. Enough – you cannot look like you’ve been tumbled in a cowshed.’ Miss Temple turned to the door. ‘Do
not
call your maid. She has been sent away.’
    ‘Sent where?’
    ‘Downstairs for tea or to the surgeon’s with a broken jaw – I’ve no idea. We will pretty you and depart, without incident and without notice.’
    ‘I will not budge.’
    The Contessa raised her voice to an authoritative bark. ‘Mr Pfaff!’
    At once came a sharp yelp of pain from beyond the door, unmistakably from Marie. Miss Temple shot to her feet.
    The Contessa spoke swiftly, with annoyance. ‘You can do nothing to help her but
obey
.’ She tugged the cigarette from its holder and dropped the butt to the floor, snuffing it as she stood.
    ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘Not until you change, Celeste.’