The Chemickal Marriage

told her the corset had absorbed the worst of theblow, that these were shafts of broken whalebone poking through the rips. She pushed the scraps of her shift between her legs to preserve her decency, coughed thickly and sat up.
    The Contessa’s room no longer existed. Both walls of glass were blown clean through, the rostrum obliterated. The ceiling of light lay in chunks of twisted piping on the floor. Of the Contessa, Miss Temple saw no sign.
    She stumbled forward, stepping over fallen pipes, searing hot to the touch, and finally into the far room. Her foot recoiled at the touch of something soft. She looked down to see Jack Pfaff, the orange coat shredded and his naked back, even up to the base of his skull, studded with daggers of glass. His face lay twisted to one side, lips curled in an expression of endless dismay. Beyond Pfaff, shielded from the blast by their grappling, Doctor Svenson lay rolled on his side, spitting dust. The blast had dispersed the blue smoke. The brass machines sparked and steamed, toppled and tipped, black hoses spurting like severed limbs.
    He looked up and saw her. ‘Celeste …’
    She passed Svenson by, her foot sliding in the blood of an acolyte. Another body lay across a tub, face down in the dregs – she extended a fearful hand and felt the rough wool of a guard’s green coat. She stumbled on to the tables. A hand caught hers, gripping, strong. She flinched and saw it was Chang. He lay on his back. She sank to her knees. He rose to meet her.
    ‘Celeste –’
    ‘You cannot die.’ Her tears poured out. ‘I could not bear it – not again –’
    He squeezed her hand and reached to cup her cheek with an indelible soft care. She fell upon him, kissing his face until at last her lips found his, and there she stayed, sinking her need and her fear into his mouth, moaning, sobbing. Her fingers snaked through his hair and she cradled his head. At last she lifted her mouth to breathe.
    ‘I am so sorry,’ she gasped.
    ‘Do not. You are superb.’ Chang coughed and blinked. ‘Forgive me – the gas –’
    More coughing came from behind them and Miss Temple turned. Svenson on his knees, hacking into one hand.
    ‘O dear Doctor …’
    He waved vaguely to her, turning unsteadily towards the smoke. Miss Temple followed his gaze to the case of glass books, blown over, every felt-lined slot emptied. The shards of every book lay jumbled in a vast shining bed.
    Abruptly Svenson doubled over and fell.
    ‘He is wounded!’ Miss Temple cried and struggled to rise.
    ‘He will
die
,’ Mr Schoepfil corrected her, emerging from the cloud, stepping over the groaning Svenson. Blue flesh showed through the tatters of Schoepfil’s clothes. ‘You will
all
die. Harschmort will be mine.’
    He struck Miss Temple and she went down. Schoepfil glared at Chang with hatred.
    ‘
You
. You are no one at all.’
    His swift hands dropped fast around Chang’s throat. Miss Temple scrambled up. She tried to break his grip but again Schoepfil thrust her away.
    ‘You can
have
Harschmort!’ she screamed. ‘You can have it all!’
    Schoepfil laughed – then grunted as Chang jabbed a knee into his stomach. Chang thrust out his leg, shoving Schoepfil back over one of the tubs. In a flash the small man regained his feet. He rubbed his belly tenderly and licked his lips.
    ‘I can have it, can I? Well … well, perhaps –’
    ‘You can have nothing,’ said Chang, standing. ‘Harschmort will drown, and the Vandaariff fortune with it.’
    ‘O no.’ Schoepfil shook his head. ‘Never heard anything so absurd in my life.
No
. If you imagine – that anyone – that
this
world would
allow
– good Lord, such sums do not
vanish
– especially –
ha
– not – O
mercy
– not at the behest of the likes of
you
–’
    Schoepfil’s amusement got the better of his words and he tipped back his head to laugh. The blade shot through his neck clean as a needle, emerging with a crimson spray in tow. Schoepfil gargled his surprise, eyes as wide as two eggs. The strength left his body and the Contessa shoved him down in the debris.
    Without doubt the brass helmet had preserved her life, for her body was burnt, and she bled from a dozen oozing lacerations. Even with its protection, the Contessa’s face was divided by blood dripping from her hair.
    ‘Well.’ Her voice was as dry as sand. ‘Inevitably.’
    Chang came forward, standing unsteadily before Miss Temple and Svenson.
    ‘I’ll kill you first,’ the