Free The Chemickal Marriage by Gordon Dahlquist

gathering the dress to swing her second leg.
    The small platform behind the gate floated in a sea of dark space. The only way off it was a ramp – Brine had clearly missed it in his fall – descending into shadow.
    ‘The shooting smoke,’ said Svenson. ‘It may have been bullets, or darts … can you see where they came from?’
    Miss Temple eased her body lower. The metal plate that covered the platform … it sparkled.
    ‘There is
glass …’
    To either side of the gate stood tall, thin posts, each with a vertical line of dark holes, as if they were bird houses, all facing the platform and anyone trying to break in. Miss Temple measured the distance to the ground and thewidth of the metal plate. She gathered her nerve, quivering like a cat. She flung herself towards the darkness.
    ‘
Celeste!
’
    She landed on the ramp and rolled, scrabbling with her hands to stop herself sailing off the edge. She rose with a sudden urgency and scuttled to the top of the ramp.
    ‘Celeste – that was incredibly foolish –’
    ‘Be quiet! You must either climb over after me or hide.’
    ‘Is there no lock?’ asked Phelps.
    ‘I cannot reach it without being killed – the metal plate, when one treads upon it, the trap is sprung – you will see for yourself. You must leap past it. The task is nothing, a girl has done it before you. But you must hurry – someone is coming from below!’
    Phelps reached her first – spraggling and damp at Miss Temple’s feet. He motioned Svenson on with both hands. The Doctor had cleared the spikes with only a minor catch on his greatcoat, but clung uncertainly.
    ‘I do dislike high places,’ he muttered.
    Beams of light stabbed up at them. Svenson jumped, clearing the metal plate by an inch, and lurched into their arms. Miss Temple put two fingers over his mouth. A voice rose in the darkness, harsh with amusement.
    ‘Look at this one! Right in the chops. You lot see if he’s alone …’
    Their only exit was the ramp, exactly where a gang of men was approaching behind a raised lantern. Miss Temple took hold of her companions, pulling them down.
    ‘Lie flat – do not move,’ she whispered. ‘Follow when you can!’
    She pressed her green bag into Phelps’s hand and then started down at a trot. She reached a landing and turned into bright lantern light.
    ‘Where is Mr Brine!’ she cried shrilly. ‘What has happened? Is he alive?’
    The man with the lantern caught her arm with a grip like steel, the light near enough to burn her face.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he snarled. ‘How did you pass the gate?’
    ‘I am Miss Isobel Hastings,’ she whined. ‘What has happened to Mr Brine?’
    ‘He’s had a bit of a fall.’ The man wore an unbuttoned green tunic, the uniform of the Xonck militia. The others with him were similarly dressed – all sloppy and unshaven.
    ‘My goodness,’ cried Miss Temple. ‘There are
five
of you, all come to rescue me!’
    ‘Rescue?’ scoffed the leader. ‘Take her arms.’
    Miss Temple cried out as she was seized, doing her best to shove forward. ‘I am looking for my – my fiancé – his name is Ramper. He came here, for his work – Mr Brine told me – I paid him to help me –’
    ‘No one comes here, Isobel Hastings.’
    ‘He did! Ned Ramper – a great strapping fellow! What have you done with him?’
    The leader looked past Miss Temple, and made to aim the lantern at the ramp above. She kicked his shin.
    ‘Where is he, I say – I insist that you answer –’
    The man’s backhand struck her face like a whip, and she only kept her feet for being held. The leader marched down the ramp and barked for the others to follow. She could not place her steps. After the first few yards they simply dragged her.
    She was dropped to the floor in a cold room fitted with gas lamps.
    ‘That one on the table.’
    Men crossed in front of her and carried the deadweight of Mr Brine to a table of stained planks. Brine’s eyes were shut and his jaw