The Red Plague Affair

Chapter Twenty-Four Burden Of Service

Stepping into her own house was tinged with a variety of uncomfortable relief, almost as if she had retired to a bolt-hole. To be Prime was to fear very little, but she was well on her way to seeing enemies in every shadow.

And for all I know, there may be. Especially if Britannia has another sorcerer dogging my footsteps. And the scene in the Hall probably did not inspire confidence or soothe Her. After all, Victrix – and Britannia Herself – could not know what Morris’s fevered rantings might have told her.

And there was the question of the two canisters, disappeared. Emma sighed, working her fingers under her hair, leaning against her front door.

Mikal echoed her sigh, his shoulders dropping. He finally broke the silence between them that had held all the way from Whitchapel. “Another sorcerer?”

“A Prime, no less.” Wearily, Emma scrubbed at the skin over her skull. It would disarrange her hair most dreadfully, but she was past caring. Is Clare here? He should be, if I have to stir one step to seek him out tonight I shall be quite cross. Even the simple act of concentrating enough to discern who was within her walls seemed far too great an expenditure of precious energy.

The house was awake, in any event, and Mr Finch came stiffly down the stairs, his dusty black making the long thin lines of his gaunt body even slimmer. His indenture collar brightened visibly as he laid eyes on her. “Madam.” He showed no surprise at her dishevelment – of course, he was phlegmatic in the extreme, as well as accustomed to the various states of disarray she suffered in Britannia’s service. “Mr Clare left, with his… guest. Shall I have Madame Noyon…?” His eyebrows rose, and his face was truly like a death’s head.

Starvation left marks on a man, and Finch was unwilling to let them fade. Or he did not possess the capability of letting such things fade. And, it must be said, neither did his mistress, no matter how successfully she hid the traces of her own private dæmons, real or imagined.

Clare had a guest? For now, though, she was called upon to tend to the responsibilities of a Prime toward her servants. “Yes, please do. I rather require a hot bath. And rouse the kitchen; Mikal requires sustenance.” Who can he have brought home? Not Sigmund, thank God, he’s safe enough. “I shall not stir forth one step tonight, Finch, unless there is a dire emergency. And even then, I shall reconsider.” So Clare had better not be in any danger. I may even be vexed with the man, and Ludo to boot.

“Very well, mum. Sir.” A half-bow to her, taking in Mikal at the very end, and he vanished down the hall to the kitchens. Waking the house at this hour was all manner of bother and annoyance, but what were such things to servants? Especially indentureds as well-paid and well-treated as her own.

“Is she at odds with you, then? The Queen?”

How was it possible for Mikal to sound so indifferent? “I believe her own cleverness stung her fingers, Shield. But she will blame me.” Or does she know exactly what Morris’s madness has done? Perhaps I should have kept my temper in order to discern. A sigh came from a deep well inside her. “Go. I shall be well enough.”

He nodded. In the foyer’s gloom, gaslamps turned down for the evening and her unwilling to expend more sorcerous force to brighten the air, his yellow irises held a fire all their own. “Emma.”

Not now, please. “What?” She sounded ungracious, she realised, as well as peevish.

Well, at least I require no artifice to cover such things. Not with him.

“I am only half… what you suspect. The other half is different. The whole is—”

“Mikal—” Curse you, I do not wish to know!

He dared to interrupt her. “The whole, Prima, is at your command. Of course.” He turned on his heel and strode away, disappearing in Finch’s wake as a bell jangled in the depths of the servants’ quarters and the susurrus of cloth began. At any moment, Severine and the maids would appear to usher Emma into a hot bath, there would be light refreshment, and she could fall into her bed with a sigh of well-earned relief.

Still, it bothered her. Had Victrix any idea what this “weapon” could do? There was also the little matter of the canisters of poison Morris had taken with him; they must be found and dealt with, and where on earth was Clare?

“Madame!” There was Severine, in a lace cap, shadows under her coal-black eyes and her plump hands wringing at each other. A dark strand of hair freighted with grey slipped from under the housekeeper’s cap, and she negotiated the stairs with most unseemly haste. Behind her, Catherine and Isobel hurried, Isobel yawning and Catherine’s curls heavily disarranged. All three wore the powdery-silver metal of indenture collars, lovingly burnished and softly glowing. “You are returned, bien! And so tired. Come, come, we shall take good care of you.”

“Good evening.” Her shoulders dropped for the first time, tension easing. “I hope you will, Severine, for I sorely need it. A bath, and perhaps some chocolat.”

And I may be able to read half a page of a dreadfully sensational novel before I fall into sleep.

It was by far the most pleasant thought she had experienced in a few days. Later, of course, she would curse herself for not sallying forth to find a certain mentath. But for that night, Emma Bannon laid down the burden of service for a few hours… and was content.