The Ripper Affair

Chapter Seventeen Find The Limits

Clare coughed, wrackingly, and set the knife against his forearm. He was interrupted by a sound not of his own creation, and he blinked rapidly as he watched the last shallow slice slowly congeal. The more he practised, the faster the superficial wounds seemed to seal themselves.

The ramifications were quite fascinating. What had interrupted him?

One step inside his workroom, despite the locked door–this was, to be sure, her house, and should she require entry into a portion of it, well, he could not grudge or gainsay her–and Emma’s dark eyes widened dangerously. Of course, the blood spattering the smooth stone walls, the chaos of tools on one of the sturdy wooden tables, and the shattered glass upon the floor–he had swept a few alembics from its surface in his irritation–were not comforting in the least.

“What on earth are you doing?” Emma Bannon demanded, her earrings of shivering cascades of silver wire and splinters of jet trembling as she halted just over the threshold.

She was in black again today, and looked none the worse for wear. In fact, with her eyes so wide and her expression so shocked, she looked more childlike than ever.

Clare, blinking furiously through veils of acrid smoke, actually goggled at her for a few moments before finding his tongue. “Experiments! Must find the limits, you see. This is quite interesting.” He waved the knife absently. “It will make shallow cuts, but no matter how I try, I cannot so much as lop a fingertip off. Controlled explosives merely toss me about a bit. This is very—”

“You’ve gone mad. S–x’v!” The collection of sounds she uttered shivered the walls, refusing to stay in Clare’s memory for more than a moment. When the echoes died, he found he could not move. The knife clattered from his nerveless fingers, and she made a short, sharp gesture that gathered up the thick white and grey smoke, compressing it into an ashen sphere that bumbled over her head and drifted out of sight up the stairs, seeking a chimney. “Good heavens. Look at all this.”

Mikal appeared behind her, one eyebrow fractionally raised. “Is that… what is it?”

“Dynamite.” She lifted her heavy skirts, stepping briskly through the litter of glass and splinters. “Nitrou-glycerine and sawdust; it tends to be volatile. Do take care. Clare, what on earth?”

He could breathe well enough, but his limbs refused to budge. Invisible bands circled him, gently but firmly, and he had the sudden, quite thought-provoking realisation that she was being rather delicate with him. “Experiments,” he wheezed. “Interfering… damn nuisance.”

“Quite.” She examined the walls, wrinkling her small nose. “What are you hoping to discover, sir?”

“What the… the limits of…” The words fled from him as he stared at her throat. Her pulse beat, a fraction too swiftly. “I say, you are quite agitated. And your dress is fashionable even for mourning, despite the tiny bustle, which means you did not deny what Isobel first proffered. She quite thinks you need a bit more mode lately, you have not been yourself. And Madame Noyon is becoming forgetful as she grows older—”

“Clare.” She shook her head, the curls over her ears a bit old-fashioned, but she could simply have been a well-bred young miss with a hidebound guardian or duenna choosing her cloth. An observer who did not note the fact of her sorcery would perhaps draw such a conclusion. “You will refrain.”

But I do not wish to. “I must know what the limits are. What the logical… what I can extrapolate…”

“Did it occur to you to simply ask?”

His reply was loosed before he considered its weight or its edge. “Would you answer honestly if I had?”

She made a small spitting noise, expressing very unladylike irritation. Yet she did not deign to answer more fully, and Clare could hardly blame her. He strained against the invisible ropes holding him fast, and reflected that it was no wonder a woman with her abilities was held in such caution.

It was downright unnatural for a female to possess such power.

Miss Bannon examined the workroom once more, turning in a complete circle so as to leave nothing unseen. “You have not slept at all,” she remarked.

“No.” There is too much to discern, too much to do.

“You will likely continue in this fashion until you find some means of harming yourself.”

“My dear lady, I cannot—” His struggles increased, and his voice rose. “Turn loose. I demand you release me, Emma.”

“Have I been in any way unclear? I am quite unwilling to see you harmed, Archibald. I shall take steps to prevent it.”

“You are not my nursemaid!” Why was he shouting? A mentath did not lose his temper. It was unheard of. It could not be borne.

Neither could the restraints, and she watched him curiously as he continued to writhe without moving. Could she feel it? Her expression gave no indication. It was frankly maddening to see a slip of a girl, her head cocked slightly, regard a grown man much as a child might a specimen pinned to a board.

“No. I am most definitely not your nursemaid.” She nodded once, briskly, her curls swinging. “But you do need one at this juncture. And I think it best you sleep now, dear Clare.”

He was about to protest even more hotly, but a rumbling passed through him. More of those damnable unremembered words, her lips shaping incomprehensible, inhuman sounds, and blackness swallowed him whole.