The Ripper Affair

Chapter Two A Remedy For Concern

Morning at 34½ Brooke Street thrummed with orderly activity. The kitchen bubbled with preparations for luncheon, tea, and the evening’s dinner; footmen hurried to and fro in preparation to accompany a maid or two a-marketing; a bath had been drained; and the mistress of the house, in a morning dress of amber silk, stood in her conservatory, her fingers infinitely gentle as she parted a tinkling climate-globe of golden ætheric force over a struggling hellebore.

The experiment was not going well, and Emma Bannon probed delicately at the plant with several nonphysical senses, seeking to find the trouble. She hummed softly, finding the proper series of notes, and winced internally at the dissonance in the plant’s response.

A slight cough near the door informed her that her lean, yellow-eyed Shield was not finished with his own troubleseeking. He had already ruined breakfast by almost quarrelling with her.

Or, perhaps not quarrelling. Perhaps he really did believe her in need of coddling, or maybe he was truly anxious that his mistress was sinking too deeply into eccentricity. Primes were notorious for their oddities, which grew more pronounced over the course of a very long life. In some instances, the peculiarities turned deadly.

In any case, he chose exactly the wrong way to express said anxiety, phrased as a command. “Sooner or later you must face the world.”

If she were charitable, she would concede that it was not quite a command, and most probably intended as a statement of fact. Her skirts rustled–this morning dress, with relatively loose corseting and an unfashionably small bustle, had the advantage of being almost comfortable. “I will,” she replied, absently. “Not while she reigns, though. At the moment I am very busy with events occurring under my own roof.”

Mikal subsided, but not for long. “You are unhappy.”

Why on earth should that matter? She untangled an ætheric knot, her concentration firming and the pleasure of sinking herself into a task almost enough to soothe her irritation. “I am quite content, except my Shield continues yammering while I am engaged upon an experiment. You were trained to act more appropriately, Mikal.”

She sensed the flare of unphysical heat from him, denoting his own irritation and further sensed a tightness in his limbs. Did he perhaps wish to strike her?

It was a novel idea. It would certainly save them both from boredom.

If he wishes to, that is all very well. As long as he does not attempt it in fact.

Boredom, too, could drive a Prime to experiment too rashly with certain facets of the irrational arts. She was not yet at the point of seeing certain necessary precautions as mind-numbingly time-wasting, but she was perhaps very close.

“Now, what are you about?” she murmured to the hellebore. The plant was carrying on gamely, but traceries of virulent yellow and twisting black ran up its stems, down the central spine of each drooping leaf. Leprous green sorcery sought ineffectually to contain it, but the yellow would not be halted. Even loosening the invisible knots did not help.

Bloody hell. The ætheric tangle was growing worse, and strangling the life out of the hellebore’s tissues. I wonder why it does that. Hmm.

Unravelling the sorcerous threads required a light touch and considerable patience. The problem was a resonance; she caught herself worrying at her upper lip with her teeth. A lady’s face should not make such a display, Prima Grinaud would have said, and the thought of the wasp-waisted teacher and her whispering black, watered-silk skirts was enough to smooth Emma’s expression while she hummed a descant, seeking to find the vibration responsible.

Ah, there. Her humming shifted. A tiny thread of ætheric force spun down, the ring on her left index finger–a confection of marcasite and chrysoprase–glowing sullenly. Yellow veining retreated as the hellebore lifted its drooping leaves, the stems firming and the sudden rightness of a correct bit of sorcery sending a delightful thrill all the way down to Emma’s toes, encased in dainty button-up boots that also were unfashionable, but reasonably comfortable.

“Very satisfying.” She brushed her fingers quickly against her skirt, flicking away a tiny crackling of excess force. The climate-globe sealed itself, singing its soft muted bell-tone; the plant would survive. Not only that, it would downright thrive, and the manner of its cure gave her a fascinating new vista to experiment upon.

Clare would approve. Chartersymbols flashed along the globe’s shimmer, naming its confines and its function; a spatter of rain touched the conservatory’s windows.

Mikal, tall in his usual olive velvet jacket, the knives worn openly at his hips and his dark hair freshly trimmed, stood to one side of the door. Perhaps inevitably, he was boiling with carefully reined irritation: a lemon-yellow tinge to Sight. “You have not left the house in months, Prima.”

Which was true enough, she supposed. At least he was not asking why. “I have seen no need to go gadding about. Should you wish to visit the Zoo or perhaps take a turn in Hidepark, you are more than welcome to.” She clasped her hands, tilted her head and felt the reassuring weight of her lapis earrings as they swung gently.

“The Palace sends you dispatches.”

She decided the familiar tone he currently employed could be borne only so far. “Which I return unopened, Shield.” The Empire has not crumbled without my help to prop it up. I cannot tell whether to be pleased or vexed. “And,” she continued, “no doubt you are relieved I am no longer in any possible danger, feeling no urge to step outside. It must be wondrous calming for a Shield when his charge behaves so.”

“I am… concerned.” The thundercloud knitting upon his brow might have cheered her own darkening mood, had she let it.

“Ah. I believe there is a remedy for your concern.” Her tone dripped with sweet solicitude. “You may leave the worrying to me, Mikal. Your head is simply not fit for it.”

“Your temper, Prima, is as sharp as your tongue.”

She took a firmer hold on said temper. “And you are speaking out of turn.”

“Emma.” His hands spread slightly, and she wished he would not look so… downcast, or so pained. His presumption she could easily parry.

His affection was another matter entirely. It took a long while to undermine a citadel with kindness, but it could be done.

She was saved the trouble of responding by a sharp, almost painful internal twitch.

The sorceress stilled, her attention turning inward, and her Shield’s sudden tense silence was a familiar comfort. What on earth is that?

It had been a long while since she had felt that particular sensation; she flashed through and discarded several invisible threads before finding the one that sang like a viola’s string. Plucked by a long, bony finger… he had marvellously expressive hands for such a rigid logician, though Emma had never told him so.

Clare. In danger. But he has the… The string yanked sharply again, a fishhook in her vitals, and Emma almost gasped, training clamping down upon her fleshly body’s responses to free a Prime’s will to work unhindered.

She returned to herself with a rush, the walls of her house vibrating soundlessly. Her indentured servants, well accustomed to such a sensation, would be calmly pursuing their duties.

Mikal leaned forward, his weight braced, ready to move in any direction. “Prima?” Carefully, quietly–no matter how he might test her temper, it was best not to do so when there was sorcery to accomplish.

She supposed it was a small mercy that he was, at least, willing to cease his questioning when an emergency threatened.

“It is Clare,” she heard herself say, distantly. “To the stables, saddle two horses. Now.”