The Ripper Affair

Chapter Thirty-Four Very Precise Conditions

The broadsheets screamed, their ink acid-fresh. Double Murder In Whitchapel. “Leather Apron”–Two More Victims! Speculations of the most vivid nature shared the columns with sober warnings against Vice and breathless tales of the want and violence flourishing just as the Scab did. On the Recent Events in Whitchapel. Drawings of the discovery of the bodies–Clare was not mentioned. Naturally, his discretion would have been easy to secure.

Waring’s discretion had required no little amount of threat and blandishment in equal proportion. The commissioner was in an insufferable position, and it matched his temperament roundly. Still, he was useful, and she was fairly certain he would be the public face for whatever triumph or tragedy this affair would end with.

Emma glanced over the headlines, directed Horace to deposit the broadsheets in her library, and fixed Finch with a steady gaze. Her head throbbed and her filthy dress was likely to give her a rash, she ached to be clean. Duty demanded she deal with Finch’s nerves first. “You are perfectly safe, Geoffrey.”

“Oh, I know that, mum.” He had only paled slightly upon hearing the news of their dinner guest.

“Do you?” She made a slight movement, checked herself. Finch regarded her steadily, and she searched his features quite closely.

Madame Noyon appeared at the head of the stairs and bustled down, clucking over the state of her mistress’s dress.

Finch nodded, slowly. “Yesmum. I do.” There was a hint of a smile about his thin mouth now. “Rather pity the man, mum.”

Relief filled her; she turned to the next order of business. “Then you are a kinder soul than I. I shall leave dinner in your–and Cook’s–capable hands. They shall be in the smoking room afterwards; do make certain there are the cigars Clare prefers. And your nephew as well. He has rendered very tolerable service indeed so far.”

“Glad to hear it, mum.” He waited, but she had nothing further, and he consequently glided away.

“A mess,” Severine Noyon fussed, her plump hands waving as she arrived at Emma’s side. “Good heavens, madame, what did you do to yourself? A bath, and quickly. Chocolat.”

I could eat a hanging side of beef and ask for more. “And something substantial for breakfast, Madame, I have a quite unladylike appetite.”

“Mais oui, madame.” The round little woman in her customary black wool ushered Emma toward the stairs. “Catherine! Chocolat, and much breakfast for Madame in the solarium. Sunshine, oui, to make her strong. Isobel! Attendez!”

The house filled with efficient bustling, a bath was filled, and Emma sighed with contentment as she sank into hot rose-scented water. There was no time for soaking, however. In short order she was drawn forth, chafed dry, laced loosely into fresh stays and a morning gown. Fresh jewellery was selected, her hair arranged by Isobel’s quick fingers, and chocolat was there to greet her in the solarium. A hearty platter of bangers, scones, fruit, and a bowl of porridge were arranged in her favoured morning spot, and there was a bottle of nerve tonic set conspicuously to one side of the chocolat-pot.

Emma suppressed a grimace. Cook must have glimpsed her in the hall, to be so worried about her condition. Her servants did sometimes make small gestures.

The solarium was full of strengthening morning light, filtered grey through Londinium’s fog. Spatters of rain touched glass, puffing into thin traceries of steam when they touched the golden charter symbols scrolling lazily through the transparent panes, reinforcing and defending the fragility. The charm-globes over those of her plants more tender or needing training tinkled softly, each one a different note in the soothing symphony of morning.

Unfortunately, Emma’s nerves were not soothed.

Hard on breakfast’s heels Mikal also arrived, freshly scrubbed and only a little pale from the night’s excitement.

Emma had settled herself, let him stand for a few moments, filling her plate with measured greed. Fortunately her domestics were accustomed to her sometimes-unlady-like appetite, and she needed to replace a great deal of physical energy if she was to carry out her plans.

She had reached a number of conclusions in the past half-hour. Arranging one’s person was often sufficient to grant one solutions to certain other problems–the physical actions of proper dress and accoutrement tidied the mental faculties as well.

When she finally deigned to notice Mikal, he wore a faintly troubled expression. Perhaps he expected what was about to occur, or at least the nature of her mood.

Emma took a small, delicate bite of scone. Crumbly, dripping with melting butter, delicious. “Attend, Shield.”

His unease deepened, a low umber glow to Sight. “I attend.”

She was, truth be told, a trifle relieved to sense his discomfiture. Perhaps she was not viewed as predictable just yet.

Good. “There is a conversation we must have, and I have decided this is the proper moment.”

“Have you.” It was not a question, and his flat tone warned her.

Her own measured softness was a similar warning. “Indeed. You performed some feat while I lay dying of Her Majesty’s thrice-damned Plague.”

“Prima—”

“Silence.” Her weariness did most emphatically not mean he was given leave to interrupt her, and she was a little gratified to hear the resultant ringing quiet in the sunroom. Even the climate-globes had hushed themselves. “You were aware of the Philosopher’s Stone, and my gift of it to Mr Clare.”

“Yes. Prima—”

“Confine yourself to answering my questions, Shield. If I wish further detail, I shall tell you so. Now, you performed some manner of feat while I lay upon my deathbed. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Does that feat have any lingering effects?”

“Yes.”

“On you, or on me?”

“Both.”

“Ah.” She absorbed this. Whatever effects they were, they had not affected her sorcery. The only evidence she had to build assumptions or guesses upon was her feeling of quite-uncalled-for physical well-being. And, let it not be forgotten, a certain resistance to injury that she had grown quite accustomed to with the Stone married to her flesh. It was not as complete as a Stone’s protection. Her left thigh twitched, reminding her. “It would seem I am somewhat more physically durable than a Prime usually is.”

“Yes.”

“How extensive is this durability?”

He was silent for a long moment. “There is very little I may not heal you from.”

Ah. That he may not heal. “Dismemberment and death, I presume.”

“I have an hour’s time after your death. Less, if your… body is not… whole.”

Fascinating. “I presume this has somewhat to do with your ancestry.”

A shrug.

She restrained her temper yet again, but her purpose had been served, so she changed direction. “How did you evade detection at the Collegia?”

“I passed their Tests.” His chin lifted, and she decided his defiance was not yet of the punishable variety.

“Of course you did, or you would not have been…” An odd thought occurred to her. She set her implements down, poured herself a cup of chocolat, and settled into the chair with it. “You are rather wayward, as Shields go. One might almost say, headstrong.”

“Disobedient.”

Quite the word I would choose. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Hm.” She took another sip. The almost-bitterness coating her tongue had two sources, now. “This places rather a different complexion on our… relations.”

“Have I given you cause for complaint?”

Ætheric force jabbed, a sudden hurtful compression. She had precious little of Tideturn’s force available to her now, but her sorcerous Will clamped about him. He was driven to his knees, not slowly, but not as quickly as she could have otherwise.

“Do not,” Emma said, very softly, “presume, Shield. I did not give you leave to ask questions.”

Perhaps he would have made a reply, but she lifted a fingertip delicately from her cup. A short Word, and his mouth was stoppered as well.

The solarium’s glass walls had misted with condensation, for a feral heat now moved through the small room. She loathed this display, but her plans now depended upon a few very precise conditions, and she was determined to arrange them to her liking.

“Mikal.” She felt the struggle in him; he sought to rise but was held immobile. “You displease me, and as a consequence, you are Confined. C—x’b.”

The Word drained her, savage exhaustion running through her marrow. Tiny nips of pain in her fingers and toes, but training held her still and apparently unmoved by the expenditure of force. The house shivered once, sealing itself against the egress of one of its inhabitants.

Until she decided otherwise.

Mikal’s irises flamed yellow. He ceased struggling, and instead, watched her.

She returned her attention to her chocolat. “You are dismissed to your quarters, Shield.”

Woodenly, his body rose, a marionette’s jerking motion. Turning inward, she sought for any indication that he was merely acquiescing instead of compelled. None was to be found, and her jaw tightened as he disappeared.

His progress through the house was slow and stilted, and it was only when he was within his dark, narrow room–she had left it to be modified according to his whim, and rarely entered it–that she relaxed her grip even slightly. The slam of his door flung closed with sorcerous force was the snap of a wineglass’s stem in clenched fingers.

Emma blinked, her eyes watering. Surely it was only her Discipline. Tears would be a weakness.

She settled to her breakfast, eating with mechanical good manners. She needed the fuel. Her cheeks were wet, and her morning dress, black watered silk as wasp-waisted Prima Grinaud had always worn, was dotted with tiny splashes of hot salt water.

Now, many years after her graduation from under the grand magistrix’s thumb, she wondered who–or what–Prima Grinaud had been mourning. Or if the redoubtable lady had entombed herself at the Collegia alive to escape the world outside.

How long would it be before Emma herself was tempted to do the same?