The Ripper Affair

Chapter Forty-Eight To Sting, Or To Soothe

The fussing was not to be borne. “Tighter,” Emma said, and the corset closed about her cruelly. “Enough, thank you. Severine, I am quite well.”

“Mais non, madame.” The round woman in her customary black was pale, but she forged onwards. “You can barely stand, and monsieur le bouclier said you were to sleep until—”

“Mikal does not dispose of me, Severine. I dispose of myself, thank you, and if you truly wish to help, stop this fretting and tell Mr Finch I am not receiving unless the widow calls.” He will know what that means. “And make certain Mr Clare and Philip are properly attended to.”

“Stubborn,” Severine said, under her breath, and as she flounced from the dressing room Bridget and Isobel brought forth a dress from a tall birchwood wardrobe.

The housekeeper was met at the door by a silent Mikal, who held it courteously for her and slid into the dressing room without bothering to knock.

“She is quite worried.” He halted, watching as the dress was lifted over Emma’s head. Quick fingers put everything to rights, brushing black silk tenderly, and Emma told herself that the trembling in her knees would fade. This was no time to appear weakened.

“Worry is acceptable.” Her breath came short. It was the corset, she told herself. “Ordering me about is not. Loosen the neck a trifle, Isobel. I rather dislike being throttled so.”

Isobel hurried to obey. She did not remark upon the glaring scar ringing her mistress’s throat. It would pale and shrink, as the Stone in her chest–a familiar, heavy, warm weight, how had she lived without it?–worked its slow wonder.

She had not needed whatever miracle Mikal had wrought–or had she? Would she have survived, even with the flood of her Discipline sustaining her?

Her plan had succeeded. They had indeed come to find her. Now, though, she wondered if she had been quite wise to treat Mikal so.

“Isobel, fetch a bit more chocolat, please. And Bridget, I have a mind to refill that perfume flask–no, the green one. Yes. Do hurry along to Madame Noyon and have her do so, then come back to attend to my hair. Yes, girls, off with you.”

They exchanged a dire look, Bridget’s freckles glaring against her milky cheeks, but they obeyed. Familiarity could only be stretched so far, here at 34½ Brooke Street.

That left her alone with her Shield, with stockinged feet, her hair undone and not a scrap of jewellery to armour her.

He was just the same, except for the marks of exhaustion about his eyes. Tall and straight in olive-green velvet–he had, apparently, decided he no longer mourned. Or perhaps he wished her to insist.

She wet her lips with a nervous flicker of her tongue. Wished she had not, for his gaze fastened upon her mouth. Her legs were most unsteady, but her stays helped to bolster her, at least to some degree.

“It was necessary.” She plunged ahead, for his expression was set and quiet, and she did not like the… what was it, that she felt? Uncertainty? “I could not have you following me too soon. And… whatever you performed upon me, Mikal, I could not—”

“You do not have to explain yourself to your Shield, Prima.” He took two steps towards her, halted.

They regarded each other, Shield and sorceress, and the sounds of movement elsewhere in the house were very loud behind their silence.

Perhaps I wish to. Emma swallowed, dryly, acutely conscious of the movement of muscle in her vulnerable throat. “Mikal…”

He looked away, at the open wardrobe. Dresses peeked out, in the darker jewel-shades she preferred. She would mourn properly for Ludovico, now. When she shed the black, perhaps there were other things she would shed as well.

Except the names of her failures, the rosario she repeated to puncture her own arrogance. Harry. Thrent. Namal. Jourdain. Eli.

Ludovico.

She braced herself. Lifted her chin, aware that the scar would show. It was time, she decided, for Mikal to receive some measure of truth from her. “I would not care to lose you, Shield.”

As if she were the Shield, and he, her charge.

A slight smile. “I would not care to be lost.”

Did it mean he forgave her? Dare she ask? It was Mikal, why on earth should she feel this… was it fear? A Prime did not stoop to fearing a Shield. Or craving forgiveness from one of that brotherhood.

Then why were her palms a trifle moist, and her heart galloping along so?

She gathered herself, again. Chose each word carefully, enunciated it clearly. “One day, Mikal, I shall ask precisely what feat you performed while I suffered the Plague. I shall further ask why Clare knew of it, and I did not.”

He still examined her dresses. “On that day I shall answer, Prima.”

It was not satisfying at all. “Are you… distressed? By… recent events?”

He finally turned to face her again. The smile had broadened, and become genuine. He closed the remaining distance between them with a Shield’s quiet step, and his fingers were warm on her cheeks.

His mouth was warm too; she did not realise he had driven her back until her skirts brushed the dressing table and her shoulders met the wall to its side, her own fingers tangling in his hair and her body suddenly enclosed in a different confinement, one that robbed her of breath and the need to brace her knees.

He held her there, tongue and lips dancing their own Language of fleshly desire, and when she broke away to breathe he printed a kiss on her cheek, another on her jaw, a third behind her ear where the hollow of flesh was so exquisitely vulnerable.

“A heart is a heart,” he breathed, against the side of her scarred throat. “And a stone is a stone.”

What on earth does that mean? She stored the question away, stroked his dark hair. He was shaking, or was it that her own trembling had communicated to him?

“You are my Shield,” she whispered, and drew her hands away. Laid her head upon his shoulder, for once, and allowed the will that kept her upright to slacken for a few moments.

He held her, rested his chin atop her tangled curls. His reply was almost inaudible.

“You are my heart.”

Like any reprieve, it did not last very long. In short order she had descended to the solarium, her hair finally set to rights, silver chalcedony rings upon three of her fingers, her ear-drops of marcasite and jet comforting weights, and a twisted golden brooch bearing a teardrop of green amber pinned to her bosom.

Finch cleared his throat.

Emma glanced up from the hellebore, which was springing back quite nicely under its charm-globe. “Ah. Finch. Is Mr Clare awake?”

“Yesmum. He is in the drawing room.” Finch blinked once, rather like a lizard. He looked grave, but no more than usual. “With a certain personage, mum. Two certain personages.”

“Ah.” She studied the hellebore for a few more moments. “I am… sorry that you must endure the inspector’s presence.”

“Quite all right, mum.” Did he sound slightly shocked? “I… have every confidence, thank you. In your, erm, protection.”

At least someone does. She was hard-pressed not to smile. “Good. I take it the second personage is a widow?”

“Quite right, mum. Waiting on your pleasure.”

How that must gall her. “How very polite. I shall take luncheon in my study, Finch, and we shall go over the household accounts with Madame Noyon afterwards.”

“Yesmum.” There was a certain spring in his step as he left, and she allowed herself one more moment of studying the hellebore’s wide leaves and juicy, thriving green before she made her way to the drawing room.

Mikal was at the door, sweeping it open at her nod.

Clare was at the mantel, studying the mirror over it with an air of bemused worriment. Inspector Aberline, his wounded ankle securely wrapped, leaned heavily on a brass-headed Malacca cane, but he did not dare sit in the presence of the stout, heavily veiled woman on the blue velvet settee.

Mikal closed the door, and Emma surveyed them, clasping her hands in ladylike fashion. She did not pay the woman a courtesy, instead regarding Aberline with a lifted eyebrow.

“Good morning, Inspector. I take it you’re well?”

He glowered. “Fires. Property damage, loss of life. Waring swears he’ll have my head, the public is calling for my dismissal.”

“How very uncomfortable.” Given your usual methods, I cannot say I mind. Still, he had aided Clare. “Do you wish to keep your position? Should you not, I am certain those present may be of aid in finding a better one.”

“I’m to go on holiday until the fuss dies down.” His gaze turned to the veiled woman. “With your permission, Your Majesty, I shall be about my duties.”

“We are grateful for your services, during these troubled times.” The Widow of Windsor offered a plump, gloved, beringed paw, and he bent over it. “You have Our thanks, and Our blessing.”

Much good may it do you. Emma held her tongue.

Aberline limped past her, pausing at the door. “My regards to Mr Finch, Miss Bannon. Good day.”

I shall not pass along any of your regard, sir. “Good day, Inspector. Pleasant dreams.”

He restrained a curse, but only barely, and she waited until she heard the front door close behind him before her attention turned elsewhere.

The silence quickly became uncomfortable. Clare appeared to take no notice, until, with a sigh, Victrix pushed her veil aside and regarded the sorceress.

Her eyes were shockingly, humanly dark, the constellations of Britannia’s gaze dim and faraway in pupils that had not been visible for years. “Sorceress.”

“Your Majesty.”

“They tell me it is… finished.”

For me, yes. “It appears so.”

Her reply apparently did not satisfy. Colour began below the high neckline of the Widow of Windsor’s stiff black gown, mounted in her cheeks. Died away. The tiny points of light flickering in her pupils sought to strengthen. Emma observed this with great interest.

Finally, Victrix spoke again. “We are weakened. No doubt this pleases you.”

“It does not.” I wish you every joy of it, though. “The sorcerer responsible for the recent… unpleasantness… suffered a hideous fate, Your Majesty. Perhaps that may comfort you.”

The Queen hefted herself to her feet. Clare stepped away from the mantel, as if to assist, but she merely stalked to within a few feet of Emma. Their skirts almost brushed, and the sorceress banished the smile seeking to rise to her mouth.

It would not do.

“We are not comforted, witchling.” There was no cold weight of power behind the words, but the echo of Britannia’s frigid, heavy voice underlay Victrix’s words. “We suspect…”

Have you learned nothing, my Queen? Emma did not blink.

Two women, studying each other, the only thing separating them a wall of trembling air. And, of course, a measure of pride on either side.

Victrix’s shoulders sagged. Her hand twitched, slightly, as if she wished to reach out.

If she did, what would I do? She is not the queen I served.

The memory of vast weight, the temptation to step aside from her human self and become more, rose inside her in a dark wave.

Emma Bannon found, much to her relief, that her decision was still the same, and that she suffered no regret.

“You are the Queen,” she murmured, and lowered her gaze. She stared at Victrix’s reticule–and what use did royalty have for such a thing, really? She certainly never went marketing. Perhaps it was a touch of the domesticity she had craved with her Consort.

What dreams had been put aside when the spirit of rule descended upon Victrix? Did she curse the weight and cherish it at once, as a Prime might well both curse and cherish the burden of a Will that would not allow rest or submission?

“We are.” But Victrix only sounded weary. “We shall not trouble thee again, sorceress.”

Is that meant to sting, or to soothe me? Emma merely nodded, and Her Majesty swept past, her veil whispering as she lowered it again. The door opened, and Emma turned her head, staring at the velvet-cloaked window. “Your Majesty.”

A pause, a listening silence.

“I shall not trouble you, either.”

There was no answer.