The Ripper Affair

His lemon-sucking face intensified, his collar pressing papery neck-flesh. The indenture collar would grant him a longer lease aboveground, but he was ageing. “Not so much the carriage as the guards about it. All of Brooke Street’s under their eye, mum.”

“Indeed.” They were all aging. Severine Noyon sometimes limped, old injuries stiffening her thickened body. Isobel and Catherine, once bonny young maids, were past the first flush of youth now, and would perhaps marry if she settled a dowry upon them. Bridget and Alice as well. She should attend to that, and soon.

A Prime’s life was long, and enough of a burden without a Philosopher’s Stone taken from a dead lover’s wrack and ruin to weigh upon one. She had intended to make Clare proof against time, and also to assuage her damnable conscience in the matter.

And yet.

Finch brought her back to the matter at hand. “The watchers arrived just as Cook and the girls did.”

In other words, they did not wish to be remarked by a sorceress or a Shield, knowing one or both of us would sense a watch upon the house as we returned. I should feel insulted. An involuntary sigh worked its way past her lips. “The servants?”

“All accounted for, mum. The carriage is a fine bit of work, but without design. Clockhorses worth a pretty penny. Black as… well, black, mum.”

Black as death. “How very interesting.” She crushed the scrap of lace and cambric between her fingers and her sweating brow. “Very well, send word I shall receive one person, and one only.”

“Shall I bring tea?”

A cuppa would do me a world of good

. “No. Rum. And vitae.”

“Yesmum.” He sounded relieved, even though he would know the very thought of violet-scented vitae would unsettle his employer’s stomach most roundly.

“Thank you, Finch.” If the carriage held what she suspected, the drink would come in handy.

For both of them.

“Yesmum,” he repeated, and shuffled out. The set of his thin shoulders was profoundly relieved, no doubt eased by this intimation that his mistress knew exactly what she was about. As usual, her own steadiness provoked calm and assurance in her servants.

Emma allowed herself one more deep, pained sigh.

Of course Clare was… upset. The wonder was that he had not bethought himself to ask such questions before. For a logic machine trapped in distracting flesh, he certainly seemed a bit… well, naïve.

She rose, slowly, her hands accomplishing the familiar motions of setting her dress to rights. She lowered the veil–a tear-stained face and dishevelled curls was not how she wished to face whatever manner of unpleasantness this was likely to be.

Blinking furiously, Emma Bannon lowered her head and strode for the door.

Pale birch furniture, indigo cushions, the wallpaper soft silken blue as a summer sky. The mirrors glowed faintly, though the curtains were drawn–a strip of garden before a stone wall was not the best view, though sometimes Emma thought of a Minor Seeming–a lakeside, perhaps? The trouble with such a fancy was that it weakened any ætheric defence, though glass was wondrous when it came to building illusion upon a physical matrix.

She stood by the cold fireplace–no flame had been laid, and the room was chill. It reflected her feelings toward the entire day, she supposed, and cast a longing glance at the settee. But, no–standing, and the presumed advantage of being afoot, was called for.

The air vibrated uneasily, and the door opened. “Mum,” Finch murmured, showing the visitor inside.

Another heavily veiled figure in black, and for a moment the sensation was of falling into a reflective surface. Or the past, that great dark well. But this woman, while slightly taller than Emma, was considerably rounder. Her black was very proper widow’s weeds, and jewels flashed as she smoothed the veil aside with plump fingers.

There was another soundless flashing, the light that preceded thunder, and Emma’s mouth turned itself to a thin, bitter line before she smoothed her features.

But she did not make a courtesy. Pride, a sorceress’s besetting sin.

Perhaps I have simply learned to value myself.

The face behind the veil’s screen was rounder too, and beginning to exhibit the ravages of time, care, and rich food. The girl she had once been had vanished. Pressures of rule had hammered that girl into this woman–weak-chinned, yes, but the eyes were piercing, as well as black from lid to lid, and spangled with dry constellations not even a sorcerer could name. Her cheeks were coarser, and slightly flushed, and perhaps it was a blessing that Alexandrine Victrix, Queen of the Isles and Empress of the Indus, bearer of the spirit of rule, did not know how much she resembled her deceased mother.