The Ripper Affair

The drawing room trembled like oil on the surface of a wind-ruffled pond. A Prime’s temper could tear this entire house–and a good portion of Mayefair, did it become necessary–asunder, leaving only a smoking hole of chaos and irrationality. The scar would be long in healing.

Why stop there? Londinium itself could bear some cleansing. Perhaps if stone was pulled from stone, the trees blasted and the birds silenced Emma Bannon might find some peace.

Is peace my aim, then?

Victrix’s lip twitched, perhaps a sign of disdain. Certainly it was not amusement, as it might have been once. “Emma.”

As the first blow of a duel, it left rather something to be desired. “Your Majesty.” Do you see your mother’s face in the mirror? Gossip holds that you were reconciled to her on her deathbed, even though you found certain proof in Conroy’s papers of some terrible guilt.

What was it like, she wondered, to host the spirit of rule, to be the law and will of the Isles incarnate… and to find your own mother had plotted against you? Then there was the matter of the Consort, whose health had never been fine after the Red had swept Londinium. Emma would have thought the widow’s weeds a silent rebuke, but for the fact that a queen would feel no need to rebuke, certainly… and the ancillary fact that it was Victrix’s own government that had loosed that particular scourge on the world.

The method of making a cure was known far and wide now, and Emma had held her tongue.

For after all, Clare had survived, even if Emma’s Shield, Eli, had not. He had rendered faithful service, and she had failed to protect him.

I am not calm at all. Harsh training sank its claws into her vitals, a vice about her forehead as well. A tiny tremor rippled through her skirts, making a soft sweet sound.

That was all.

Victrix’s chin rose slightly. “We are here to speak with you.”

“Obviously.” Emma did not have to search for asperity. She was slightly gratified to see the woman’s chin wobble: a very small, betraying movement.

The queen’s face shifted, like clay in cold running water. Emma watched through the veil as Britannia woke, Her fleshly vessel filling like the Themis in its stony bed during the autumn torrents that would soon start and drown Londinium as the summer had failed to do.

The spirit of rule peered out of Her chosen bearer, and Victrix’s jewels flashed again, with a power different than sorcery.

“Arrogant witchling.” The voice was different, too, and Victrix’s expression a stony wall. “Is it a grudge you bear?”

“What good would that do?” Emma lifted one shoulder, dropped it in an approximation of a shrug. An unladylike movement, but it expressed her feelings perfectly. “What is it the spirit of Empire requires?”

For a long moment Britannia studied her, the spirit’s gaze sharpening further. “Do you still obey My vessel, witchling?”

I return every communication either of you see fit to send me unopened, and have for a long while now. “Does she still see fit to insult me?”

“Petty.” Britannia narrowed her eyes, the glow above Her veiled, grey-threaded head the most evanescent crown of all, a sign of the spirit fully inhabiting its vessel, all its attention brought to bear. “Who are you, to take insult?”

I am Prime. You should know better, Britannia, even if Victrix does not

. She simply gazed through her heavy veil, willing the wine-red fury within her to retreat.

“We are weakened,” the spirit finally said, its cold lipless voice somehow faintly obscene, issuing from a stout woman’s throat. “We have… there is a draining of Our vital energy. A threat.”

A draining? Weakened? Emma frankly stared. The world seemed to shift a bit beneath her. “Ah,” she managed, finally. “I see.”

“No.” Britannia drew Victrix’s mouth back, into a rictus. “You do not. But We shall enlighten you.”

Chapter Nine

How Many Acquaintances

A few effects stuffed higgledy-piggledy into his trusty Gladstone, and Clare halted to stare at the bed. It was neatly made, the linens snow-white and the red velvet counterpane as familiar as the worn quilt covering his narrow Baker Street bed. Here the furniture was heavy and dark, of a quality to last; his flat seemed rather shabby in comparison.