The Ripper Affair

Since when? But the practice of holding her tongue in the presence of royalty had always stood Emma in marvellous good stead, and she found it easy to adhere to at the moment. And Lady Sellwyth, as if Victrix sought to remind her of the fanged gift of a title set as a seal upon Emma’s faithful service, and the Sellwyth ancestral lands held in Emma’s fist, guarding its secret.

Victrix’s mouth barely opened far enough to let the words loose. “Since those ingrates sought to disturb the taproot of Our power.”

Which ingrates? History is full to the brim of those who would supplant a vessel. Perhaps it was Cramwelle’s reign she referred to–the shock of Charles the First’s execution must have been a nasty one. Or perhaps she meant Mad Georgeth’s reign, though Britannia had held fast to even that ailing container.

She could even have meant the affair with the dragon, given her mention of Sellwyth.

Interesting as that avenue of questioning might prove, the issue of what the taproot of a ruling spirit’s power consisted of was even more

intriguing.

A heavy sigh, and Britannia retreated from Victrix’s features. Her shoulders rounded, a flicker of expression crossed her broad face—what was it?

Almost haunted, Emma decided. “Your Majesty.” She aimed for a soft, conciliatory tone, and perhaps did not succeed. Still, the effort had been made. “This seems to trouble you greatly.”

“Can you imagine, sorceress, what it would be to lose your powers?”

I do not have to imagine. “Yes.” Memory rose–dripping water, smell of stone, the manacles clanking and her own despairing noises as she struggled fruitlessly–and Mikal’s steady breathing as he throttled and eviscerated the Prime who had trapped her and sought to tear her ætheric talent out by the roots. His own Prime, the one he had sworn to serve… a vow broken for what?

He hurt you,

was all Mikal would say of the matter. She had never sorely pressed him on that point, for a variety of reasons. Clare’s accusations rose before her again, unwelcome guests indeed, in the crowded room her brain had momentarily become.

“Yes,” she repeated. “I can imagine it very well.”

“Then you know how difficult it may be to speak of.” Then, a crowning absurdity. “We ask your patience.”

There was a tap at the door, and Mikal ghosted in. He held a silver tray–the rum, and a small fluted bottle of vitae. Just the sight of the glowing-purple glass was enough to unseat Emma’s stomach a little.

His irises flared yellow in the dim light, and, for the first time in a long while, she found herself slightly worried about her Shield.

Victrix studied him closely; her gaze had lost none of its human acuity. “We remember your face. You were with Us during the affair with the metal soldiers.”

He glanced at Emma, who nodded slightly but perceptibly. Which freed him to answer–and also made a subtle point.

“I was.” Two brief, dismissive words, and he set the tray down with a small click on the tiny, exquisite Chinois dresser, the three other decanters and crystal glasses already perched atop its gleaming mellowness.

“So long ago.” Victrix sighed. “Emma.”

She found her shoulders tight as canvas sail under a full gale. Took care to speak softly. “Your Majesty.”

“We ask you to investigate. These… events have caused disturbance and threaten to rob Britannia of strength. What may We offer you for your service?”

“I am not in trade, Your Majesty.” Stiffly. You could offer an apology, but I think it unlikely indeed.

“Did We treat so ill with you? You are still of the Isle, witchling.”

“Perhaps I dislike travel, Your Majesty.” And consequently have not left.

“Impertinent hussy. Do you think I do not know your origins? Your pretence at Quality is merely that.”

And your pretence at graciousness, Victrix? This house is clearly in mourning. As you still are, mourning that petty Saxe-Koburg you married.

She held her tongue, and accepted a tumbler with an inch of rum from Mikal. One of his eyebrows lifted fractionally. The meaning was plain–whatever else lay between them in private, he was her Shield, and no onlooker would be allowed a glimpse of any tension. A burst of relief filled her chest so strongly she almost rocked back upon her heels.

Such a betraying movement could not be allowed. So she composed her features, tucked aside her veil with her free hand, and tossed the rum far, far back without waiting for Victrix to be served a thimbleful of vitae by a ghost-silent Mikal.

“And who are you, to treat with Us so?” Victrix’s lip actually curled. “We are your sovereign.”