The Ripper Affair

Indeed, had Clare even an inkling of unremembering such a thing as said papers, he might have thought his condition warranted no little concern. As it was, he simply poured and swallowed until the decanter was empty, and left the smoking room and its shrouded table with a hurried, slightly rolling gait.

He did not feel inebriated in the least.

Chapter Sixteen

Rare And Wondrous

Waking after such an atrociously uncomfortable event could not possibly put one in a cheerful mood. Especially when said waking was triggered by an amazing, thumping bang from the depths of her house, and Mikal’s muttered curse as he flung her bedroom door open.

Without knocking.

“He will kill himself, Prima.” The Shield’s eyes were alight and his dark hair disarranged, as if he had run his hands back through it. “Or one of the servants. Or he may even bring the house down around our ears.”

Emma sighed, turning over and burying her face in the pillow. Even though the room was dark, her head ached abominably, and any hint of light scored her irritated eyes. “Unlikely,” she muttered, “on all three accounts. Go away.”

He reached her bedside, touched her shoulder with two careful fingers. “I hesitated to wake you. But he will harm someone, perhaps even himself.”

The last thing I remember… She shuddered as the recollection rose. Yet unconsciousness had blunted its sharp edges, and training had drained the venom. At least, enough for her to consider the vision calmly.

She had experienced Tebrem’s death, stroke for stroke.

She had also, more to the point, disrupted whatever that death had been meant to achieve or cement. A spreading, deepening stain, with all the febrile tension of Whitchapel’s poverty and violence–even in that semi-respectable building–to feed it. Now began the difficult but less dangerous work of deducing what she could of the murderer’s method and intention–then descending upon said murderer with the force of law, and the more considerable force of Emma’s irritation.

Speaking of deduction, she finally emerged from the haze of restorative slumber as another thump rattled the house. It was not a sorcerous sound, for the defences on her abode rippled only in response to her attention. “What on earth is he doing?”

“He is locked in the workroom, and since Tideturn all manner of noises have issued forth. The door is solid, and in any case…”

“Yes.” She blinked, yawned daintily, pushing the pillow and his fingers away with a measure of regret. An attempt to force the workroom door would trigger certain protections and a Prime’s will might strike before she was fully conscious. “Very well. Send up Severine and the maids. I shall sally forth and find out what he is about. But only after I’ve a bath and perhaps some chocolat–I feel dreadful.”

“No doubt. Dare I ask what that was?” He all but glared at her, as if she were an errant child.

She decided she did not wish to have such a conversation with Mikal just at the moment, and so feigned to misunderstand his meaning. “I gather he was chasing a set of mad political dynamitards; no doubt they opened up a fascinating and explosive line of enquiry for his active little brain. You are dismissed, Shield.”

For a long moment he stayed precisely where he was, waiting. When it became clear she would not speak further, he sank back on his heels. “Prima?”

“If you are not promising to bring me chocolat as quickly as possible, or informing me of a sudden disaster levelling the whole of Londinium, I do not think I am disposed to hear you.” A stretch informed her of her body’s protest over yesterday’s–at least, she hoped it was yesterday and that she had not been abed for more than a Tideturn or two–events, and she took stock. Stiffness in the lower back, her arms ached, and her head throbbed as if she had been at the rum a bit too much.

“Then I shall not speak.” His face closed in on itself; he spun on one heel, stalking for the door. A bright tang of lemon-yellow irritation was clearly visible to Sight.

Emma exhaled sharply, returning her focus fully to the physical world.

When we do have a conversation, Shield, it will be on my terms, and mine alone.

She finished her stretch, tasted morning in her mouth, and allowed herself a grimace. Her eyes were sandy and her hair was a bird’s nest, like a witch’s tangled mane. All in all, though, she felt surprisingly hale.

That was odd, wasn’t it? She had grown accustomed to a feeling of well-being, since she had awakened from the Red with none of the scarring or other ill effects that disease normally entailed. It was similar to the Philosopher Stone’s heavy warm weight, but without the crushing burden of… guilt? Her accursed conscience had weighed on her more and more, the longer she bore the Stone plucked from Llewellyn Gwynfudd’s… body?