The Ripper Affair

Perhaps it had not been ejected from his corpse. Had it been clasped in his hand as he performed the movements to aid him in remembering the cantos of his brilliant, earthshaking, and utterly insane act of sorcery?

Her return to the site of his demise had gathered no proof: only hole-eaten, anonymous bones, gryphon as well as human, drained even of the ætheric traces of their living. The shock of such a Major Work unravelling had bleached the environs into a sorcerous null-point; truth be told, she had not wished to find a distinguishing mark that proved some of the bones were his. She had seen his corpus shred as his interrupted Work tore him apart; it was enough.

She had privately thought, for a very long while, that his talk of a second Stone had been merely a ploy to cause her some hesitation. In the end, she had always been disposable to him.

Emma settled back among the pillows as another rattling thud from downstairs rocked the house. Oh, for God’s sake. A moment’s worth of attention informed her that the stone walls of Clare’s workroom were as solid as ever, and the door–reinforced with sorcery and iron, just to be certain–was likewise. There was precious little he could do

to himself, with that single Stone safely wedded to his lean, no-longer-aging body. And just at the moment, she was… a trifle peeved.

Did she wish to think upon such a thing now?

Well, at least she had a few precious moments of solitude to pause in reflection.

Clare could not fail to grasp the immensity of her gift. He might have some trouble with the illogical nature of near-immortality, of course–and there was another possibility, that the shredding of Llew’s physical substance as his wonderful, completely mad Work had unravelled had not been too much for even a wyrm’s-heart Stone to soothe.

Concentrate upon Clare, and let Llew rest. He is, after all, dead. How would she appease the mentath?

She did a great deal of smoothing-over when it came to Archibald Clare. He had some

manners, but a mentath was not an easy companion. She did not grudge him the time and attention, but she very much grudged cavalier treatment.

It was, after all, the reason she had quitted Victrix’s service. Not openly, of course. But in the secret chambers of a Prime sorceress’s heart, a measure had been taken… and a queen found wanting.

Clare was not quite found wanting. He was a most logical, yet fragile, being, and seeing his limitations went far toward the forgiveness of certain of his regrettable tendencies. Still, it irked her. How could it not?

To be a woman was to be a creature most put-upon and taken for granted, and even those among the opposite sex who meant one well had their moments of treating one otherwise.

Yes, she had to admit, she was outright piqued.

And… Ludo.

She shut her eyes again. A precious few minutes of consciousness without the scrutiny of servants or Shield, and all she could think of was… what was Ludovico, quite, to her?

What had he been?

Simply a tool, an instrument to be played with fine attention and no little respect.

Oh, Emma, lying to yourself is still bad form. That much, at least, has not changed.

She had grown… accustomed

… to the Neapolitan, much as she had grown accustomed to Clare. To Mikal, and Severine, and Isobel and Cook and Harthell. They were under her aegis, they were her responsibility, and if she cared for them as hothouse plants, had not such care acquired her certain rights as well as responsibilities? Watering, pruning, adjusting the climate-globes and their charmed tinkles…

They are not plants, Emma. A Prime’s arrogance was a weakness, and one to be reined firmly lest it blind her to real dangers.

Like yesterday. A bad bit of business, wouldn’t you say?

She exhaled sharply, turned her attention to a more productive avenue. Had Victrix seen and felt what she had? It flew in the face of much of what was accepted about sorcery, but Sympathy was an ancient art. What could have made a drab in Whitchapel–because Emma Bannon knew a frail when she saw one, thank you very much–possess enough resonance to cause a reaction in the ruling spirit of the Isle, the Empress of Indus, the queen of an empire grander than even the Pax Latium?

Viewing the location of the second body’s discovery should be done, but not until she had taken certain precautions.

She stretched again, tapped her lips with a finger, and sighed. For the moment, enough to accept that a resonance indubitably had existed. The murders were not unconnected events, and they had some aim in mind.