The Ripper Affair

Why had Britannia bothered to move Victrix to Emma’s door? Why had Victrix come alone? Cold reflection would perhaps have assured the Queen that Emma Bannon was, perhaps, not likely to bruit the news of a ruling spirit’s weakness about high and low. Even if Victrix disliked her methods and person, Britannia was wise enough not to doubt Emma’s loyalty to Crown and Empire, no matter that the first rested on a wanting head and the second had not needed a certain sorceress’s efforts to continue widening its sway.

Why had Victrix come to her?

That is the wrong question, Emma. The correct question is: what is she hoping to gain? From the lowest sinks of the Eastron End to the Crown itself, that is the great secret that moves the world. Finding a man–or a woman–who does not obey its dictates is the rarity.

And that was precisely why Clare could continue to treat her abominably if it so pleased him, and why she had allowed both Ludovico’s informality and his pride. It was why she allowed Severine’s nervousness and Mikal’s secrets and silences. It was why she had paid for Gilburn’s Altered leg and retained Finch’s services, why she had taken in Isobel and the half-crippled stable-boy, not to mention Cook. Those who did not play the great game of living solely for their own profit were rare and wondrous, and it pleased her to have a collection of them.

Since she was, most definitely, not one of their number. Yet it was through her grace and under her protection they could thrive. If one had to bloody and muck oneself in the service of Empire, or even in the business of living in such an imperfect world as this one, sheltering such castaways could take some of the sting from the wound.

“I have grown philosophical,” Emma Bannon murmured, with a wry smile, for she heard Severine Noyon’s step on the stairs, and further heard the housekeeper fussing at Catherine to step lively, the mistress waits!

She arranged her expression into one most suited to a lady’s rising, and allowed herself one more luxurious stretch before pushing the covers away and sliding one small foot free of their encumbrance.

It was at that moment a curious thought struck her. She supposed, had she been Clare, it would have already done so.

This first murder was rather sloppily performed–it was a trial. There have been other trials, no doubt; perhaps the second was as well? Impossible to know without viewing the scene. What is it Clare says–experiment requires small steps? Britannia waited for a repeat of the event before moving Victrix to my door.

She was still abed, staring across her bedroom at the lovely blue wallpaper, when the housekeeper and lady’s maids bustled in to begin their tending.

For the logical extension of her ruminations was chilling indeed.

There is likely to be another death, and very soon.

Chapter Seventeen

Find The Limits

Clare coughed, wrackingly, and set the knife against his forearm. He was interrupted by a sound not of his own creation, and he blinked rapidly as he watched the last shallow slice slowly congeal. The more he practised, the faster the superficial wounds seemed to seal themselves.

The ramifications were quite fascinating. What had interrupted him?

One step inside his workroom, despite the locked door–this was, to be sure, her house, and should she require entry into a portion of it, well, he could not grudge or gainsay her–and Emma’s dark eyes widened dangerously. Of course, the blood spattering the smooth stone walls, the chaos of tools on one of the sturdy wooden tables, and the shattered glass upon the floor–he had swept a few alembics from its surface in his irritation–were not comforting in the least.

“What on earth are you doing?” Emma Bannon demanded, her earrings of shivering cascades of silver wire and splinters of jet trembling as she halted just over the threshold.

She was in black again today, and looked none the worse for wear. In fact, with her eyes so wide and her expression so shocked, she looked more childlike than ever.