“Likewise.” Aberline exhaled sharply. “And if I am not pleasant and forthcoming, you may go to Waring and drop a word in his ear about my dissolute methods. Using such substances to artificially strengthen sorcery is quite scandalous.”
“There are laws against such things, no doubt Miss Bannon would know them with a fair degree of precision.” Clare gave up seeking to straighten his jacket. It was hopeless. “I would not stoop to blackmail, sir. Instead, I would appeal to your better nature.”
“Funny, that.” A sour, pained grin. “I am here, Mr Clare, because I have precious little better nature left. Now do leave my office.”
“Gladly,” Clare said stiffly, and suited actions to words.
Pico, his eyes suspiciously round, said not a word. He merely clutched his burlap burden and hurried in Clare’s wake.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Very Precise Conditions
The broadsheets screamed, their ink acid-fresh. Double Murder In Whitchapel. “Leather Apron”–Two More Victims! Speculations of the most vivid nature shared the columns with sober warnings against Vice and breathless tales of the want and violence flourishing just as the Scab did. On the Recent Events in Whitchapel. Drawings of the discovery of the bodies–Clare was not mentioned. Naturally, his discretion would have been easy to secure.
Waring’s discretion had required no little amount of threat and blandishment in equal proportion. The commissioner was in an insufferable position, and it matched his temperament roundly. Still, he was useful, and she was fairly certain he would be the public face for whatever triumph or tragedy this affair would end with.
Emma glanced over the headlines, directed Horace to deposit the broadsheets in her library, and fixed Finch with a steady gaze. Her head throbbed and her filthy dress was likely to give her a rash, she ached to be clean. Duty demanded she deal with Finch’s nerves first. “You are perfectly safe, Geoffrey.”
“Oh, I know that, mum.” He had only paled slightly upon hearing the news of their dinner guest.
“Do you?” She made a slight movement, checked herself. Finch regarded her steadily, and she searched his features quite closely.
Madame Noyon appeared at the head of the stairs and bustled down, clucking over the state of her mistress’s dress.
Finch nodded, slowly. “Yesmum. I do.” There was a hint of a smile about his thin mouth now. “Rather pity the man, mum.”
Relief filled her; she turned to the next order of business. “Then you are a kinder soul than I. I shall leave dinner in your–and Cook’s–capable hands. They shall be in the smoking room afterwards; do make certain there are the cigars Clare prefers. And your nephew as well. He has rendered very tolerable service indeed so far.”
“Glad to hear it, mum.” He waited, but she had nothing further, and he consequently glided away.
“A mess,” Severine Noyon fussed, her plump hands waving as she arrived at Emma’s side. “Good heavens, madame, what did you do to yourself? A bath, and quickly. Chocolat.”
I could eat a hanging side of beef and ask for more. “And something substantial for breakfast, Madame, I have a quite unladylike appetite.”
“Mais oui, madame.” The round little woman in her customary black wool ushered Emma toward the stairs. “Catherine! Chocolat, and much breakfast for Madame in the solarium. Sunshine, oui, to make her strong. Isobel! Attendez!”
The house filled with efficient bustling, a bath was filled, and Emma sighed with contentment as she sank into hot rose-scented water. There was no time for soaking, however. In short order she was drawn forth, chafed dry, laced loosely into fresh stays and a morning gown. Fresh jewellery was selected, her hair arranged by Isobel’s quick fingers, and chocolat was there to greet her in the solarium. A hearty platter of bangers, scones, fruit, and a bowl of porridge were arranged in her favoured morning spot, and there was a bottle of nerve tonic set conspicuously to one side of the chocolat-pot.
Emma suppressed a grimace. Cook must have glimpsed her in the hall, to be so worried about her condition. Her servants did sometimes make small gestures.
The solarium was full of strengthening morning light, filtered grey through Londinium’s fog. Spatters of rain touched glass, puffing into thin traceries of steam when they touched the golden charter symbols scrolling lazily through the transparent panes, reinforcing and defending the fragility. The charm-globes over those of her plants more tender or needing training tinkled softly, each one a different note in the soothing symphony of morning.
Unfortunately, Emma’s nerves were not soothed.
Hard on breakfast’s heels Mikal also arrived, freshly scrubbed and only a little pale from the night’s excitement.
Emma had settled herself, let him stand for a few moments, filling her plate with measured greed. Fortunately her domestics were accustomed to her sometimes-unlady-like appetite, and she needed to replace a great deal of physical energy if she was to carry out her plans.
She had reached a number of conclusions in the past half-hour. Arranging one’s person was often sufficient to grant one solutions to certain other problems–the physical actions of proper dress and accoutrement tidied the mental faculties as well.
When she finally deigned to notice Mikal, he wore a faintly troubled expression. Perhaps he expected what was about to occur, or at least the nature of her mood.
Emma took a small, delicate bite of scone. Crumbly, dripping with melting butter, delicious. “Attend, Shield.”
His unease deepened, a low umber glow to Sight. “I attend.”
She was, truth be told, a trifle relieved to sense his discomfiture. Perhaps she was not viewed as predictable just yet.
Good. “There is a conversation we must have, and I have decided this is the proper moment.”
“Have you.” It was not a question, and his flat tone warned her.
Her own measured softness was a similar warning. “Indeed. You performed some feat while I lay dying of Her Majesty’s thrice-damned Plague.”
“Prima—”
“Silence.” Her weariness did most emphatically not mean he was given leave to interrupt her, and she was a little gratified to hear the resultant ringing quiet in the sunroom. Even the climate-globes had hushed themselves. “You were aware of the Philosopher’s Stone, and my gift of it to Mr Clare.”
“Yes. Prima—”
“Confine yourself to answering my questions, Shield. If I wish further detail, I shall tell you so. Now, you performed some manner of feat while I lay upon my deathbed. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Does that feat have any lingering effects?”
“Yes.”
“On you, or on me?”
“Both.”
“Ah.” She absorbed this. Whatever effects they were, they had not affected her sorcery. The only evidence she had to build assumptions or guesses upon was her feeling of quite-uncalled-for physical well-being. And, let it not be forgotten, a certain resistance to injury that she had grown quite accustomed to with the Stone married to her flesh. It was not as complete as a Stone’s protection. Her left thigh twitched, reminding her. “It would seem I am somewhat more physically durable than a Prime usually is.”
“Yes.”
“How extensive is this durability?”
He was silent for a long moment. “There is very little I may not heal you from.”
Ah. That he may not heal. “Dismemberment and death, I presume.”
“I have an hour’s time after your death. Less, if your… body is not… whole.”
Fascinating. “I presume this has somewhat to do with your ancestry.”
A shrug.
She restrained her temper yet again, but her purpose had been served, so she changed direction. “How did you evade detection at the Collegia?”
“I passed their Tests.” His chin lifted, and she decided his defiance was not yet of the punishable variety.
“Of course you did, or you would not have been…” An odd thought occurred to
her. She set her implements down, poured herself a cup of chocolat, and settled into the chair with it. “You are rather wayward, as Shields go. One might almost say, headstrong.”
“Disobedient.”
Quite the word I would choose. “Are you?”
“No.”
“Hm.” She took another sip. The almost-bitterness coating her tongue had two sources, now. “This places rather a different complexion on our… relations.”
“Have I given you cause for complaint?”
Ætheric force jabbed, a sudden hurtful compression. She had precious little of Tideturn’s force available to her now, but her sorcerous Will clamped about him. He was driven to his knees, not slowly, but not as quickly as she could have otherwise.
“Do not,” Emma said, very softly, “presume, Shield. I did not give you leave to ask questions.”
Perhaps he would have made a reply, but she lifted a fingertip delicately from her cup. A short Word, and his mouth was stoppered as well.
The solarium’s glass walls had misted with condensation, for a feral heat now moved through the small room. She loathed this display, but her plans now depended upon a few very precise conditions, and she was determined to arrange them to her liking.
“Mikal.” She felt the struggle in him; he sought to rise but was held immobile. “You displease me, and as a consequence, you are Confined. C—x’b.”
The Word drained her, savage exhaustion running through her marrow. Tiny nips of pain in her fingers and toes, but training held her still and apparently unmoved by the expenditure of force. The house shivered once, sealing itself against the egress of one of its inhabitants.
Until she decided otherwise.
Mikal’s irises flamed yellow. He ceased struggling, and instead, watched her.
She returned her attention to her chocolat. “You are dismissed to your quarters, Shield.”
Woodenly, his body rose, a marionette’s jerking motion. Turning inward, she sought for any indication that he was merely acquiescing instead of compelled. None was to be found, and her jaw tightened as he disappeared.
His progress through the house was slow and stilted, and it was only when he was within his dark, narrow room–she had left it to be modified according to his whim, and rarely entered it–that she relaxed her grip even slightly. The slam of his door flung closed with sorcerous force was the snap of a wineglass’s stem in clenched fingers.
Emma blinked, her eyes watering. Surely it was only her Discipline. Tears would be a weakness.
She settled to her breakfast, eating with mechanical good manners. She needed the fuel. Her cheeks were wet, and her morning dress, black watered silk as wasp-waisted Prima Grinaud had always worn, was dotted with tiny splashes of hot salt water.
Now, many years after her graduation from under the grand magistrix’s thumb, she wondered who–or what–Prima Grinaud had been mourning. Or if the redoubtable lady had entombed herself at the Collegia alive to escape the world outside.
How long would it be before Emma herself was tempted to do the same?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Quite Confident Indeed
Falling into bed, Clare decided, had done him a world of good. His Baker Street flat was indeed dusty, and full of the ghost of a Neapolitan assassin, but he had not cared. His narrow bed smelled rather vile, but he burrowed into its familiarity and was lost to darkness. Pico could have breakfast; Clare wished surcease.
He woke at early teatime when the lad nudged him, and made his toilet with the focused inattention bred of habit and familiarity. Pico exhibited the instincts of a good valet, fussing over Clare’s clothing in a manner that was almost familiar. He also charmed the redoubtable Mrs Ginn, sweetening the landlady much more than Valentinelli had ever cared to. The tea tray was not up to Miss Bannon’s standards, but Clare welcomed it nonetheless, and Pico confined himself to remarking upon the weather and asking Clare’s opinion of this or that waistcoat.
It was not until their arrival at Miss Bannon’s gate that Pico betrayed a certain nervousness, rubbing at his freshly shaven cheek. “She might not be happy.”
“That is exceedingly likely,” Clare allowed, straightening his cuffs. They were a trifle late–a hansom, he thought irritably, was never about when one needed it. “She does prefer punctuality.”
“Well, at least you’re alive, right? And in one piece. My heart fair gave out when you vanished in the riot, sir. Never been so glad to find someone in my life.” Pico blinked sleepily, his sharp foxface pale as milk.
“No fear on that account,” Clare murmured. The thought no longer sent a sharp pang through him. Quiet and familiar, Brooke Street nonetheless had the appearance of a foreign country. Perhaps he was simply seeing it with fresh eyes.
The cadaverous Finch took Clare’s hat, and he was imperturbable as usual. “The drawing room, sir.”
“Thank you.” There was an odd sensation just under his breastbone. “Has, ahem, the inspector arrived?” And were you prepared to face him?
“Yes, sir.” Finch’s manner betrayed no discomfiture.
“He, erm… he did not upset you, Finch?” Enquiring in this manner was so bloody awkward. Finch gave him a rather curious look, and Pico coughed.
“No, sir.” And that, apparently, was that. Finch motioned for Pico to follow him, and the lad went without question or qualm.
Miss Bannon had taken steps to reassure him, apparently. It was entirely like her.
The drawing room was full of clear, serene light, its mirrors dancing and the fancy of waterlilies and birch stems never more marked. There was even a subtle freshness in the air, but perhaps that was Miss Bannon’s perfume–for the lady in question had settled herself on the blue velvet settee, and Inspector Aberline, his hands clasped behind his back, stood gazing into the fireplace, where burning coal had developed a thick white cover.
Miss Bannon’s dark eyes had crescents of bruise-darkness underneath them, yet her posture was as straight as ever. She was markedly pale, though, and her mien was of careful thoughtfulness. Only her hands, lying prettily in her lap and bedecked with four plain silver rings on the left and a large yellow tourmaline on her right middle finger, betrayed any tension.
Inspector Aberline’s colour was high, and his coat and shoes had been given a thorough brushing. He had obviously repaired to his home at some point, much as Clare had.
He was long to remember this moment: the peculiar brightness of the light, Miss Bannon’s exhausted face, and Aberline’s clenched jaw.
Clare braced himself, and shut the door.
Dinner was superb, of course, but Miss Bannon ate very little. Nor did she take anything but water. “It used its whip upon you?”
“Yes.” Clare set his implements down properly, indicated the length of the slash along his forearm. “It seemed quite put out at being disturbed.”
“What on earth is it?” Aberline wondered aloud. “What method was used in its construction?”
“I believe it may be similar to a Charington’s Familiar.” Miss Bannon took a mannerly sip of water from a restrained crystal goblet. The gryphon-carved table legs were not restless, as they sometimes were when her mood was unsettled. “At first the Prime would have to kill on his own account–Tebrem, for example, he chose to cut in a relatively sheltered location. Afterward the spirit could commit its own foul acts–but only at night, I should think. There is some physical focus for this spirit, some piece of it that held it to the fleshly world while sorcerous force was poured into it, and until it may walk in daylight that focus is vulnerable. Additionally, each location has become a taproot driven deeply into Londinium to gather force from the city’s essence, if you will… I do wonder, why a coachman?”
“It seems rather… plebeian… for a ruling spirit,” Aberline observed.
“The spirit of our time is rather plebeian.” Clare savoured a bite of roast; the sauce held a flavour he had not yet defined. “One only has to take the train to ascertain as much, or a turn
about Picksdowne.”
“Some hold that Britannia was once the local spirit of Colchestre, a humble minder of pottery.” Miss Bannon regarded her plate with a serious, thoughtful expression. “Books which speak of such a possibility are difficult to procure, for obvious reasons.”
“That’s all well and good.” Aberline had a remarkably hearty appetite, for a man sitting at table with a woman he regarded as a viper. “How do we stop this bas—ah, this mad sorcerer?”
Miss Bannon glanced at the dining-room door. Not for Mikal, certainly, for he did not attend dinner. Nor for Valentinelli. Pico would dine with the servants tonight; Miss Bannon had given orders.
Clare found his busy faculties turning these few facts about and around, seeking to make them fit together. There was a missing piece.
“There is… well, there is fair news, and foul.” Miss Bannon ceased to even pretend to consume her dinner, pushing her plate back slightly with a fingertip. The tourmaline ring flashed. “Much was decided with the first murder. Every death since then has narrowed the possibilities, so to speak. Such is the way of such Works of sorcery. I believe this mad Prime is very close to achieving his purpose.”
“That’s foul enough news.” Aberline took another mouthful of roast, and Clare, troubled, set his fork and knife down.
Miss Bannon’s small smile held no amusement. “That was actually the fair news, Inspector. He requires a very specific victim for the culmination of his last series of murders, and I believe he has settled on one.”
“Then how do we find her? Whitchapel teems with drabs.”
“Finding her is my task,” Miss Bannon returned, equably enough. “Do enjoy your dinner now, Inspector. Afterwards I shall inform you of your part in the plan.”