Of course, Fashion being the beast she was, something equally uncomfortable and ridiculous would likely take its place.
“Yes,” she repeated. “He pains me. I am told this is an occasional consequence of having friends. Which is no doubt why so many of my colleagues have so few they use that word to describe. At least, to describe seriously and with meaning.”
“And I distress you.”
“That is a consequence of having… you.”
“What am I, to you? If I may ask, Prima.”
“You may not.” She found her head was aching again, and longed for vinegar and brown paper to soothe the pounding. “We shall have a reckoning, as they say, at some moment. But not now, Mikal.” She found herself almost willing to utter an absurdity.
Please.
A Prime did not ask. A Prime commanded. But with Clare chasing will o’wisps with the bumbling idiot inspector–and he was too sharp an idiot to give any lee to, indeed–she had lost… what? Certainly a resource, and possibly Clare’s regard as well.
“I believe a Prime may be behind this series of murders,” she said, carefully. Almost, dare she think it, logically. “If so, I believe this Prime’s aim is no less than the toppling of Victrix, which may please me to some small extent, and the uprooting of Britannia, which may or may not. In any case, I am now entangled in this affair, and I may suffer an unpleasant consequence or two if it is not tidily arranged in some fashion.” Which means you–and the rest of my household–may be cast adrift.
“Ah.” A slight nod, and his gaze had grown sharp. “A Sympathy has been created?”
“Perhaps.” Yet she was uneasy even as she admitted the possibility. The oldest branch of sorcery, while powerful, was not enough to cause these effects on a ruling spirit’s vessel–and if a Sympathy to Victrix had been in effect, Emma herself would not have become attuned to whatever work was being performed.
If it was indeed a work, and not a symptom of some other series of events at play. Uncomfortable thoughts were crowding her fast and thick now; Emma returned her attention to the present situation with an effort. “In any case, there is another… aspect… to this matter.”
“Which is?”
At least he did not seek to guess.
Emma turned, took two irresolute steps toward the coal grate. Halted. “If not for an accident, I could have been one of them.” Who can tell what makes a sorcerer? Had the Collegia childcatchers not found me, I could have been dead, laid out on a marble slab with a doctor rummaging through me.
Or worse. A shudder passed through her.
“Ah.” Thankfully, he added no more. He merely let her know she was heard, perhaps understood. Though understanding was much to ask of any man.
She swung back to face him, her jewellery running with crackling sparks as tension made itself visible. “I need your help, Mikal.”
The Shield cocked his sleek dark head. He actually looked thunderstruck, and well he might. Two slow blinks–his yellow irises quenched for a moment–then another.
“You have it without asking, Prima.” Formal, and very soft.
Do I? But she merely nodded, her face a mask. “Good. Fetch me some rum, and leave Clare to himself for a while. I cannot spare attention to keep him from trouble, I only hope Finch’s cousin can.”
“He seems capable of that much, at least.” A half-bow, a Shield’s traditional obeisance, he turned on his heel and was gone in a heartbeat.
The door closed behind him, and she let out a pent breath.
If he sought to reassure her, he had succeeded halfway. She gazed over the wrack and ruin of her study, and brought her hands together, sharply.
The resultant crack, freighted with a sharp-edged Word that left her with the sensation of a weight lifting through her spine, echoed for far longer than it should have. The books flew, snapping shut, arranging themselves in their appointed places. A slight lift at the end of the sound shuffled the paper together in a neat pile, stacking it on her desk; ink hissed free of the blotter in venomous little puffs of steam.
What had she not told him?
She held up one hand, counted said and unsaid reasons as if teaching a child-rhyme.
One finger. I am alone.
Two. I suspect I am not drawn into this dance by mere chance.
Three. I am matched against another Prime.
Four. One I do not recognise.
And fifth, last but not least, the most galling of all, counted upon her dexterous thumb, the digit that separated man from beast.
I am afraid.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Legitimate Concern
The night passed without incident, and so did the next day, save for the broadsheets screaming of murder in the Eastron End. Those were carried immediately to Miss Bannon’s study. Clare was, of course, supplied with his own.
The without incident disturbed Clare mightily, for Miss Bannon did not appear. She did not take breakfast in the breakfast room or the solarium; she did not lunch; she did not take tea with him. Trays were taken to her study, and Finch’s lean face was grave. The butler gave no information about his mistress’s mood, and Madame Noyon attended to Clare’s tea with a sombre air that was quite unwonted.
The house was in mourning, and Philip appeared every morning wearing a black armband. Just to be mannerly, sir. His bland good nature was irritating in the extreme, but Clare did not take him to task. He also did not gather his effects and retreat to his own Baker Street flat, for some reason he could not quite name.
The fact that reminders of Valentinelli’s presence would fill the rooms there as well was certainly not a consideration, was it?
Late in the evening, Finch tapped at the door of the workroom. Clare had been a trifle surprised at the mess left in that stone-walled room, but Philip had not even blinked at scrubbing the blood off the walls. Tidying the place had taken a day’s worth of work, and he was cogitating upon the advisability of a series of experiments involving his own blood and a spæctroscope.
Philip tossed the door open. “Morning, guv! Come to visit the peasants?”
“You are an annoyance, boy,” Finch replied, quite unperturbed. “Telegram, sir.”
“Telegram?” Clare straightened his sleeves and viewed one of the large wooden tables with satisfaction. A tidy workroom meant a tidy mind, indeed.
“Yes, sir.” Finch’s tone betrayed nothing but neutrality. However, there was a fine sheen of sweat on the butler’s forehead, and there was a slight tremor in the hand that proffered the slip of paper.
It was from Aberline, and the satisfaction of deduction burned through Clare’s skull.
Ah. So it is Finch the inspector would like to pry from Miss Bannon’s grip. It made sense, now–the butler, as one of Miss Bannon’s oddities, had a chequered past. He affected a laborious upper-crust wheeze and a slow, stately walk, but his movements often betrayed a knife-fighters’s awareness of space and familiarity with tight corners. Several interlocking deductions filled Clare’s faculties for a moment–a sweet burn, rather like coja.
The telegram itself was almost an afterthought.
SEARCHING FOR CLEWS STOP REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE STOP
“How very interesting,” Clare murmured. “Is the boy waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give him tuppence, please. And send for a hansom, there’s a good man.”
“Yes, sir.” Finch retreated, Philip watched with bright interest. His hand twitched, and Finch’s fingers tightened slightly, but the young man merely offered a wide grin.