The Ripper Affair

“Mikal does not dispose of me, Severine. I dispose of myself, thank you, and if you truly wish to help, stop this fretting and tell Mr Finch I am not receiving unless the widow calls.” He will know what that means. “And make certain Mr Clare and Philip are properly attended to.”

“Stubborn,” Severine said, under her breath, and as she flounced from the dressing room Bridget and Isobel brought forth a dress from a tall birchwood wardrobe.

The housekeeper was met at the door by a silent Mikal, who held it courteously for her and slid into the dressing room without bothering to knock.

“She is quite worried.” He halted, watching as the dress was lifted over Emma’s head. Quick fingers put everything to rights, brushing black silk tenderly, and Emma told herself that the trembling in her knees would fade. This was no time to appear weakened.

“Worry is acceptable.” Her breath came short. It was the corset, she told herself. “Ordering me about is not. Loosen the neck a trifle, Isobel. I rather dislike being throttled so.”

Isobel hurried to obey. She did not remark upon the glaring scar ringing her mistress’s throat. It would pale and shrink, as the Stone in her chest–a familiar, heavy, warm weight, how had she lived without it?–worked its slow wonder.

She had not needed whatever miracle Mikal had wrought–or had she? Would she have survived, even with the flood of her Discipline sustaining her?

Her plan had succeeded. They had indeed come to find her. Now, though, she wondered if she had been quite wise to treat Mikal so.

“Isobel, fetch a bit more chocolat, please. And Bridget, I have a mind to refill that perfume flask–no, the green one. Yes. Do hurry along to Madame Noyon and have her do so, then come back to attend to my hair. Yes, girls, off with you.”

They exchanged a dire look, Bridget’s freckles glaring against her milky cheeks, but they obeyed. Familiarity could only be stretched so far, here at 34½ Brooke Street.

That left her alone with her Shield, with stockinged feet, her hair undone and not a scrap of jewellery to armour her.

He was just the same, except for the marks of exhaustion about his eyes. Tall and straight in olive-green velvet–he had, apparently, decided he no longer mourned. Or perhaps he wished her to insist.

She wet her lips with a nervous flicker of her tongue. Wished she had not, for his gaze fastened upon her mouth. Her legs were most unsteady, but her stays helped to bolster her, at least to some degree.

“It was necessary.” She plunged ahead, for his expression was set and quiet, and she did not like the… what was it, that she felt? Uncertainty? “I could not have you following me too soon. And… whatever you performed upon me, Mikal, I could not—”

“You do not have to explain yourself to your Shield, Prima.” He took two steps towards her, halted.

They regarded each other, Shield and sorceress, and the sounds of movement elsewhere in the house were very loud behind their silence.

Perhaps I wish to. Emma swallowed, dryly, acutely conscious of the movement of muscle in her vulnerable throat. “Mikal…”

He looked away, at the open wardrobe. Dresses peeked out, in the darker jewel-shades she preferred. She would mourn properly for Ludovico, now. When she shed the black, perhaps there were other things she would shed as well.

Except the names of her failures, the rosario she repeated to puncture her own arrogance. Harry. Thrent. Namal. Jourdain. Eli.

Ludovico.

She braced herself. Lifted her chin, aware that the scar would show. It was time, she decided, for Mikal to receive some measure of truth from her. “I would not care to lose you, Shield.”

As if she were the Shield, and he, her charge.

A slight smile. “I would not care to be lost.”

Did it mean he forgave her? Dare she ask? It was Mikal, why on earth should she feel this… was it fear? A Prime did not stoop to fearing a Shield. Or craving forgiveness from one of that brotherhood.

Then why were her palms a trifle moist, and her heart galloping along so?

She gathered herself, again. Chose each word carefully, enunciated it clearly. “One day, Mikal, I shall ask precisely what feat you performed while I suffered the Plague. I shall further ask why Clare knew of it, and I did not.”

He still examined her dresses. “On that day I shall answer, Prima.”

It was not satisfying at all. “Are you… distressed? By… recent events?”

He finally turned to face her again. The smile had broadened, and become genuine. He closed the remaining distance between them with a Shield’s quiet step, and his fingers were warm on her cheeks.

His mouth was warm too; she did not realise he had driven her back until her skirts brushed the dressing table and her shoulders met the wall to its side, her own fingers tangling in his hair and her body suddenly enclosed in a different confinement, one that robbed her of breath and the need to brace her knees.