The Ripper Affair

He held her there, tongue and lips dancing their own Language of fleshly desire, and when she broke away to breathe he printed a kiss on her cheek, another on her jaw, a third behind her ear where the hollow of flesh was so exquisitely vulnerable.

“A heart is a heart,” he breathed, against the side of her scarred throat. “And a stone is a stone.”

What on earth does that mean? She stored the question away, stroked his dark hair. He was shaking, or was it that her own trembling had communicated to him?

“You are my Shield,” she whispered, and drew her hands away. Laid her head upon his shoulder, for once, and allowed the will that kept her upright to slacken for a few moments.

He held her, rested his chin atop her tangled curls. His reply was almost inaudible.

“You are my heart.”

Like any reprieve, it did not last very long. In short order she had descended to the solarium, her hair finally set to rights, silver chalcedony rings upon three of her fingers, her ear-drops of marcasite and jet comforting weights, and a twisted golden brooch bearing a teardrop of green amber pinned to her bosom.

Finch cleared his throat.

Emma glanced up from the hellebore, which was springing back quite nicely under its charm-globe. “Ah. Finch. Is Mr Clare awake?”

“Yesmum. He is in the drawing room.” Finch blinked once, rather like a lizard. He looked grave, but no more than usual. “With a certain personage, mum. Two certain personages.”

“Ah.” She studied the hellebore for a few more moments. “I am… sorry that you must endure the inspector’s presence.”

“Quite all right, mum.” Did he sound slightly shocked? “I… have every confidence, thank you. In your, erm, protection.”

At least someone does. She was hard-pressed not to smile. “Good. I take it the second personage is a widow?”

“Quite right, mum. Waiting on your pleasure.”

How that must gall her. “How very polite. I shall take luncheon in my study, Finch, and we shall go over the household accounts with Madame Noyon afterwards.”

“Yesmum.” There was a certain spring in his step as he left, and she allowed herself one more moment of studying the hellebore’s wide leaves and juicy, thriving green before she made her way to the drawing room.

Mikal was at the door, sweeping it open at her nod.

Clare was at the mantel, studying the mirror over it with an air of bemused worriment. Inspector Aberline, his wounded ankle securely wrapped, leaned heavily on a brass-headed Malacca cane, but he did not dare sit in the presence of the stout, heavily veiled woman on the blue velvet settee.

Mikal closed the door, and Emma surveyed them, clasping her hands in ladylike fashion. She did not pay the woman a courtesy, instead regarding Aberline with a lifted eyebrow.

“Good morning, Inspector. I take it you’re well?”

He glowered. “Fires. Property damage, loss of life. Waring swears he’ll have my head, the public is calling for my dismissal.”

“How very uncomfortable.” Given your usual methods, I cannot say I mind. Still, he had aided Clare. “Do you wish to keep your position? Should you not, I am certain those present may be of aid in finding a better one.”

“I’m to go on holiday until the fuss dies down.” His gaze turned to the veiled woman. “With your permission, Your Majesty, I shall be about my duties.”

“We are grateful for your services, during these troubled times.” The Widow of Windsor offered a plump, gloved, beringed paw, and he bent over it. “You have Our thanks, and Our blessing.”

Much good may it do you. Emma held her tongue.

Aberline limped past her, pausing at the door. “My regards to Mr Finch, Miss Bannon. Good day.”

I shall not pass along any of your regard, sir. “Good day, Inspector. Pleasant dreams.”

He restrained a curse, but only barely, and she waited until she heard the front door close behind him before her attention turned elsewhere.

The silence quickly became uncomfortable. Clare appeared to take no notice, until, with a sigh, Victrix pushed her veil aside and regarded the sorceress.

Her eyes were shockingly, humanly dark, the constellations of Britannia’s gaze dim and faraway in pupils that had not been visible for years. “Sorceress.”

“Your Majesty.”

“They tell me it is… finished.”

For me, yes. “It appears so.”

Her reply apparently did not satisfy. Colour began below the high neckline of the Widow of Windsor’s stiff black gown, mounted in her cheeks. Died away. The tiny points of light flickering in her pupils sought to strengthen. Emma observed this with great interest.

Finally, Victrix spoke again. “We are weakened. No doubt this pleases you.”

“It does not.” I wish you every joy of it, though. “The sorcerer responsible for the recent… unpleasantness… suffered a hideous fate, Your Majesty. Perhaps that may comfort you.”