The Ripper Affair

“Whitchapel?” How extraordinary. Clare’s rebellious faculties strained, turning sharply in a most unwelcome direction. “There has been another murder.” And you have sensed it in some sorcerous fashion. Very extraordinary indeed.

She glanced over her shoulder, and he stepped back, almost into the nameless youth, who was observing this scene with a great deal of interest. “Yes. There has. And I must go.”

“Philip Pico.” The youth offered his hand, a firm shake, and settled into the carriage’s upholstery just where Ludovico had been wont to sit.

Clare suppressed a protest. It was illogical; the seat was there, he had to sit somewhere, and—

“Absolutely not,” Miss Bannon said. Her mourning today was wool, and her hair was in place again. There was no trace of the dishevelled, just-wakened child she had appeared, except for a slight puffiness about her eyes. “Archibald, I do not have time—”

“You–and she–asked for my aid in untangling this affair.” He quite enjoyed her discomfiture. “Which I am determined to provide. And this young man, no replacement for our dear Valentinelli indeed, is nevertheless bound to be quite handy.”

The door slammed, Harthell cracked the whip and the carriage jolted into motion.

Miss Bannon closed her eyes, the cameo at her throat flashing once. It was a familiar sight, and he knew a silvery ball of strange witchlight would now coalesce before the gleaming clockhorses, directing the coachman to whatever incident had drawn his mistress’s attention–and telling the rest of Londinium a sorcerer was impatient with delay.

So much irrationality he had learned to live with as merely part of his acquaintance with this most logical of sorceresses. Had he not often thought that if only all practitioners of the arts of æther were as practical as she, mentaths would have little difficulty with their number?

Now he cast a fresh eye upon her as the carriage jolted, and found she was pale, her veil tucked aside, her gloved fingers entirely too tense, and her chin set.

She met his gaze directly. How had he never noticed before that her manner was of a man facing a duel? So much of Miss Bannon only made sense if one ceased to think of her as a proper woman.

And yet. Her little attentions, her gracefulness, her arranging of matters to suit those about her, her collection of castaway servants–none of those graces bore a masculine stamp.

The woman in question remained silent, still gazing at him with that odd expression. As if she expected trouble from his quarter, and soon.

He drummed his fingers upon his knee. It was past baker’s-morn but still grey-dark, Londinium’s yellow fog choke-wreathing wrought-iron lamps both sputtering with gasflame and, in the better quarters, held to steadier life by carefully applied wick-charms. Hooves sounded and carriage wheels thrummed, even at this hour. The city did not sleep, and a vision of it as a gigantic coal-fed, sorcery-stroked beast had no room in a mentath’s logic-ordered brain.

Still, even mentaths had passing fancies. He leaned forward slightly. “Are you… are you quite well, Miss Bannon?”

“I was a-study all afternoon, seeking to discern a clew, ætheric or not, to the identity of our killer, and had absolutely no success. I did not wish to view the site of the second murder after a day spent so unprofitably, so I retired.” She took a deep breath. “Then I felt a woman die within my own corpus, sir. I am a trifle unsettled.” She did not look it. “And do forgive my manners. Mr Clare, meet Philip Pico; he is a cousin to Mr Finch and I have engaged him to perform a valet’s duty for you, as well as other small tasks you may require of him. Philip, this is your charge, Mr Archibald Clare. Esquire, I believe. Do behave appropriately.”

“ ’Ave no fear, mum.” The youth gave her a toothy grin, and stretched his legs out most disagreeably in the carriage’s close confines.

Clare suppressed the urge to poke the lad in the ribs. Such uncharitable Feeling could not be tolerated. He told himself firmly not to mind its prodding. “You are not in a tavern, sir.”

“No, there’d be drink if I were.” A twist of a half-grin, and the attention he paid to paring his fingernails impinged on Clare’s consciousness like a silent thunderbolt.

A quite extraordinary further deduction occurred to Clare. He tested it thoroughly, and found it not wanting at all. A Sodom boy? In Miss Bannon’s employ? “Your taste in domestics, as usual, is most curious.”

“So I am told.” She tilted her head, slightly, perhaps listening to some sorcerous noise. “Now do be quiet, if you can. I am rather occupied.”

Nettled, he sank back into the seat and felt a most uncharacteristic desire to curse, roundly and loudly. This was the deadliness of Feeling: it swung one about like a weathervane, and made Reason so very difficult.