The Ripper Affair

To add to her displeasure, every single ætheric strand leading to the fate of the unfortunate Keller had been trapped, closing off each avenue of possibly safe enquiry. It took a great deal of power, and a great deal of care, to hide the distinct stamp of one’s personality on one’s sorcery so completely. Whoever this murderer was, he was thorough, and wickedly intelligent to boot.

She grimaced at the thought, but only inwardly. A lady’s face did not twist so. “You have my attention, Shield. Is there some new manner of disaster?”

“Not so much. I merely thought… you seem distressed.”

“I have undertaken what is likely to be a thankless task. And my library, while normally more than adequate, is of very little use.” She blew a vagrant curl out of her face; it irritated her mightily to be so disarranged. “I am distressed only by the bloody inconvenience of this entire affair.”

“The mentath—”

Oh, is that what you wish to speak of? “—is none of your concern, Shield.”

“He distresses you.”

“So do you. Now, if you will not leave, at least be quiet.” Though I have little hope of you doing either. It seems every single blessed thing on the Isle is conspiring to try my temper today, from Marimat to a simple hansom ride.

“How do I distress you, Emma?”

“Shall I list the ways? And yet, I am very busy right now. Do be quiet.”

“How long will you ignore—”

“As long as I please, Shield. If you do not cease, I shall force you to do so.”

“And how shall you do that, Prima?”

She set the book down carefully, brushing her hands together as if to rid them of dust, and rose. The chair legs squeaked slightly against the wooden floor, and she reminded herself again that a lady did not shout. Then, and only then, she met Mikal’s gaze, and the room chilled slightly. Every piece of paper ruffled itself, brushed by an unphysical current.

When she was certain she could keep a civil tone, she spoke. “With whatever means are to hand. Are you weary of my employ, Mikal?”

“Of course not.” His hands were loose, and he seemed relaxed. She did not trust the seeming. “You are my Prima.”

Miles Crawford was your Prime; you strangled him as I watched, then mutilated his corpse. Because he hurt me. The contradiction–trusting her life to a Shield who had done the unthinkable and murdered his charge–was as sharp as it had ever been. Yet he had earned that trust, times beyond counting. Whatever danger he represented, it was not mere murder. “Then why do you take me up in such an unseemly manner?”

“He causes you pain.” His chin jutted slightly, and how he managed to look like the defiant, almost-ugly boy he must have been on the Collegia’s training grounds could have been mildly entertaining, if she had been inclined to amusement. “Much of it, and I am helpless to stop him. As long as you continue to let him, he will pain you.”

“Yes.” Anger, tightly reined, suddenly evaporated. Her stays dug into her flesh, and she wondered if she would ever see a day such appurtenances were no longer fashionable or expected.

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?”