The Ripper Affair

“Yes. Help me up.” She was glad of the veil, and doubly glad of his strength as he steadied her. Her legs were not quite as strong as she would like, and her left thigh trembled, on the verge of turning in its resignation due to savage overwork. She swore, vilely, in an exceedingly low voice, and was further grateful Mikal was accustomed to her somewhat unladylike language upon certain occasions. She finished with a few scathing terms directed at whoever had thought to tile-roof a stable, though she knew such a thing was perfectly admissible, and when she ran out of breath, she inhaled sharply and fully, shaking her head, feeling the quivering all through her. She had expended a great deal of the force Tideturn had flushed her with.

It was small comfort that her opponent had, as well.

Mikal paused, making certain the storm was past, then turned to glance down Whitehell Road. There was a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing: clockhorse hooves and excited voices through the rapidly greying fog. “What next?”

She took stock. She simply hated to be so dishevelled, but there was no help for it, and a few cleansing-charms would waste what limited strength of hers remained.

“Next,” she said grimly, “we find Clare. And Aberline.” She took advantage of the moment to tuck a few more curls away under her veil, and blinked away fresh, welling hot salt water.

“That sounds too easy.”

Indeed it does. “It is only a first step, Mikal.”

“And then?”

“Then,” she continued, setting her chin and taking an experimental step, her heeled boot catching and grinding on broken tiles, “we return home to repair ourselves. Afterwards, I avail myself of every means necessary to track down this mad Prime and halt his insanity. I must confess, Shield, that I am more than peeved.” She took another step, leaning on his arm, and found she could walk. “I am downright vexed.”

“Heaven save us all,” he muttered, and she let it pass, leashing her temper tightly.

This mad Prime, whoever he was, had finally managed to anger her. She would teach him the error of such provocation soon enough.

Chapter Thirty-Three In Sorcery, As In Science

Clare wrapped his hands around the thick, glazed mug of fragrant tea. It was not a mannerly attitude to take, but he found he required the heat and the support to brace his shaking fingers. The ripples in the surface of the liquid could be blamed on the tension outside–and inside–Inspector Aberline’s office.

Young Pico had settled himself, one hip on Aberline’s desk, and was glowering fiercely at him. “She’ll have my hide,” he kept muttering, between inspecting the sleeves of his torn jacket and his similarly injured waistcoat, at great length.

Clare affected not to hear him, though he had been immensely glad to be found by the rufous lad, who bore all the marks of a rough passage through Whitchapel’s burning riots. The entire Eastron End was still heaving with unrest, the Metropoleans simply standing at every major ingress and egress to keep the disorder from spilling out. As soon as dawn was fully risen, no doubt the Crown would send Guard and sorcerers to quell whatever unrest remained, no doubt with a bludgeon or two to sweetly kiss the pates of anyone whose excitable nerves failed to settle.

Fortunately, the riots did not seem to have been directed at the Yudics, despite the simmering in the more irresponsible dreadfuls and broadsheets. Clare was of the opinion that such uncivilised things as “pogroms” did not belong upon the Isle; however, uncivilised behaviours were piling upon his Englene with distressing regularity at the moment.

It was probably best not to engage upon that line of thought, though.

Inspector Aberline had left them to their own devices after calling for tea, and Clare was glad to be so neglected. For one thing, once Clare gave his report, he rather doubted Aberline would still be attached to the investigation of this affair, between Miss Bannon’s dislike of his person and the rather dangerous complexion Clare’s experience put on the whole chain of events. For another, Clare was bearing in mind–cowardly as it was to have such a consideration–that Miss Bannon, despite their differences, was far from the worst ally to have when faced with something of this nature.

He all but shuddered, thinking of the wet, crunching sounds and the creature’s horrid, uncanny speed. Its… irrationality.

Aberline had been gone more than a quarter of an hour, yet the trembling in Clare’s hands refused to settle. The Yard was alive with hurrying and excitement, but it was oddly peaceful in this half-buried room.