The Ripper Affair

She had reached a number of conclusions in the past half-hour. Arranging one’s person was often sufficient to grant one solutions to certain other problems–the physical actions of proper dress and accoutrement tidied the mental faculties as well.

When she finally deigned to notice Mikal, he wore a faintly troubled expression. Perhaps he expected what was about to occur, or at least the nature of her mood.

Emma took a small, delicate bite of scone. Crumbly, dripping with melting butter, delicious. “Attend, Shield.”

His unease deepened, a low umber glow to Sight. “I attend.”

She was, truth be told, a trifle relieved to sense his discomfiture. Perhaps she was not viewed as predictable just yet.

Good. “There is a conversation we must have, and I have decided this is the proper moment.”

“Have you.” It was not a question, and his flat tone warned her.

Her own measured softness was a similar warning. “Indeed. You performed some feat while I lay dying of Her Majesty’s thrice-damned Plague.”

“Prima—”

“Silence.” Her weariness did most emphatically not mean he was given leave to interrupt her, and she was a little gratified to hear the resultant ringing quiet in the sunroom. Even the climate-globes had hushed themselves. “You were aware of the Philosopher’s Stone, and my gift of it to Mr Clare.”

“Yes. Prima—”

“Confine yourself to answering my questions, Shield. If I wish further detail, I shall tell you so. Now, you performed some manner of feat while I lay upon my deathbed. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Does that feat have any lingering effects?”

“Yes.”

“On you, or on me?”

“Both.”

“Ah.” She absorbed this. Whatever effects they were, they had not affected her sorcery. The only evidence she had to build assumptions or guesses upon was her feeling of quite-uncalled-for physical well-being. And, let it not be forgotten, a certain resistance to injury that she had grown quite accustomed to with the Stone married to her flesh. It was not as complete as a Stone’s protection. Her left thigh twitched, reminding her. “It would seem I am somewhat more physically durable than a Prime usually is.”

“Yes.”

“How extensive is this durability?”

He was silent for a long moment. “There is very little I may not heal you from.”

Ah. That he may not heal. “Dismemberment and death, I presume.”

“I have an hour’s time after your death. Less, if your… body is not… whole.”

Fascinating. “I presume this has somewhat to do with your ancestry.”

A shrug.

She restrained her temper yet again, but her purpose had been served, so she changed direction. “How did you evade detection at the Collegia?”

“I passed their Tests.” His chin lifted, and she decided his defiance was not yet of the punishable variety.

“Of course you did, or you would not have been…” An odd thought occurred to her. She set her implements down, poured herself a cup of chocolat, and settled into the chair with it. “You are rather wayward, as Shields go. One might almost say, headstrong.”

“Disobedient.”

Quite the word I would choose. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Hm.” She took another sip. The almost-bitterness coating her tongue had two sources, now. “This places rather a different complexion on our… relations.”

“Have I given you cause for complaint?”

Ætheric force jabbed, a sudden hurtful compression. She had precious little of Tideturn’s force available to her now, but her sorcerous Will clamped about him. He was driven to his knees, not slowly, but not as quickly as she could have otherwise.

“Do not,” Emma said, very softly, “presume, Shield. I did not give you leave to ask questions.”

Perhaps he would have made a reply, but she lifted a fingertip delicately from her cup. A short Word, and his mouth was stoppered as well.

The solarium’s glass walls had misted with condensation, for a feral heat now moved through the small room. She loathed this display, but her plans now depended upon a few very precise conditions, and she was determined to arrange them to her liking.

“Mikal.” She felt the struggle in him; he sought to rise but was held immobile. “You displease me, and as a consequence, you are Confined. C—x’b.”

The Word drained her, savage exhaustion running through her marrow. Tiny nips of pain in her fingers and toes, but training held her still and apparently unmoved by the expenditure of force. The house shivered once, sealing itself against the egress of one of its inhabitants.

Until she decided otherwise.

Mikal’s irises flamed yellow. He ceased struggling, and instead, watched her.

She returned her attention to her chocolat. “You are dismissed to your quarters, Shield.”

Woodenly, his body rose, a marionette’s jerking motion. Turning inward, she sought for any indication that he was merely acquiescing instead of compelled. None was to be found, and her jaw tightened as he disappeared.