The Ripper Affair

“It hasn’t come out. And where it has, it behaves oddly.”

“As if it ever behaves in a different manner.” Yet Aberline looked troubled, and he did not pursue this fascinating tidbit. Instead, he turned the conversation in quite another direction. “Where are you bound?”

“I’m to the Yard to report to Waring. There was some chalk on a door–something about the Yudics. He ordered it rubbed out, but too late. The entire Eastron End is up in arms again. There’s a Yudic church burning, mobs looking for Leather Apron all the way to the Leae. Even Soreditch is restless.”

“The murder in Dorsitt?” Aberline prompted, as the horses stamped and champed.

“It’s dire, Aberline. It’s inside a doss, for once, but that meant he had time to do his work. A real artist, our ripping lad.”

“How bad is it?”

A bitter laugh greeted this query. “I’d say, don’t dine before you view it, sir. Everyone’s been at six and seven trying to find you, sir. Shall I tell Waring you’ve been sighted?” His tone plainly said that he expected a refusal of this generous offer.

Surprisingly, though, Aberline nodded. “Do, there’s a good fellow. Tell him I am at the scene already. Dorsitt Street, you say?”

“Aye, between the Bluecoat and the Britannia. The ginhouses are near to empty serving the thirst of every blighter in the Eastron End come to view the scene, and it will only get worse. I’d use a whip for the crowds, if I were you.” A half-bitter sound of amusement, and Canning touched his hat. “I’ll be off then. I’ll tell Waring you were already there. Fine carriage, by the by.”

“Do you think so? Many thanks, sir, and regards to the missus.”

“You should perhaps think on your own, there’s a letter on your desk from her.”

Aberline winced visibly. “I see. Good evening, Canning.”

“Good evening. You’ll need one.” The man took himself off at a trot again.

“Dorsitt Street, as fast as you may,” Aberline called to Harthell, whose reply was a snort saying that he had heard, thank you, and mind to shut the door.

Clare eyed Mikal, who had not moved during the entire exchange. The man’s eyes were downright unsettling, catching some flash of random illumination and glowing gold. His hands had been loose and easy on his knees, but they had slowly tightened over the duration of the conversation. Aberline settled back next to Clare as Pico shifted a trifle uncomfortably.

I would be uncomfortable too, next to that stillness. Clare cleared his throat. “That does not sound encouraging.”

Aberline made as if to wring his hands, thought better of it, and sighed deeply. “I have never heard Canning refer to a crime in quite such terms before. No doubt our mad sorcerer has surpassed himself.”

The whip cracked and the carriage jolted forward. Clare still examined Mikal closely. The Shield’s gaze had fixed on a point over Aberline’s head, and the only thing more disconcerting was the slow unclenching of his fists.

“You did not ask for particulars,” Clare noted, finally. A description of the victim might aid us at this moment.

Or are you afraid?

“I did not think it wise.” Aberline dusted an imaginary speck from his borrowed trousers; the carriage jolted them all most rudely. “We shall see what Leather Apron and his creature have left us soon enough.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight You Will Give Me The World

A chanting, low and sonorous, a faint brushing against her skin as ætheric force crawled over her. She lay perfectly still, returning to consciousness much as a trickle might fill a teacup.

She was not in her bed.

How odd. I cannot move. Sorcerous and physical constraints, certainly, and a Prime’s displeasure at being held so would no doubt begin to fray her temper before long. The said fraying would loosen her control in short order, and she would quickly become a frantic struggling thing, robbed of much of her mental acuity.

Unless she resisted.

Do as Clare does. Observe. Deduce. Analyse. I am only temporarily helpless.

It did not help quite as much as she might have wished. She slowly raised her eyelids, training twisting its sharp hold deeper into her physical frame as her pulse struggled to quicken and her breathing sought to become shallow sips. None of that now. Look about you.

Her eyelids were not paralysed, though she could not turn her head. At first there was only an umber glow, but as she blinked, testing the confines of the restraints for any weakness in a purely reflexive unphysical movement, shapes became visible.

There was movement, and the chanting came to a natural end, dying away.

A slight hiss. The movement became a gleam on a knife blade, and Emma studied the tableau before her.