“It does not.” I wish you every joy of it, though. “The sorcerer responsible for the recent… unpleasantness… suffered a hideous fate, Your Majesty. Perhaps that may comfort you.”
The Queen hefted herself to her feet. Clare stepped away from the mantel, as if to assist, but she merely stalked to within a few feet of Emma. Their skirts almost brushed, and the sorceress banished the smile seeking to rise to her mouth.
It would not do.
“We are not comforted, witchling.” There was no cold weight of power behind the words, but the echo of Britannia’s frigid, heavy voice underlay Victrix’s words. “We suspect…”
Have you learned nothing, my Queen? Emma did not blink.
Two women, studying each other, the only thing separating them a wall of trembling air. And, of course, a measure of pride on either side.
Victrix’s shoulders sagged. Her hand twitched, slightly, as if she wished to reach out.
If she did, what would I do? She is not the queen I served.
The memory of vast weight, the temptation to step aside from her human self and become more, rose inside her in a dark wave.
Emma Bannon found, much to her relief, that her decision was still the same, and that she suffered no regret.
“You are the Queen,” she murmured, and lowered her gaze. She stared at Victrix’s reticule–and what use did royalty have for such a thing, really? She certainly never went marketing. Perhaps it was a touch of the domesticity she had craved with her Consort.
What dreams had been put aside when the spirit of rule descended upon Victrix? Did she curse the weight and cherish it at once, as a Prime might well both curse and cherish the burden of a Will that would not allow rest or submission?
“We are.” But Victrix only sounded weary. “We shall not trouble thee again, sorceress.”
Is that meant to sting, or to soothe me? Emma merely nodded, and Her Majesty swept past, her veil whispering as she lowered it again. The door opened, and Emma turned her head, staring at the velvet-cloaked window. “Your Majesty.”
A pause, a listening silence.
“I shall not trouble you, either.”
There was no answer.
Chapter Forty-Nine
You Have Caused Her Grief
Most intriguing. Clare cleared his throat. “Emma.” Her head rose, and Clare discerned a redness rimming her dark eyes, a trace of moisture upon her cheek.
The front door opened, closed again, and he was alone with the sorceress.
“Archibald.” The high neck of her gown failed to disguise the livid scar about her neck. What had she suffered at the hands of the mad, faceless Prime?
“How…” How do you feel? The ridiculousness of the question kindled a fierce heat in his cheeks. Was he blushing? Irrational. Illogical. “You look… well. Quite well.”
“Thank you.” A colourless reply. She studied him, her chin set, her hands clasped–he did not miss the tension in those knotted fingers. It must pain her, to clench them so. “You do, as well.”
“Ah, thank you.” He took a deep breath. “I… Emma, I must ask. The… stone. The thing you… can you, will you, take it from me? It is… irrational. It causes… Feeling.”
“How interesting.” She studied him, dark eyes moving slowly, her earrings swaying a trifle. “That is generally not among its effects. And no, Clare. I will not.” She halted, and answering colour burned high on her soft, childlike cheeks. “Not even if you… if you hate me.”
What must it have cost her, to say such a thing? Hate? He was a mentath. He did not…
And yet. Was it the thing she had done to him that created these storms of Feeling?
Was it the woman herself?
Or, most unsettling of all, were these tempests somehow… his own?
“Emma.” Hoarsely. There was something caught in his throat. “I do not… I cannot hate you.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” What was her expression? Did he dare to name it? Could he?
“But I am… I am leaving. I must learn how to… moderate my reaction to this…” This was not how he had thought such an interview would go. What had he expected–tears? Cries of remorse? From her? From himself? “To this… gift. Of yours. This very fine… gift.”
Another nod, the crimson in her cheeks retreating. “Very well.”
“I cannot… I do not wish to cause you… pain.” How on earth did others bear this illogical, irrational agony?
“Do as you must, Clare.” Her fingers were white, clasped so tightly. “Should you ever need my aid, all you must do is send me word.”
His throat was alarmingly dry, he forced himself to swallow. “Thank you. I… I shall.” He could delay no longer, yet the urge to do so rose. He denied it. “Pico has a hansom waiting; I shall pay his wages myself. He is a very useful young man.”
She said nothing.
There was nothing more for him to say, either, so he forced his legs to perform their accustomed function. He paused at the door, studying its crystal knob. Slowly, as an old man might, he twisted it, opened the door and stepped outside.
When it closed, he turned and made for the front. In the entry hall, though, was the last gauntlet to run.
Mikal tilted his dark head. His hair was slightly disarranged, and his hand rested upon a hilt–one of the knives at his hips, wicked blades Clare had a healthy respect for his facility in handling.
Clare drew his gloves on, slowly. Settled his hat.
“Mentath.” The Shield’s words were a bare murmur, but Clare’s quick ears caught them. “You have caused her grief.”
It was his turn to nod. There was no denial, no excuse he could offer.
There was, however, an answer to the charge. “So have you, sir.”
Mikal’s hand fell away from the hilt. Clare expected more, but the Shield was simply silent as the mentath brushed past. Just before the front door, he paused.
Once I leave, will I ever return?
There was no answer. He took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and stepped out into a foggy Londinium midmorning. A spatter of rain touched the small, exquisite garden, and Miss Bannon’s gates were merely ajar instead of fully open.
He sallied down the stone path, and when he exited the gate it closed behind him, with a small, definite click. There was a hansom waiting, the driver’s face half-hidden by a striped muffler, and a chill touched Clare’s back.
It was irrational, so he discarded it, and clambered into the hansom.
Pico, cleaning his fingernails with a thin, flexible knife, greeted him with a nod. “All’s well?”
No. “Yes. Quite.” He settled himself, and tapped the roof. “Baker Street, please, number 200.”
“Sir!” The whip cracked. Clare suppressed a shiver.
What came next? If he thought only of what must be done next, he could, he thought, perhaps navigate this situation properly. “Mr Pico. Miss Bannon has released you into my service. I trust you have no objection?”
“Course not, guv.” The lad grinned. “Interesting indeed. Still want to learn from her grim one, though.”
I am certain you do, he is most dangerous. “When your duties permit. You are a bright lad, and shall be of great help. Tell me, are you fond of travel?”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever tried it, guv.”
“Well.” Clare settled himself, steepled his fingers, and gazed past them at the faded fabric curtains swaying as the hansom rocked over cobbles. “You shall, and very soon.” Very soon indeed. “There are experiments to be done.”
He lapsed into a profound silence, which did not discommode Pico in the least. As the conveyance bore them away from Brooke Street, the lad even began to whistle.