Lilith Saintcrow - The Red Plague Affair

Clare let out a sigh. His brow was really quite moist, and sweat had gathered under his arms as well. Exertion was not a marvellous idea so soon in the morning, and his bones reminded him that he was decidedly not of tender enough vintage to sleep in a chair. “That was ill-done,” he remarked, mildly enough. “His possible marriage is rather a sensitive subject.”

“They always are. And it is not possible; he had a wife once. You should have deduced as much.” Vance, supremely unconcerned, set about adjusting his jacket. “Breakfast, you say? And I hate to be gauche, but a watercloset would do me a world of good, old chap.”

Clare throttled the annoyance rising in his chest and nodded, sharply. “Do come this way, sir. I believe some shift may be made for you.” His pause was not entirely for effect, for a novel idea had occurred to him. “And do be careful. This is a sorceress’s house, and Miss Bannon’s temper is… uncertain, with strangers.”

Perhaps it would make the damnable man behave. Though Clare, wiping at his forehead and cheeks with a slight grimace, was not hopeful.

Clare’s appetite had deserted him entirely, for once. He had suitably freshened himself and changed his clothes, but his back still cramped, reminding him of its unhappiness. His joints had joined the chorus, and the broadsheets, spread over a small table brought into the too-bright breakfast room, did not help.

Morris had done his work well. “The remaining two canisters?”

“Disappeared. Either Copperpot was not truthful, or Mr Morris was not quite honest with the particulars.” Miss Bannon’s colour was fine this morning, but her small white teeth worrying at her lower lip betrayed her anxiety. “I rather think the latter, if only because of Ludo’s fine work.”

Clare’s stomach twisted afresh. He sipped his tea, hoping to calm his digestion, and turned a page. The ink stained his fingers, but he could not find the heart to be even fractionally annoyed. “The ones left in Londinium are now useless. The genie, as Dr Vance remarked, has left the lamp.”

“Ah, yes. Dr Vance.” There was a line between Miss Bannon’s dark eyebrows. “ This is a tale I am most interested in hearing, Clare. He is in my house .”

“I don’t suppose there is a method for keeping him here?” Clare blinked rapidly, several times. The words on the pages refused to cohere for a moment.

“I have already attended to that, Archibald.” Miss Bannon glanced across the empty breakfast room as Mikal appeared, his tidy dark hair dewed with fine droplets of Londinium moisture. “Any news?”

“No further dispatches from the Palace.” Mikal’s lean face was not grave, but it was close. “The borders of the house are secure, Prima.”

“Very good. Ludo?”

“At his toilette. ” Grim amusement touched Mikal’s mouth, turning the straight line into a slight curve at its corners. “So is our other guest. When shall I kill him?”

“No need for that!” Clare interjected, hastily. “He has a steady pair of hands, and is familiar with the Theory. He will be most useful, and remanding him to Her Majesty’s justice at the end of this affair—”

“—will be quite enough to salve your tender conscience?” Miss Bannon’s expression was, for once, unreadable. She nodded, and Mikal drifted across the room to fetch her a breakfast plate. The sorceress, settled in her usual chair at the table she shared with Clare when he partook of her hospitality, shook the ringlets over her ears precisely once. “I am gladdened to hear it. But my question remains: what the devil is he doing here?”

“I am not quite certain.” Clare forced his faculties to the task at hand, scanning columns of fine print. “Bermondsey, yes. Whitchapel, yes. Lambeth.” He noted Miss Bannon’s slight movement, slipped the notation into the mental bureau holding her particulars, and continued. “Cripplegate, yes. St Giles. The Strand – why there, I wonder? Ah yes, the Saint-Simonroithe, Morris would of course know the history. And the docks; dear God, it will spread like wildfire. It is spreading like wildfire.” He exhaled, heavily. “How did he die, Miss Bannon?”

“Of his own creation, sir. I brought him to the Queen’s presence; he expired very shortly afterwards.” She accepted the plate – two bangers, fruit, and one of Cook’s lovely scones – with a nod, and Mikal set to work loading another. “It was unpleasant. Convulsions, all manner of blood.”

Clare shut his eyes. For a moment, the idea of swooning appeared marvellously comforting. He was so bloody tired . “He died in the Queen’s presence? You took him before Britannia?”

“Of course.” Puzzled, she stared at him through the fragrant steam wafting up from her scone. “You’ve gone quite pale.”

“Perhaps Britannia will protect her vessel.” Clare’s lips were suspiciously numb. He gathered himself afresh. “This illness is incredibly communicable, Miss Bannon. The danger is quite real.”

“Communicative?” It was her turn to pale as she dropped her dark gaze to her plate. “Infectious? Very?”

“Yes. Very . Who else was in the Presence?”

“A few personages,” she admitted. “None I care overmuch for.” Quite decidedly, she turned her attention to her breakfast and began calmly to consume it. “I am still unclear on the exact dimensions of this threat, Archibald. You are to have breakfast and explain. I cannot fend off the Crown’s requests for information for very long.”

It was, he reflected, quite kind of Miss Bannon that she did not consider aloud dragging him and Vance into Britannia’s presence to give an account of the entire mess. “We have found the original source of the illness. Have you studied History, Miss Bannon?”

“My education, sir, was the best the Collegia could provide.” But there was no sharpness to her tone. “And I have taken steps to continue it. What part of History’s grand sweep do you refer to?”

“Sixteen sixty-six. The Great Plague.” And during it, Londinium burned.

The silence that fell was extraordinary. Miss Bannon laid her implements down and picked up her teacup, her smallest finger held just so. Mikal settled himself in his usual chair as well, his plate heaped so high it was a wonder the china did not groan in pain.

“A rather dreadful time,” she finally observed, taking a small mannerly sip.

“Rather. And we are about to suffer it again, unless Science – in the form of Dr Vance and myself – can effect some miracle of cure. A serum may be possible, if we are correct.”

“And if you are not?”

The door opened and Vance appeared, freshly combed, new linens – charm-measured, no doubt, by the redoubtable Finch and his men – taken advantage of, and his eyes peculiarly dark with some manner of emotion Clare found difficult to discern.

“If we are not,” Vance said, “then, Miss Bannon, God help Londinium, and the rest of the globe. Your hospitality is most wonderful, though your servants are peculiarly resistant to any manner of charm or politeness.”

Miss Bannon blinked. “They do not waste such things on those… visitors… I have expressed an aversion to,” she replied mildly. “Do come and have breakfast, sir. And mind the silver.”

“I am an artist of crime, madam. Not a common thief.” He straightened his jacket sleeves and stepped into the room, glancing about him with much interest. “Your Neapolitan is close behind me, old chap. Still in a bit of a temper.”

When is he not, nowadays? “Do try not to come to blows at the breakfast table. Our hostess rather frowns upon such things.” Clare sighed, heavily, and returned his attention to the broadsheets. Eating was out of the question, at least for him.