Lilith Saintcrow - The Iron Wyrm Affair

Severine busied herself at the tiny table near the window, fussing until everything was just so. “You are pale, madame . You work too hard. Come, the chocolat is hot. And the croissants fresh! Very fresh.”

“Just a moment, cher Severine.” Emma stretched again, luxuriously, as Catherine disappeared into the dress-house and Isobel’s humming started up in the bath room over a cascade of falling water. The girl was always singing something or another. Today it was a tune much heard on Picksdowne, a country girl bemoaning faithless love and a city gent. It was vaguely improper, but Isobel was a good girl. She and Catherine reworked and shared Emma’s cast-off dresses, though not the burnt and battered ones, and more than once they had performed last-minute miracles when Emma’s wardrobe required such.

To be a servant of Britannia of Emma Bannon’s stripe could – and sometimes did – require going with little to no notice from a filthy back alley in Whitchapel or Seven Dials to a Grosvenor Square ball.

Both environments had their dangers, certainly. There were others in the service of the ruling spirit much as Emma was, but she eschewed any contact with them. Murky secret societies were, in her opinion, only to be infiltrated. Besides, there was certain latitude granted her as a soloist, so to speak.

And not so incidentally, even other sorcerers would feel trepidation at the prospect of dealing with a woman who was both Prime and of a Black branch of Discipline. Even if she kept her exact branch a fairly close secret, she would be hard pressed to pass as even one of the Grey, let alone the White. For one thing, she was too bloody practical.

And for another, she did not mind the blood and screaming as a proper woman should.

Emma touched the obsidian globe on her nightstand. The globe’s surface, chased with silver in fluid charter symbols, rippled and trembled like water. Her fingers stroked, soothing, and the house vibrated again. Every ætheriel protection on her home was clear and tight, a Prime’s will and ætheric force coursing in channels laid through physical substance, tied swiftly and efficiently with complex invisible knots, and all as it should be.

The novels stacked around the obsidian globe were all exceedingly improper and sensational, and she smiled ruefully at them. When this is all over, I’ll lie abed and read for a week .

She had been making herself that promise for months. There was always a fresh crisis brewing. The Prince Consort was inexperienced and the Queen was still young, even though she was Britannia, and there was no shortage of intrigue. Victrix’s lady mother had only recently been prised from her daughter’s tender back, her influence slowly leaching away from the young Queen, who had not proved amenable to being ruled by Dearest Mum (as she was irreverently but very quietly called) after all.

If not for a dedicated few interested in serving Queen Victrix rather than her mother … well, who could say? Britannia would reign, no doubt, long after her current incarnation fell prey to old age, and after Emma’s long life as a Prime was finished as well.

Still, it did not mean she could neglect her duty.

Queen and Country, how boring. Wouldn’t you like some real power? And Llewellyn’s parting words – Emma did, indeed, have her hands on a mentath.

No doubt Mr Clare would have some ideas. She had a few of her own, including where to start the next day’s unravelling of this tangled web. But for the moment, she shrugged into her robe and settled at the small table, and Severine clucked over her while she had her morning chocolat . In short order she was finished, the day’s gown was chosen, and the luxury of hot water was not nearly savoured enough before she was in her dressing room, being loosely corseted and encased in a high-collared almost drab brown velvet, her hair chafed dry and lovingly pinned up by Isobel’s quick fingers, a little parfum dabbed behind her ears and her jewel cases opened, plundered, and put away. Catherine retreated to the bath room and Isobel to the bedroom, to set both to rights before the chambermaids came along to clean.

Thus fortified, and her thoughts somewhat rearranged, she checked herself in the large mirror over her white-painted vanity and frowned slightly. Slightly dowdy, yes. But at least if this dress were ruined, she would not feel so bad. “Severine. Do have Catherine report to Mr Finch on the frocks I’ve had damaged in the past week, and ask Finch to prepare a bill, itemized, for each. And for the ones I will no doubt ruin in the near future.”

“ Oui, madame .” Severine clasped her plump hands, standing near the door. “Cook will want to know the menu—”

“I’ll be leaving the menu in your and Cook’s hands for the upcoming week. Mr Finch should know I am not receiving for the time being, as well.”

“ Oui, madame .” Severine’s cheeks had turned pale. When the menu was left to her and Cook it was always acceptable – but still, the housekeeper was terrified of a misstep, as well as breathless with fear for her mistress.

Severine’s last indenture had not been pleasant. Emma had learned it was best not to reassure her overmuch; such coddling only made her more nervous. Like mastering a high-strung unAltered horse, it was best to be firm and brisk, but gentle.

“And please do have Finch secure more linens for our guest, and find him a suitable valet among the footmen. I rather think Mr Clare may be stopping with us for a while.”

The salle was long and drenched with sunlight as well as the directionless glow of witchballs caged in filigreed aluminium, the floor mellow wood occasionally covered with rough mats supposed to make a fall during Mikal’s daily practice less dangerous. Of course, the idea of Mikal falling was preposterous. Rather, the mats were a gesture.

Or they were for the infrequent times when she had company capable of sparring with a Shield. Like today.

Well, perhaps capable was too generous a term. For Mikal moved almost gently, deflecting the mentath’s flurry of blows. Clare was not untrained, but to an eye used to the Collegia’s classes of practising Shield candidates he appeared slow and graceless. Still, he was sweating, stripped to the waist, and surprisingly muscular. Emma folded her arms, watching Mikal as he gave ground, pivoting neatly and pulling the mentath off balance. A single strike, and Clare doubled up, losing most of his air. Mikal wore an odd little smile, one that meant he was enjoying himself.

Emma took notice of her unladylike posture, and clasped her gloved hands before her. The sardonyx ring prickled, and she had kept the amber prie-dieu, freshly glowing with a charge of sorcerous power from Tideturn. Today, though, the earrings were long jet daggers, and the cameo at her throat could hold a great deal of charge. Two more rings – one ruby, another a thick dull golden band – completed today’s set. She was as prepared as it was possible to be.

He will not like this . She waited patiently, watching Mikal’s smile deepen a trifle as Clare levered himself up from the mats.

“You do not have to look so bloody entertained, sir,” Clare panted.

“My apologies.” Mikal’s grin widened. “Another round? You are quite agile, mentath.”

Clare waved the compliment away. “No, no. I fear I am done. And Miss Bannon has made her appearance.”

Oh, so you remarked my absence, did you? “Gentlemen.” She accepted Mikal’s traditional bow and Clare’s slightly less formal movement with a nod. “Did you sleep well, Mr Clare?”

He flushed, all the way up to the roots of his sandy hair. “Quite well, thank you. And you, Miss Bannon?”