uncalled and unmissed.

“Most civil of you,” she murmured, and the knife bit again. A bleeding slash on the Neapolitan’s palm matched on the mentath’s, she pressed their hands together. Ludovico had done this before, but Clare resisted; she was forced to glare at him and make a sharp tsking noise.

When their palms were clasped together, the copper tang of hot blood reaching her sensitive nose, she closed her eyes, her own fingers a white cage around theirs. “S——!” she breathed.

It was a Greater Word of Binding, and even more of Tideturn’s charge trickled free of her flesh, sliding into the two men and licking hungrily at the scant blood. She flicked her hands back, like a hedge conjuror flapping a handkerchief, and a brief gunpowder flash painted the peeling walls.

She swayed, and Mikal was there, as usual, bracing her. His jaw was set; Emma wondered just what her own face was expressing.

“There.” She found, to her relief, that she could still speak in a businesslike manner. “’Tis done. Present yourself at my door no later than Tideturn next, Valentinelli, and afterwards Mr Clare shall not stir one step without you.”

“How long?” The Neapolitan examined his palm – smooth, unbroken skin, criss-crossed by thin faint lines where other bindings had been sworn. He arched one sleek eyebrow, and his white teeth showed as his lip lifted.

“You have other pressing appointments, I take it? As long as it is necessary, Ludovico. Until I take the binding off. You’d best hope nothing happens to me, too.” Even the candleflame stung her suddenly sensitive eyes. They squeezed shut with no prompting on her part, tears rising reflexively.

“Home?” Mikal pulled her away, and she made no demur.

“Yes. Home. Come along, Mr Clare.”

“Yes, well.” Clare cleared his throat. “Archibald Clare. Mentath. How do you do.”

She prised one eyelid open enough to see Clare offering his hand to the Neapolitan.

“Ludovico Valentinelli. Murderer and thief. Your servant, sir.” Those dark eyes had lit with something very much like amusement.

“Murd—” Clare audibly thought better of finishing the word. “Well. Very interesting. A pleasure. I shall accompany Miss Bannon to her home, then, and wait for our next meeting.”

“Do that. And be careful with la signora; be a shame to lose her pretty face. Give me my knife, strega.”

“Oh no.” Her fingers tightened on the leather-wrapped hilt. The blade’s sensitised now; it could cut that binding I just laid on you. Try again, bandit. “That wouldn’t do at all, Ludo. Mikal shall leave you the one you flung at me, though. Pleasant dreams.”

There was a sharp meaty sound as Ludovico’s knife thudded into the wall aross the room, and Mikal’s lip curled. The Neapolitan’s curses followed them out of the door, but she could tell he was intrigued.

Good.

The hectic strength sustaining her after dancing with Mehitabel had largely deserted its post by the time they reached Mayefair. In any case, she could not search for more answers until morning and a visit to the Collegia. The darkened foyer was a balm, the house sleepily taking notice of her return. The rooms would be ready, since the servants were well accustomed to her appearing and disappearing at odd hours.

Emma could wish that it was not quite so routine. “I suggest you take some rest, Mr Clare.” She could finally occupy herself in stripping the remains of her gloves from her aching hands.

The mentath was remarkably spry. “Oh, indubitably. I shall no doubt sleep well. You have some interesting friends, Miss Bannon.”

I have few “friends”, Mr Clare. “Valentinelli is not a friend. He is more … a non- enemy. I amuse him, he is reliable. Especially once he is hedged with a blood oath.”

“Yes, well, I am not at all certain I like the idea of a filthy Italian bleeding on me.” Clare actually sniffed. “But if you say he is capable, Miss Bannon, I shall take you at your word. I shall expect him at dawn or shortly after.”

She gave up on her gloves and leaned into Mikal’s hand on her arm. “Breakfast will be shortly after Tideturn. I presume your agile faculties are even now turning over the question of how and where to—”

“Oh yes. In fact, I have tomorrow’s investigation planned.”

Her conscience pinched, but she was, blessedly, too tired to care. “Good.” She took an experimental step toward the stairs; Mikal moved with her. The Shield’s frustration and annoyance was bright lemon yellow to Sight; her temples throbbed as it communicated to her.

“Miss Bannon?”

For the love of Heaven, what now? “Yes?”

“You have suddenly decided this Valentinelli is sufficient protection for my fragile person. Either you have a high faith in his capabilities, or—”

Or I shall dangle you in the water and see which fish rises. You do well to suspect me, sir. “I have become a much larger threat to these conspirators than you, Mr Clare. And by now, they are informed of it. You may take some comfort, at least, in that.”

Wisely, perhaps, Clare left it at that. Emma set herself to climbing the stairs and navigating halls. Her skirts dragged, the Wark’s ash still clung to her despite carefully applied cleaning-charms, and her Shield was about to explode.

He had the grace to keep himself quiet until the door to her dressing room opened, and she moved as if to free herself from his grasp. Her bed had rarely seemed so welcoming.

“Emma.” Quietly.

Please. Not now. But he had apparently decided that yes, now was the time for a discussion.

“A dragon, Emma.”

One of the Timeless, albeit a young wyrm. “Yes.” She fixed her gaze on the shadowed bulk of one wardrobe, the dressing room’s interior faintly glowing from the pale grey carpet and the plain silk hangings. “You should have taken the mentath and fled.”

“Leaving you to Mehitabel.” A single shake of his dark head, one she felt through his hand on her arm. “You should not ask such things of me.”

“What should I ask of you, then? I am very tired, Mikal.”

“A dragon, Emma.”

You are repeating yourself. “I am fully aware of what transpired at the Blackwerks. The ironwyrm had orders to kill me. Those orders could only have come from another of the Timeless; a dragon would not care to obey a sorcerer, even to kill another of our ilk.” She stared at the wardrobe. “And Britannia herself warns me that if Grayson is in league with the wyrms, her protection may not be enough. They are dangerous, and her compact with them is old and fragile. To them, we are merely temporary guests, and our Empire a wisp of cloud.”

“Then why should they care if …” It struck him. He stiffened, his fingers clamping her flesh. “Ah.”

“Someone has made them care for this piece of mechanisterum, Mikal. I must find out precisely who and neutralise the threat they represent to Britannia, or even the possible military uses of a logic engine will be beside the point. I am extraordinarily fatigued. You may retire.”

He still did not let go. “What if I have no wish to retire?”

“Then you may dance in the conservatory or paint in the kitchen for all I care. Turn loose.”

He did, but when she paced unsteadily into her dressing room he followed, closing the door with a faint but definite snick.

Every piece of jewellery on her tired body was dark and dead spent. She was barely upright, and if he sought to free himself of the shackle of duty to another sorcerer, there was no better time. She halted, swaying unsteadily, in a square of moonlight from the glass panels set in the ceiling, charter symbols sliding sleepily over them in constellation patterns.

And she waited.

His breath touched her hair. The closeness was too comforting; she shut her eyes and thought of Ludovico’s filthy fingernails, the healthy animal smell of him, alcohol and exertion. Mikal was perfumed only with soot and the

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