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lives,
fill it in
.”
    There was a soft commotion. Clare had faltered, Horace and Gilburn caught him. There was a tingle up her arm as Mikal applied healing sorcery, a Shield’s capability. Part of a Shield’s
function
.
    That was worrisome, too.
Your Shield worked a miracle… you lost nothing in the transaction…
    All this time, she had thought her survival stemmed from a different source; from the sorcery worked by the greatest Mender of his age while the city lay wracked under the lash of a plague let loose on the world by the very Crown Emma had sworn to serve. If her recovery had not been of Thomas Coldfaith’s making…
    Troubles thick and fast, and she could do nothing but stand and watch the open mouth of the grave as the diggers bent their backs to the work, the lone barrowmancer in his long black gown and traditional red stripes still eyeing her nervously as he felt the disturbance spreading from her.
    A Prime was a storm-front of ætheric force, sorcerous Will that brooked precious little bridle exercised and fed until it became monstrous.
    A woman with a Prime’s will and corresponding ætheric talent, monstrous indeed. If she lost control of herself here, in this place of the dead, what could she set loose? If she opened the gates of her Discipline in this place, she could well shatter every stone and coffin. She could hold the door wide for a long while, and fuelled by this, what could it bring forth?
    A spatter of earth hit the lid with a hollow noise, each shovelful another barrier between her and… what?
    She could not name what he was to her, even now.
    Ludo, Ludovico, I am… sorry.
    It was not enough.

Chapter Seven

Not Well At All, At All
    T he carriage ride to Mayefair was silent and extremely jolting. Clare, marginally restored by an application of salts and a mouthful of brandy from Cook’s surreptitious flask, held grimly to consciousness despite the roaring in his ears. Across from him, Miss Bannon sat, her childlike face composed and wan under the veil’s obscuring net, the sliced, bloody glove on her left hand wrinkling slightly as her fingers twitched.
    A fraction of coja would help, perhaps. He had not availed himself of its sweet burn since the plague incident, seeing no need to sharpen his faculties against that whetstone. And, truthfully, he had not felt the craving to do so. Was it a function of whatever illogical feat she had performed?
    A certain artefact
, she said. Did he dare ask further questions?
    She might very well answer. In that case, was he a coward not to enquire?
    The coffin, lowering into the earth. The bright spatter of blood, and Miss Bannon not even glancing in his direction. Had he thought her indifferent to Ludovico’s… passing?
    Call it what it is. Death.
    The roaring in his ears intensified. It took actual physical effort to think through the wall of sound.
    “Clare?” Where had Miss Bannon acquired this new, tentative tone? “Are you well?”
    I am not at all well, thank you
. “Quite,” he managed, through gritted teeth. “You made certain of that, did you not?”
    It was unjustified, and the slight stiffening of Miss Bannon’s shoulders told him the dart had hit true. She turned her head slightly, as if to gaze out the carriage window. Her left hand had become a fist.
    “Yes.” Softly. “I did.”
    Nothing else was said as they inched homeward, and when the familiar clatter of iron-shod mechanical hooves on the echoing cobbled lane leading into the carriageyard resounded she began gathering her skirts. She wore very deep mourning, and if she did not weep and wail as a woman might be expected to, perhaps it was because she was not inclined to such a display.
    Or perhaps she felt a loss too profoundly to risk making any further comment upon it.
    He was given no time to remark upon this observation, for as soon as the carriage halted she reached for the door,and it flung itself open as if kicked. There was Mikal, his lean dark face set, breathing