Treachery

Emily and Stanton went their separate ways in separate carriages. Emily’s went one way and Stanton’s went the other; hers would carry her back to the Institute, and Stanton’s would return him to his family’s brownstone on Thirty-fourth Street, where he could change for his beefsteak.

But even if Emily and Stanton had both been returning to the Institute, they would have taken separate carriages in the interest of propriety. Emily was continually amazed at the mealymouthed prissiness of these New Yorkers. Engaged to be married, yet it would be indecent for them to be seen climbing out of a carriage together—as if carriages were rolling dens of iniquity. But then again, the way Stanton’s kisses had made her feel, perhaps the New Yorkers did have a point. Oh well. Tomorrow. Tomorrow Stanton would be Invested, things would settle down, and all this foolishness would subside. And then she could get him up to see her etchings.

She stared out of the window of the hansom. Daughter of a California rancher with a gold fortune! Oh, brother.

When Emily got back to the Institute, she found that the last-minute confusion had intensified. Caterers screeched through the sober marble halls, rolling carts of food to be stored in the Institute’s cool cellar kitchens. Dodging a fast-pushed cart, she headed for the stairs. She was looking forward to returning to the comfort of her deathbed just as quickly as possible. She gave the admissions clerk a conspiratorial wink as she ducked under a dangling streamer. The man lifted a finger.

“Miss Jesczenka was looking for you. She said that if I saw you, I was to send you to her immediately.” He looked sober, as if Miss Jesczenka had said quite a bit more than that. “She’s presenting a class right now, in the tutorial wing. The green lecture hall.” The admissions clerk offered her an obsequious arm. “Would you like me to help you there?”

Emily sighed. “I can find it.” Reluctantly, she turned her steps toward the tutorial wing. There was still hell to pay for her trip to California, and this tryst with Stanton would surely compound the interest due.

Emily found Miss Jesczenka finishing up a presentation to an advanced group of students. The room was hot; the high windows had been opened to let in whatever coolness the early-evening breeze contained. Even though the air was close and stifling, the young male students all wore dark suit coats, neatly buttoned. The title of the lecture, written on the chalkboard wall behind Miss Jesczenka, was “Appearance Manipulation.”

“… thus, the proper choice of professional name is of vital importance.” Miss Jesczenka looked up as Emily took a guilty seat at the back of the room, but did not miss a beat of cadence. “A well-designed professional name will have power both literally and numerically, effective on a variety of levels. It will evoke favorable images in the minds of those who hear it, and those images will only be unconsciously reinforced if it also adds to a propitious numerical value …”

Having a notable dislike of lectures, Emily stopped listening almost immediately, concentrating instead on the way Miss Jesczenka spoke, the lustrous timbre of her voice, the elegant movement of her slim white hands. It always puzzled Emily how none of the men in the Institute ever noticed how pretty Miss Jesczenka was. A negligible old maid in tortoiseshell glasses, that’s what Emily saw in their eyes when they looked at her. For a bunch of Warlocks who were supposed to be masters of the minds of men, they sure didn’t seem to know much about women.

At a pause in Miss Jesczenka’s presentation, a hand in the front row shot up.

“Professor, could you inform the class why you’ve never chosen a more credomantically correct professional name for yourself?” Emily tensed, expecting giggles, but there were none. The students awaited the answer soberly, steel-nibbed pens at the ready.

“Oh, certainly I’ve considered it.” Miss Jesczenka’s dark eyes sparkled playfully. “Potentia La Grand, perhaps? Madame Dangereuse? Sagacia Maxima de Luxe? I welcome your suggestions, gentlemen; thinking them up is exceptionally good fun.”

Miss Jesczenka impaled the young man with her calm, questioning gaze. When he lifted a hand to tug at his collar, she looked away abruptly. “In magic, just as in life, females must play by a different set of rules. When a man is presumptuous or forward, it is taken as a sign of drive and determination. When a woman behaves so, she seems merely ridiculous. As seeming ridiculous is the most perilous situation a credomancer can face, I’m sure you can see how it is to my advantage that I practice under my own name, humble as it is.” She looked down at her lectern, released a small sigh. “That’s all for today, gentlemen. Thank you.”

When everyone had gone, Emily came down the steps to where Miss Jesczenka stood neatly putting her papers in order.

“So that’s why so many credomancers have names like Mirabilis and Fortissimus,” Emily said.

“The late Sophos Mirabilis’ birth name was Japheth Beckenbauer. Hardly propitious in a nation where Jews are still generally reviled.”

“And Rex Fortissimus?” Emily leaned in close for an answer.

“Ogilvy Creagh Flannigan,” Miss Jesczenka returned in a low voice. She paused. “So. You snuck off to meet Mr. Stanton, didn’t you?”

Emily blushed. “We didn’t ride in any carriages,” she offered, as if to mitigate the misbehavior. “Did Mrs. Stanton come by?”

“I told her you were contagious,” Miss Jesczenka said. “It now appears that you have a case of the plague.”

Emily frowned. “And how, exactly, am I to get over the plague before the Investment tomorrow?”

“That’s your concern.” Miss Jesczenka picked up her papers and climbed the stairs toward the door. “Come along, let’s get you dressed for dinner.”

Emily rolled her eyes. Of all the social customs of New York, dressing for dinner was certainly the most preposterous. Change out of a perfectly good dress, into a fancier dress, just to eat dinner? Who came up with this nonsense?

“Oh, not tonight, please.” Emily fanned herself with her hand as she followed. “It’s too hot to get all dressed up all over again. Honestly.”

“Miss Edwards, these things get easier once you get in the habit of them. You can’t kick against convention forever. You must get used to swimming with the current.”

“I’ve always gone my own way,” Emily said. “There never was any current. So I’m not used to swimming with it.”

“Well, there is a very strong current here. And I’d hate for you to find out how dangerous the undertows can be.” Miss Jesczenka’s voice was surprisingly stern. But after a moment of silence, she gave Emily a sympathetic little smile. “Never mind. If you’d rather not dress tonight, we’ll not stand on ceremony. Besides, you’ll have your fill of dressing tomorrow.”

Emily wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat.

Miss Jesczenka had arranged to have a table laid in Emily’s room. It was spread with crystal and white damask and a full complement of strange-looking forks. Emily sighed. She recognized all the signs of one of Miss Jesczenka’s “teaching” dinners.

One of Miss Jesczenka’s duties, since Emily’s arrival, had been to inculcate Emily in the finer points of using forks, the elegant management of her napkin, and how to drink the right amount from the right glasses. Each of these points had presented a challenge to Emily. The forks were indecipherable, the napkins (always large enough to serve as towels at need) unwieldy, and as for the glasses, Emily drained hers of wine far too quickly for Miss Jesczenka’s liking.

Emily looked at the covered plates of food waiting on a wheeled tray, and then at Miss Jesczenka.

“What’s it to be tonight, then? Cracked crab? Pâte à choux? Corn on the cob?”

Miss Jesczenka smiled but said nothing. Her teaching dinners often featured strange and exotic foods meant to challenge Emily’s developing social skills. How should a banana in caramel sauce be tackled? With a spoon, or with a fork? Emily didn’t see why it mattered much, as long as a sufficient quantity of banana and caramel passed one’s lips. Miss Jesczenka took a less sanguine view of the matter.

Emily seated herself and waited patiently as Miss Jesczenka lit the candles—hardly necessary, with midsummer brightness streaming in through the windows—and gently lifted the lids from the steaming dishes. She served Emily quietly and deftly. Emily didn’t see anything too exotic—roast beef and potatoes and a steamed artichoke. Emily guessed Miss Jesczenka was trying to trip her up with the artichoke, but she couldn’t imagine any way to eat it other than taking it apart with her fingers. To her surprise, Miss Jesczenka smiled approvingly, as if she’d been outsmarted.

Emily should have felt proud, but she didn’t. In fact, she still felt awfully cross. Miss Jesczenka was pleasant company, but all in all, she’d rather be eating oysters in a chop-house with Stanton. The obsessive rules of etiquette struck Emily as mean-spirited, like the old trick of tying someone’s shoelaces together under the table. It was only fun if you liked watching people fall down.

Emily found herself wondering suddenly if her mother had known which forks to use. She thought of the card that was attached to the bottle of memories, her mother’s calling card. Bristol board, elegantly done. She looked across the flickering candles at Miss Jesczenka, who was delicately cutting a piece of meat.

“Do you know where I could get my hands on a copy of the Boston Social Register?”

Miss Jesczenka lifted an eyebrow. “The Boston Social Register? The Institute’s Library has a copy, of course. Who do you need to look up?”

Emily shoved the potatoes around her plate with her fork—the correct fork, in case Miss Jesczenka had anything to say about it. “In Lost Pine, I learned my mother’s name, and that she was born in Boston. I doubt she’d be in there, but maybe it’s worth a look.”

“Perhaps after dinner,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Unless you plan to be otherwise occupied?”

No, Emily thought, she didn’t plan to be otherwise occupied. She lifted her glass of wine and took a fortifying swallow, then addressed her attentions to the slice of roast beef on her plate. She carefully wedged her fork in the joint of her ivory hand—the narrow place where the thumb met the palm. Carefully, she held the meat while she cut it into small, manageable bites. When she was finished, she laid the knife aside and switched the fork back to her left hand.

“So have you ever heard of a beefsteak?” Emily asked, after savoring a hard-won mouthful. Even the abrupt change in topic couldn’t faze the unflappable Miss Jesczenka.

“It’s one of those things men get up for themselves,” she said. “They generally involve beer and oysters and steaks grilled on shovels and great quantities of cigar smoke. They gather to watch negligible girls sing off-key while showing their legs. Distasteful, but very effective at strengthening credomantic ties between gentlemen.”

“Mr. Stanton said there wouldn’t be ladies there,” Emily said, sitting up straighter at the mention of the negligible girls.

“There won’t,” Miss Jesczenka said. “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be any females.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Does that bother you?”

“Of course it does!” Emily snapped too quickly, then added in a grumbling tone, “A bit,” aware that she sounded foolish.

“Well, this is to be a teaching dinner, isn’t it?” Miss Jesczenka put down her fork, rearranging it and its fellows neatly before her as she spoke. “It’s part of the business, Miss Edwards. Men have to bond with their fellows, and this is the manner that suits them best. Even if Mr. Stanton happens not to share their appreciation for such entertainment, he can’t hold himself aloof from the people whose support will provide him with his power.”

Emily frowned.

“I can promise you, Miss Edwards, as Rex Fortissimus is hosting the event you’re referring to, Mr. Stanton won’t enjoy a moment of it, no matter how many girls or legs there are.”

“Why not?”

“Right now, Rex Fortissimus is unquestionably the most powerful credomancer in New York,” Miss Jesczenka said. “The Fortissimus Presentment Arranging Agency is internationally renowned. He made his fortune consulting for Tammany Hall, coming up with creative methods for keeping their subliterate constituency pliable and amused—”

“He didn’t seem to be able to do much for Boss Tweed,” Emily interjected.

“Fortissimus is no idiot,” Miss Jesczenka sniffed. “By the time the graft and corruption got so far out of hand that no amount of creative Presentment would cover up the stink, he had switched sides. As a matter of fact, he helped Tilden to convict Tweed. All those cartoons by that clever Mr. Nast? His idea.”

“So when things got tough, Fortissimus not only jumped like a rat from a sinking ship but blew a few extra holes in the boat while it was going down?”

“You could put it that way,” Miss Jesczenka said, though it was clear she wished Emily wouldn’t. “He worked for Tammany Hall when it was profitable. Now it is profitable to whisper in Tilden’s ear, because Tilden has a chance to become the president of the United States, and Boss Tweed is rotting away in a jail in Spain somewhere.”

Emily knit her brow. “So what does that have to do with Mr. Stanton?”

“Fortissimus is sure to have packed this beefsteak with his Democratic cronies. Given that the Stanton family is staunch Republican, he will certainly be in for an evening of …” Miss Jesczenka paused, obviously choosing her words carefully. “Partisan wrangling. He’ll have to be on his guard from the time he walks in to the time, if he’s lucky, he passes out from drinking Fortissimus’ cheap liquor.”

“But I thought Fortissimus was hired to help Mr. Stanton!”

“He was,” Miss Jesczenka said. “But credomantic power is hierarchical. One gains power only by someone else losing power. Since Mr. Stanton will be assuming the full power of the Institute, it’s in Fortissimus’ interest to propitiate him—but it’s also in his interest to make sure that his own power base remains intact. Fortissimus will take this opportunity to ensure that Mr. Stanton maintains a healthy respect for the considerable extent of his influence.”

“Well, why is Mr. Stanton going to his beefsteak at all then?” Emily asked. “Shouldn’t he just ‘cut him dead’?” She used the term with self-conscious pride; she’d just learned it during their last lesson. But Miss Jesczenka seemed too horrified by the idea to notice her student’s dexterity.

“And start a conflict with a vastly more powerful credomantic practitioner?” Miss Jesczenka recoiled. “That wouldn’t help anyone, Miss Edwards. Powerful enemies can be valuable, in certain situations, but powerful friends are better. And Mr. Stanton is by no means strong enough to make powerful enemies. Not real ones, at least.” Miss Jesczenka leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Really, it was a stroke of genius for Emeritus Zeno to invite Fortissimus to participate so closely in Mr. Stanton’s Investment. I’m sure that if he hadn’t, Fortissimus would have proved extremely obstructive.”

Emily shook her head. Of course Zeno had come up with the perfect solution to Fortissimus’ potential obstructiveness. Zeno always came up with the perfect solution. The old man was a continual mystery to her. He seemed such a kind and gentle soul—but behind his mellow visage roiled a stormy sea of schemes.

“But I don’t understand why being Invested is going to make Mr. Stanton any more powerful,” Emily said. “I mean, he is as powerful as he is, isn’t he?”

“That might be true if Mr. Stanton specialized in another form of magic,” Miss Jesczenka said tactfully, simultaneously referring and not referring to the years Stanton had trained as a blood sorcerer. “But that’s not the way it works in credomancy. Mr. Stanton is as powerful as his cultors believe him to be. And right now, strictly speaking, he has no cultors. That is what the Investment is designed to do—formally transfer the loyalty of the cultors from Sophos Mirabilis to Mr. Stanton.” Miss Jesczenka paused. “He hasn’t explained this to you?”

“There hasn’t been time,” Emily said.

Miss Jesczenka took a deep breath. Then she let it out. “My, it is warm in here, isn’t it?” She stood, going to the windows to open them. A welcome breeze of cooling evening air stirred the silk curtains.

“Credomancers draw their power from how strongly people believe in them—you know that, of course.” Miss Jesczenka settled herself back in her chair. “But there’s a structure to that belief that allows power to be focused and distilled. That structure is called a credomantic pyramid. Most institutions of power, whether they’re political, military, or commercial, are credomantic pyramids. The broad base consists of the cultors—that’s Latin for ‘worshipper’ or ‘follower.’ At the Institute, those are the students. Fortissimus himself has hundreds of very powerful cultors—the employees of his Agency. Now, above the cultors are the praedictators—middle managers, if you will. As the holder of a Jefferson Chair, Mr. Stanton was a sub-praedictator, because he had no cultors of his own. Above the praedictators are the magisters—the professors, here at the Institute. Finally, at the very top, there is the Sophos, in whom all power is concentrated, collected, and focused.”

Emily pondered this. “So you’re a magister?”

“I am now the only female professor at the Institute since the departure of that dilettante Mrs. Quincy.” Miss Jesczenka frowned at the old woman’s memory. “And she was only given the position in San Francisco because her dead husband endowed the extension office. But I am a faithful practitioner. I have given my life to the study of credomancy, and I will be proud to serve as one of Mr. Stanton’s magisters.”

“Then you have cultors?”

“Over two hundred of them. I have four instructors under me and each instructor has about fifty students under his direct tutelage.”

“So it really is a big leap for Mr. Stanton to go to being Sophos all at once, isn’t it?” Emily remembered Stanton’s words at the blockhouse.

“An unprecedented leap,” Miss Jesczenka said, but then said nothing more. Emily bit her lip. The shortness of the woman’s replies indicated that Emily was asking questions Miss Jesczenka didn’t particularly want to answer, but those were usually the questions that most needed to be asked. She pressed on.

“Mr. Stanton took the power of the Institute with sangrimancy,” Emily said softly. “I’m sure some people believe that he shouldn’t have the position at all.”

“I am sure many people believe that,” Miss Jesczenka said.

Emily remembered Stanton bent over Mirabilis’ blood-soaked corpse, his fingers tracing arcane patterns in the gory pool of red, muttering guttural words of power. Emily had seen magic, grown up with magic, known magic all her life … but she’d never seen power like that. The memory of it sent spiders up her spine.

“Well, he didn’t steal Mirabilis’ power, no matter what anybody says,” Emily snapped, feeling a strange sudden need to defend Stanton. “It was the only thing he could do.”

“I’m sure Mr. Stanton did what he thought was best,” Miss Jesczenka said mildly. Then she gestured toward the rolling cart. “Shall we have dessert?”

Emily sat brooding while Miss Jesczenka served her a plate of something frothy with a decorative sprig of mint arranged elegantly on the top.

“Speaking of Mr. Stanton,” Miss Jesczenka said in a sprightly tone, “I met Rose Hibble earlier today. She said she’d given you a card for Mr. Stanton. She was quite worried about whether she’d gotten the inscription right. Did you give it to him?”

“Oh heck, I forgot,” Emily said.

“You must encourage her, you know. She has the potential to be an incredible asset to Mr. Stanton. She is a true zealot, veritably aflame with faith. Best of all, she has the energy and drive to foster admiration in the people around her. She can develop cultors for Mr. Stanton right and left. Really, as Mr. Stanton’s wife, you will be expected to fill that role eventually. But in the meantime, you can help by treating her well and encouraging her, even if Mr. Stanton hasn’t the time.”

Emily chewed over this. Could she ever be like Rose, hanging on Stanton’s every word and action, either real or imagined? She doubted it. Just the thought of it gave her a mild headache and made her feel tired.

Emily looked down at her untouched dessert, and decided to leave it in its pristine state. It was so pretty, it seemed a shame to spoil it. She placed her napkin gently beside her plate, as Miss Jesczenka had taught her. The woman nodded approvingly.

“Very nice,” she said. “You didn’t knock anything over. I believe you’re learning, Miss Edwards.”

Emily blushed, thinking of the piles of soaked damask she’d been responsible for sending to the Institute’s laundries over the past month. She stood.

“Shall we retire to the Library?” Emily said with extravagant formality.

“That would be delightful,” said Miss Jesczenka.

The Institute’s Library featured a huge central room, a Palladian space ringed with stained-glass windows depicting arcane scenes. From high skylights above, sunset brilliance slanted through the dust of ancient texts.

The shield-shaped chandeliers that hung from the carved ceiling had not been lit yet, but the shelves along the walls, and on the mezzanine above, were lined with glowing gas fixtures under green glass shades. The whole room had a strange twilight aura—the odd feeling of summer when the hour grows late, but light remains.

In the very center of the room, inlaid in brass on the floor, was a compass with the Institute’s motto: Ex fide fortis. From faith, strength. The compass’ arrows pointed to an archway leading to a different wing in each of the cardinal directions.

Even though the day’s classes had long since concluded, the library was full of students. Several quiet young men looked up as the women passed, then just as quietly returned to their studies.

Their steps echoed dully against the stacks of leather-bound books. Finally they came to a door over which was written, in letters of gold, “Social Practices and Customs.” The room was lined with dark wood shelving, close packed with books and smelling of parchment and vellum and ink. Miss Jesczenka went straight to the circulation desk, where a young man sat in close concentration before a pot of ink that was levitating in the air directly before his eyes.

“Excuse me,” Miss Jesczenka said softly, but not softly enough; the young man startled and flinched. The pot of ink began to fall—but before it could hit the desk, Miss Jesczenka darted out a hand to catch it without spilling a drop.

“Thanks awfully,” he said. “I ruined a whole ledger of entries that way, just last week—” As he reached up to take the pot of ink from her, he realized for the first time just who was standing before him. He blanched. “Oh! Professor! I didn’t know … forgive me …” He hurried to stand, brushing his hands on his trousers and smoothing back his hair.

“I need the Boston Social Register,” Miss Jesczenka said.

“Certainly,” the young man said crisply. “Allow me to fetch it for you.”

The young man was gone and back in moments, bearing a thick volume.

“It’s an updating copy, just refreshed this month, so it should be current.” He laid it on a nearby table for their use.

“Updating copy?” Emily asked, as she came to peer over Miss Jesczenka’s shoulder at the book, on which the title Boston Social Register was stamped in gilt letters.

“It automatically updates itself with current information every quarter.” Miss Jesczenka opened the book, and pointed out the date: June 1876.

“But if my mother were in it, she wouldn’t be in it now,” Emily said. “She died when I was five … in 1856, I guess that would make it.”

“By 1856, she wouldn’t have been Miss Kendall anymore,” Miss Jesczenka pointed out. “So let’s start with 1850, a year before you were born. She should still have been Miss Kendall then.”

Miss Jesczenka gestured to the clerk. He came over with great dispatch, a look of helpful eagerness on his face.

“We need this returned to 1850,” she said, handing him the book.

“Certainly, Professor Jesczenka. Of course you’re welcome to use the Chronos Cabinet yourself, if you’ve got several years you need to return to.”

They followed the young man to the desk, behind which was a large ebonized cabinet, decorated with scrolling floral patterns. On its lid was a series of wheels, white dials enameled with black numbers. The young man turned the wheels with his thumb. Then he opened the cabinet and laid the book inside.

“I’ll be just here if you need me,” he said, taking his seat and resuming his attempts at ink-pot levitation.

“What is this thing?” Emily asked as Miss Jesczenka closed the lid of the cabinet and latched it shut. She pulled down a large handle on the cabinet’s side. There was a small whirring sound, like the sound of something being sucked up through a pneumatic tube.

“The space within the cabinet reorients itself briefly to the year you direct it to,” Miss Jesczenka said, waiting a moment before she raised the handle and lifted the lid. “Anything inside it returns to that year as well.” She lifted the volume out of the cabinet, laid it on the counter before her, and opened the cover. Emily read the date on the frontispiece.

June 1850.

“Would that work with anything?” Emily breathed, astonished. “If you put a cat in there and turned the dial back a year or two, would it come out a kitten?”

The young man sniffed disapprovingly from his chair. “Don’t think there aren’t cutups around here who haven’t tried it.”

“It’s not advisable,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Living creatures are not meant to travel in time.”

“Can it be turned forward?” Emily persisted. “Could we find out who is going to be in the Boston Social Register in 1900?”

The young man stifled a chuckle. Miss Jesczenka gave him a frosty glance.

“No, Miss Edwards, because 1900 hasn’t happened yet.” She said this so kindly that Emily was willing to overlook the slight smile that curved her lips. “Now, Kendall …”

She leafed through the pages until she found the K’s, then let her slim finger travel down the columns. It stopped at a point on the middle of page 132.

“Kendall,” she read. “Rev. and Mrs. James (Emily Grace Nesbitt).” And, below that, connected by a line, read “Kendall, Miss Catherine Olivia.”

Emily felt her heart flutter, leaned forward for a better look. There it was, in black and white. Catherine Olivia Kendall. And other names, too, the names of Catherine Kendall’s parents … Emily’s grandparents. And beside the line that connected them, an address.

Emily’s mouth felt dry again, and she longed for another drink of the ice water that Miss Jesczenka had given her when she’d stepped out of the Haälbeck door.

“Pemberton Square,” Miss Jesczenka mused. “I believe that was a good address in those days.”

So it was entirely possible that her mother was respectable, Emily thought. On one hand, it was nice to think that she might be able to lay claim to an actual heritage even more respectable than the cattle-baron history the Institute wanted to manufacture for her. But on the other hand, it raised so many more questions than it answered. How did a respectable girl from Boston end up frozen to death in Lost Pine? Why would a respectable girl from Boston be looking for the Sini Mira?

“Now, we need to find exactly when she ceased to be a Kendall and took on her husband’s name,” Miss Jesczenka’s voice broke through Emily’s thoughts. “The register is updated every quarter, in January, April, July, and November. We’ll just have to go one by one until Miss Kendall vanishes and Mrs. Whoever-She-Is shows up on the marriages page.”

They didn’t have far to look. They advanced the book through the remaining issue of 1850—November—and Miss Kendall remained firmly entrenched below her parents. But when the register was advanced to January 1851, her name was missing from below James and Emily Kendall’s.

“I believe we’ve got her!” said Miss Jesczenka, turning quickly to the page titled “Marriages of 1851.” Miss Jesczenka ran her finger carefully down the page, and Emily looked intently over her shoulder, but Catherine Kendall’s name did not appear on the marriages page. Miss Jesczenka said nothing, but advanced the register to the next issue—April 1851. Still no Miss Kendall, and no wedding. Miss Jesczenka tried a third and last time, advancing the register to the July 1851 issue, before she finally closed the book.

“Thank you, we’re finished with it now.” Miss Jesczenka returned the book to the young clerk. “You’ve been a great help.”

“My pleasure, Professor,” he said, the ink pot hovering satisfactorily before his eyes.

Miss Jesczenka seemed sober as they walked back; Emily couldn’t help but notice the furrow in her brow.

“Well, we found something, at least,” Emily ventured. Inwardly, she was bubbling with excitement, but there was something in Miss Jesczenka’s face that worried her.

“We found more than you may like,” Miss Jesczenka said quietly. She looked around them to make sure that no one was close enough to hear her next words. “Miss Edwards, there’s only one reason a woman’s name would be expunged from the Social Register like that. She got into a … difficulty.”

Emily stood stock-still, looked at her. “A difficulty?”

“The date of her expungement coincides with the time she would have been carrying you. Don’t you understand what that means?”

Emily shook her head. Miss Jesczenka sighed.

“Your father, whoever he was, was not married to your mother.”

Emily was silent for a long moment. The excitement in her chest took on a slightly queasy cast.

“So I’ve gone from orphan to bastard in one fell swoop?”

“I am afraid so,” Miss Jesczenka said. “No one needs to know, of course—”

“Of course not,” Emily muttered. No problem at all. The Institute would pay people to believe she was some mysterious cattle baron’s daughter, and the fact that she’d sprung from the wrong side of the sheets would be covered up just as completely as the fact that she’d grown up in a timber camp in California. The shortcomings of her unseemly history would be eradicated with the Institute’s money and power—because she was going to be the wife of the Sophos, and the wife of the Sophos had to be beyond reproach.

“Miss Jesczenka,” Emily asked as they reached the threshold of the Library’s main door, “what does fait accompli mean, exactly?”

“Something already done,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Something that cannot be helped.”

And at that moment, Emily felt very fait accompli indeed.

It didn’t take long—from the Library doors to the high vaulted Main Hall—for Emily’s despondency to mellow and her excitement to rekindle. Well, she was a bastard. So what? She was no worse off than she’d been before. If Stanton was willing to marry someone with no parents, he should be willing to marry someone with just one. And she was more excited at having discovered a mother—a real mother whose existence could be empirically verified—than at losing some small measure of legitimacy. She had a mother, and her name was Catherine Kendall, and the Sini Mira were looking for her. And Emily was going to find out why.

“What is the time?” Emily asked as they headed back toward her rooms.

Miss Jesczenka consulted the gold watch that hung at her waist. “Nearly nine-thirty. Why?”

“I’ll see myself up,” Emily said. “I’m going to drop in on Emeritus Zeno.”

Miss Jesczenka quirked an eyebrow, indicating that Emily’s whimsical fancy to “drop in” on the father of modern credomancy was unprecedented, but she said nothing.

Emily said her good-nights to Miss Jesczenka at the Veneficus Flame. The flame burned in the uplifted hand of a wise-looking goddess whose statue occupied an honored place in the very heart of the Institute. As had become her habit, Emily looked up at the flame that the goddess held aloft, pleased to see how high and strong it was burning. To her, the strength of the Veneficus Flame was the material representation of the benefits she’d bought at the price of her hand. The knife flashing down, the dull thud, the sudden blinding pain … the memories made her wince. If only she could trade those memories for the ones in the Lethe Draught.

She shivered and laid her living hand on the goddess’ ankle, closing her eyes to steady herself. She could feel the power surging beneath the smooth cool surface, the strength of the Mantic Anastomosis rushing beneath her fingers. And then, suddenly:

Treachery.

Emily’s heart jerked, and she pulled her hand from the statue as if she’d been burned. A message from Ososolyeh, as clear as if the word had been whispered in her ear. She looked around the darkened hall, but there was no one there. Her heart beat in her throat as she hurried away from the statue. Wasn’t that just her luck lately—to look for comfort and find only something more alarming.

She turned down the hall to Zeno’s office, pausing when she heard the sound of men talking around the corner. It was probably just a few students, or a cluster of instructors. None of them had ever paid a moment’s attention to Emily. She was willing to wager nine-tenths of them didn’t have the slightest clue who she was or why she was hanging around the Institute. She kept on walking.

But as she turned the corner, it wasn’t an instructor or a student that she ran into.

It was Rex Fortissimus.

Fortissimus wasn’t a large man—he was a little over medium height and somewhat paunchy of build—but he carried himself like a colossus. He had neatly groomed steel-gray hair, a luxurious silver mustache, and the sharpest, whitest teeth Emily had ever seen. He wore a ring on every finger—two on some. His watch chain glittered with jeweled fobs and ornaments, and the enormous blazing diamond set in his gold stickpin made Emily frown at her own ring. The thought of the Institute buying her engagement ring was bad enough, but the thought of Fortissimus procuring it from his own jeweler—some snooty joint, no doubt—was simply unbearable.

Fortissimus was wearing evening clothes and an overcoat and had his gloves in his hat. Even though he was dressed to go out he stood entirely immobile, critically examining a large swag of gold bunting. He was surrounded by a group of tired-looking laborers.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily said quickly when Fortissimus finally noticed her. What was it about Fortissimus that always made her apologize?

“Miss Edwards,” he said, flashing his white teeth at her scornfully. “Good evening.”

Suddenly Emily regretted very much not having changed into a dinner gown; she felt Fortissimus’ eyes over every inch of her limp and rumpled afternoon dress. She crossed her hands in front of her and attempted to look composed.

“Where is Miss Jesczenka?” Fortissimus’ eyes continued to scan Emily’s body, as if she might have secreted Miss Jesczenka somewhere on her person. “Is it not her duty to accompany you?”

Keep me from causing trouble, you mean, Emily thought. “Oh, I just … I was just stretching my legs.”

“It would be better if you took your exercise away from the master’s wing,” Fortissimus said, obviously unwilling to let a reference to Emily’s legs proceed from his lips. “Emeritus Zeno must not be disturbed.”

“Of course,” Emily said. “I didn’t know you had business with him tonight.”

“I do not,” Fortissimus said curtly. “But I fear that the arrangements for the Investment tomorrow haven’t been seen to with the care I’d hoped.” He directed the last words like spitballs at the hangdog laborers standing before him. “But correcting such incompetence will have to wait until morning, as I have an engagement this evening.” The way he said “an engagement” made it sound as if he was having the Empress Eugenie over to buff his nails. This infuriated Emily, and she lifted her chin impetuously.

“Yes, if by ‘an engagement’ you mean beer at Delmonico’s,” she said, striving to match his supercilious tone. “Mr. Stanton told me.”

“Most gentlemen would hesitate to impart such knowledge to a lady,” Fortissimus said. “Perhaps next time Mr. Stanton volunteers such vulgar information about his schedule, you could remind him that you are his fiancée, not some common female who is expected to take such things as a matter of course.”

Emily bit back a harsh retort. She remembered what Miss Jesczenka had said about Fortissimus being a powerful enemy—but she could not imagine anything she could possibly do that would be likely to gain his alliance. Anything, that was, short of magically transforming herself into one of the simpering daughters of the New York aristocracy that everyone thought Stanton should be marrying.

So inwardly she seethed, but outwardly she made no show of it as she allowed Fortissimus to take her arm and lead her back to the domed entry hall where the Veneficus Flame burned.

“Now, if you can find Miss Jesczenka, I’m sure she will be happy to accompany you on a walk through the gardens,” said Fortissimus as he pointed Emily up the stairs that led to the private rooms. “Though the hour does grow late, and the gardens are better appreciated by the light of day—”

“Mr. Fortissimus!” It was Miss Jesczenka’s voice. She was coming down the stairs, and her face was painted with worry and concern. “Miss Edwards! What are you doing still up? How fortunate that you happened to run into Mr. Fortissimus. You’ve told him, then?”

Emily blinked, not quite sure what she was supposed to say.

“No,” she said finally.

“It’s good of you to be accommodating, Miss Edwards, but we really must consult Mr. Fortissimus on this matter.”

“Matter? What is the matter?” Fortissimus looked at Miss Jesczenka, and Emily noticed that his eyes when he looked at her were softer, less disapproving. This was probably because Miss Jesczenka was standing in a particular way—a way Emily had never seen her stand before. She looked vulnerable and soft and innocent and lost. She had removed her tortoiseshell glasses, let them swing from a gold chatelaine around her waist; her velvet-brown eyes gleamed moist and pleading. Fortissimus, for all his stature as a credomancer, did not seem to have a defense against this particularly feminine wile.

“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you about something so insignificant, Mr. Fortissimus,” she said, and she sounded as if she truly regretted wasting a moment of his time, “but it’s about the dressmaker you engaged for the final fitting of Miss Edwards’ gown for tomorrow. The wretch was supposed to arrive today, but she never did and … oh!” Miss Jesczenka laid a hand against her cheek and let out a little sigh of frustration, as if the retelling of the incident were upsetting her beyond the capacity for speech. Fortissimus clucked his tongue sympathetically, his whole posture becoming strong and paternal.

“I’m sure it was simply an oversight,” he said, taking her slender hands in his large ones and giving them a consoling pat. He glanced back disdainfully at the laborers, who were busily rehanging the bunting. “So many details have been overlooked, it’s quite vexing. I’ll send a boy tonight to make sure the fitters are here first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Fortissimus,” Miss Jesczenka gushed, her voice dropping to a lower register. “You manage such difficult situations so … masterfully.” Then Miss Jesczenka turned and fixed Emily with a calm brown gaze, and when she spoke her voice was as severe and disapproving as Fortissimus’ had been.

“Really, you should retire, Miss Edwards. It simply won’t do to have you running around the Institute like this. I’ll see you up.”

Fortissimus grunted in satisfied agreement. Emily saw a look pass between them—a look of complicit sympathy for Emily’s impossibility.

“Certainly,” Emily said through gritted teeth.

After many more effusive thank-yous to Fortissimus, Emily and Miss Jesczenka retreated up the stairs. But as they reached the landing, as Emily was about to continue up the next flight, Miss Jesczenka laid a hand on Emily’s arm. She paused, listening silently as Fortissimus’ footsteps retreated down the corridor.

“Now you can go back to Emeritus Zeno’s office if you like,” Miss Jesczenka said.

“I could have given him the slip just as easily,” Emily said, “without you having to make a fool of yourself.”

“With how full of secrets you looked, he wouldn’t have been satisfied if he’d seen you to the door of your bedroom himself.” Miss Jesczenka sighed. “I don’t know what you’re seeing the Emeritus about, and it’s probably better that I don’t. But you’d better go ahead, if you’re going.”

Emily turned to go, then hesitated, brow wrinkling. She turned back to Miss Jesczenka.

“Why on earth should anyone prefer us to behave so stupidly?” she said. But Miss Jesczenka’s eyes revealed no answer to this question.

“Go on, now,” was all she said.

Emily crept back downstairs on swift silent feet, past the Veneficus Flame, not pausing to risk another message from Ososolyeh. She reached the door of the Sophos’ office, laid a quiet hand on its gold-plated doorknob. She turned it quietly, opened the door, and crept into the large book-lined antechamber. There were voices coming from within the office, from behind the tall heavy wooden doors with their magical sigils emblazoned in gold and mother-of-pearl. Could Fortissimus have snuck back when she wasn’t looking? It couldn’t be, she thought. No one was that sneaky.

“Emeritus Zeno,” she called softly, before opening the door. “Emeritus Zeno, forgive me for bothering you—”

As Emily walked into the office, she saw two men: Benedictus Zeno, small and friendly and benign, with a face that looked as if it did not know how to express meanness or malice. And another man, sitting casually in one of the carved-wood chairs that was drawn up before the vast desk.

A man with ice-blue eyes and hair as white as paper, with a brown cigarette between his fingers from which silver smoke curled.

Emily knew him in an instant, but when he saw her, he lifted his chin and lamplight illuminated his face wholly, and any doubt she might have harbored was dispelled.

He was called Perun. He was the leader of the Sini Mira.

Emily blinked, looked from the face of the Russian to Zeno’s face and back again.

Treachery.

Without speaking a word, Emily slammed the door behind herself and ran back the way she had come.