The Bad Investment
Emily’s first impulse was to leave the Institute that very night. But as she sat trembling on the soft bed in her silent room, she realized that such a move would be too impulsive, and that it would be far better to take herself in hand, review the situation coolly and calmly, and then leave the Institute.
Her fear, as it often did, took the form of anger—anger at Stanton mostly, for having told her she’d be safe in the Institute. He was always telling her she’d be safe in the Institute, and he was always wrong about it! Here was the Sini Mira, lounging in Zeno’s office, in the very heart of the Institute, trading pleasantries with the man who was supposed to be protecting her.
Relax, she commanded herself, breathing deeply. Review the situation coolly and calmly. But her attempts to mathematically outline the problems arrayed against her, and solve for whatever value would show her the way out of this mess, led her to one irreducible conclusion. Catherine Kendall was very important to someone, for some reason, and that reason was very likely contained in the little blue bottle of memories in her pocket.
Emily pulled out the bottle and looked at it, holding it up against the low flickering glow of the gas jet. There seemed to be two distinct layers to the contents within. She took off the cap and sniffed it. It smelled of clove oil and iron filings. She wondered what it tasted like, and nearly touched a drop to her tongue before shaking her head and wedging the cap firmly back on. Tomorrow was Stanton’s Investment. Certainly Zeno would let the Sini Mira do nothing to disturb that. Assuming, of course, that Zeno had any kind of power over the Sini Mira at all.
There was a knock at the heavy mahogany door, which Emily had taken great care to lock. Emily drew her nightrobe more tightly around herself, her heart thudding against her ribs.
“Miss Edwards?” Zeno’s soft voice came through the door. “Miss Edwards, it is important that I speak with you.”
Emily was distinctly aware that she did not have to open the door. Indeed, every particular of Miss Jesczenka’s training over the past few weeks advised against it. She was clad only in a nightgown—never mind that the nightgown had more fabric in it than any dress she’d ever owned in Lost Pine—and a lady did not hold conversations in her nightgown. But that didn’t stop Emily from stalking over to the door and crouching by the keyhole.
“It’s not a proper hour for calling, Emeritus Zeno,” she hissed through the small opening. “You and whoever’s with you can just go away.”
A soft chuckle filtered through the wood.
“Miss Edwards,” the voice was so reasonable and soothing, a grandfatherly voice that made Emily suddenly long for her pap. “There has been a misunderstanding, and I feel it must be rectified immediately. Please let me come in. I’m alone, I promise.”
Emily weighed her options. Turn Zeno away and spend a sleepless night wondering about his motives, or open the door and hear what he had to say. She knelt with her forehead against the cool doorknob for almost a minute, trying to decide what to do. She remembered the barked insistence in her ear: treachery. But who was the traitor? Zeno? The pale Russian? And who, precisely, was being betrayed?
“Miss Edwards, I swear to you that no harm shall befall you.” Zeno’s voice made the wood of the door vibrate slightly. “Please let me speak to you.”
Her fingers played over the heavy lock. He only wanted to talk to her, after all. Finally, she opened the door with a jerk.
While Zeno was revered as the father of modern credomancy, he was a particularly unimposing figure, so unlike the swaggering, braggartly credomancers Emily had become accustomed to. He was small and unassuming, his bearing vaguely apologetic. He looked at her with large calm eyes.
“I am sorry to have to come to you like this,” he said. “I know that it’s awkward, but I would like the chance to explain what you saw.”
Emily retreated from the door to one of the large chairs by the window. Zeno followed silently, taking a chair across from her and regarding her through steepled fingertips. He did not speak for a while, but when he did, his voice was clear and resonant.
“In the position of Sophos, one must deal with a variety of individuals,” he began. “Those individuals may not always be friendly, but they must be dealt with nonetheless.”
“The Sini Mira are Eradicationists,” Emily said curtly. “They want to poison magic!”
“They seek to implement a formula that may have some baneful properties, yes,” Zeno said. “You remember Komé referred to it at the Grand Symposium.”
The poison, Komé had said. The poison hidden by the God of Oaths. It did not die with him. Ososolyeh desires it.
“The poison hidden by the God of Oaths.” Emily repeated the words as they had sounded in her mind. Zeno nodded.
“In the Russian cosmology, Volos is the God of Oaths. The poison she was speaking of is called Volos’ Anodyne. The Sini Mira wish to know where it has been hidden. The man you saw—Perun, the leader of the Sini Mira—came to me to find out.”
“Why would he think you would know?” Emily snapped. “And even if you did, why would he think you’d tell him?”
“He did not wish to ask me, he wished to ask her.” Zeno reached inside his coat and produced the golden rooting ball in which the acorn that contained Komé’s spirit floated gently. It glittered as he turned it over carefully in his hand.
Emily fixed him with a hard stare. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him it would be impossible for him to speak with Komé,” Zeno said. “You must understand, I seek to protect her, and you, and the whole Institute. It is a dangerous time now. It is always dangerous when great power is transferred. It is the only reason I agreed to meet with him. If I had turned him away, the Sini Mira might have felt it necessary to cause some disturbance at Mr. Stanton’s Investment tomorrow.”
“Then you didn’t tell him anything?”
“I told him nothing he did not already know,” Zeno said.
“They went to talk to my pap,” Emily said. She hadn’t meant to say it, but the words seemed to tumble out of her mouth all on their own. “The Sini Mira. They sent men to Pap’s place, and asked him questions about my mother—” She halted abruptly, pressing her lips together tightly. She hadn’t meant to tell him about that. But everything about him seemed so certain, so comforting …
“Did he tell them anything?” There was an intensity to Zeno’s voice that made Emily tremble. She felt suddenly as if there was nothing she could do to keep from telling him about the little blue bottle in her pocket. But something still made her feel she shouldn’t. She struggled against the impulse to speak. These were her memories. She would not let the Institute have them. She swallowed hard, looked away from him.
“No,” she said finally. “He didn’t have anything to say.”
Zeno was silent for a long time, and the force of his benevolence seemed to hum in the air between them.
“If you know anything, Miss Edwards, it could be very important.”
“Why?” Emily said.
“Obviously they believe your mother had some connection with the poison. It is the only reason they would be looking for her now. What connection that might be, I cannot say.” He paused. “If the Sini Mira finds the poison, they will implement it. It will have immediate and terrible repercussions for magic. If you know something about your mother that might lead to us finding the poison before they do …” He let the words hang. He stared at her. His eyes were terrifying.
“He told me my mother’s name,” she said abruptly. Miss Jesczenka knew about that anyway, Emily reasoned, and she would certainly tell Zeno if he asked. “Catherine Kendall. She was from Boston.”
“That is something,” Zeno said.
“And …” the words were on Emily’s lips, to tell Zeno about the bottle of memories. The words were already forming in her mouth, all on their own. She had to tell him; it could have huge ramifications for magic if she didn’t. For Stanton. Fatally unpleasant, he’d said …
The memories in the bottle could be the turning point between the Sini Mira finding the poison and implementing it and the credomancers finding it and stopping them. But she bit down on the words, chewed them, swallowed them. Not now. She was not ready, and an impulse of wariness still buzzed at the back of her mind.
Treachery.
What if Zeno were lying about everything? She’d trusted Mirabilis—rather against her better judgment, she reflected—and for all his assurances that she would come to no harm, she’d still lost her hand. She looked at the ivory prosthetic. It glowed softly in the room’s low yellow light, and the hand that was gone seemed to ache faintly. No. She would not tell Zeno anything. Not now, not until Stanton’s Investment was over, until he was Sophos. She trusted Stanton. Right now, she wasn’t sure if she trusted anyone else.
“Is there anything more you have to tell me, Miss Edwards?” Zeno prompted gently.
“The Sini Mira,” Emily murmured, seizing desperately on something she could tell him that didn’t reveal the existence of the bottle of memories. “They sent a man to follow me in California.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“He said his name was Dmitri. He rescued me from an Aberrancy.” Emily described the events. She hadn’t even told Stanton about her encounter with the Aberrancies, but each word she spoke to Zeno seemed to demand another, and sentences strung on sentences until she’d told him everything.
“It sounds like your visit home was quite eventful!” Zeno smiled. “And it is comforting to know that the Sini Mira find you more useful alive than dead.”
“The man could have killed you easily if the Sini Mira meant you harm,” Zeno pointed out. “Instead he saved you, and let you go on your way without impediment. Actions do speak loudly, Miss Edwards.”
That was true, Emily thought. The Sini Mira didn’t seem to mean her harm—at least not yet. But who knew how their feelings might change if they knew about the blue bottle? This resolved her even more strongly not to speak of it again.
“You are safe here, Miss Edwards,” Zeno said in a rich soothing tone. It made Emily feel sleepy. “The Sini Mira have gone. They will not be allowed to return. I’m sorry you were upset.”
“It’s all right,” Emily found herself saying.
“I can see that you’re tired,” Zeno said. “And I apologize for having kept you up so late. Tomorrow will be a busy day. I trust you will get some rest.”
And indeed, not five minutes after Zeno was gone, as if his last few words had been a command rather than a heartfelt hope, Emily had crawled into bed and fallen into a deep and dream-filled sleep.
The next morning, Emily woke from muddled dreams well before dawn, her head aching slightly. She splashed her face with cold water from the basin. The events of the previous night were vague, as if remembered through a fever.
Craving fresh air to clear her head, she opened the windows wide and climbed onto the windowseat, drawing her knees up to her chest. The predawn air was cool on her face and her bare feet. She closed her eyes, inhaling the fragrance of dew and darkness. So this was it. The big day, after which everything would be different. Leaning her head back against the cool marble, she looked out over the smooth lawn of the Institute, curving downward toward the crystal-paned conservatory. The only light came from the Institute itself, from the gas fixtures that blazed at each exterior door.
In the light from one of these fixtures stood two people.
Emily’s first instinct was to duck back inside, so whoever it was wouldn’t see the fiancée of the future Sophos sitting in the window in her nightgown. But it soon became clear that the two individuals—one male, one female—had eyes only for each other.
The young man was familiar only in that Emily had seen hundreds of his type during her time at the Institute. Dark-suited, the fresh-faced youth was such a standard-issue Institute student he could have been used for an advertisement. The woman held him in her arms, their heads drawn together in intimate converse. As if hearing a sound, the woman startled, cast a guilty glance from right to left. When the light caught her beautiful face, Emily almost gasped. Miss Jesczenka! Quickly, flushed with embarrassment at having intruded on such a private moment, Emily slid down from the windowseat. Well, that put paid to the idea that no one at the Institute saw Miss Jesczenka’s loveliness. And a boy half her age! Well, good for Miss Jesczenka.
When Miss Jesczenka arrived just after breakfast to help her get ready for the Investment, Emily certainly didn’t mention what she’d seen. She did, however, ask how anyone could possibly spend a whole day getting ready for an event that didn’t begin until midnight. In response, Miss Jesczenka proceeded to fill every hour with a procession of experts. Emily was bathed, massaged, oiled, perfumed, and manicured. Her short hair was creatively arranged in something called “Roman curls,” each curl brilliantined smooth and secured with a little diamond-tipped pin.
When the fitters arrived from Worth, it was clear that Rex Fortissimus had given them an earful. They profusely apologized for any perceived misunderstanding; it was their understanding that they were supposed to come that afternoon, not the previous. Miss Jesczenka had nothing but sympathetic comfort for the poor young women, impeccable in white aprons over black dresses.
“Oh please, don’t apologize,” Miss Jesczenka purred, giving the lead fitter a glance that was both sympathetic and conspiratorial. “Mr. Fortissimus does get things so muddled.”
Emily stood like a mannequin in a lace-trimmed chemise and petticoats while the women bustled about her, drawing tight the corset lacings until her waist had been compressed to the nineteen inches that the Gods of Fashion had handed down as the standard of female beauty.
“You’ll need to let that rest for a while,” the lead fitter said, as she went to busy herself with the gown. “We’ll have to tighten it again before we put the dress on.”
“Tighten it again?” Emily moaned, looking at Miss Jesczenka. The woman was sitting in a corner, sipping tea and watching the proceedings.
“The laces and fabric will stretch,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to ruin the fit of the dress with a slack corset.”
“I still don’t know why I couldn’t have worn one of those nice flowing dresses that so many ladies are wearing now.”
“Yes, I can see that you’d be much more comfortable as an aesthete.” Miss Jesczenka dipped a cookie into her tea. “But this is not England, and you’re not going to be romping through fields of poppies.”
Emily grunted discontentedly. “I shall surely faint.”
“That will be very becoming and maidenly,” Miss Jesczenka said. “And you can be assured that I shall be nearby all night with smelling salts to revive you. But do take care to fall in an attractive arrangement, won’t you? It wouldn’t be very nice to sprawl yourself out in front of all the Institute’s distinguished guests.”
Emily glared at her, but Miss Jesczenka just smiled and dipped another corner of her cookie into the tea.
After a half hour of letting the corset relax itself as it would—a half hour after which Emily found she could breathe a little easier—the fitters attacked her again, drawing the laces tighter and tying them off with seemingly sadistic satisfaction.
“Nineteen inches on the nose!” said the lead fitter, using a tape to measure Emily’s waist. Emily tried to take some comfort in the fitter’s pride, but there wasn’t much to be found. Her blood pounded in her ears, and every time she moved, little black sparkles danced behind her eyes. She wondered how one went about falling in an attractive arrangement.
Miss Jesczenka consulted her watch.
“I’m going to see to my own dress. Will you have her ready for me in about an hour?”
The fitters nodded efficiently as Miss Jesczenka left, then proceeded to bring out the gown.
It was the first time Emily had seen it completed, and looking over the extravagant draperies of white satin spilling luxuriantly from the fitters’ clean white-gloved hands, she just knew she was going to spill something on it. A linen cloth was placed over her head to protect her Roman curls as the heavy, rustling satin was slid down over her. The girls moved about her in a dainty dance, fastening the tiny satin-covered buttons up her back, using miniature silver scissors to trim away errant threads. It took about three-quarters of an hour, but finally they were finished. They stepped back and let Emily examine herself in the mirror. The gown had a broad row of ruching from hem to breast, dainty kick pleats of white satin, and ruffled sleeves that looked like old tea roses turned upside down. The effect was simple, but the draperies that seemed so carelessly elegant were really quite complex; the girls had spent a good quarter-hour fussing with them to get them to pouf and hang just so.
As she stood before the mirror, the fitters proceeded to warn her very sternly about the grave sartorial dangers associated with sitting, eating, drinking, treading on her hem, or letting anyone else tread on her hem. Once they’d exhausted their litany of potential disasters—and most of her remaining patience—they left, and Emily was alone for the first time all day.
Since sitting was out of the question, Emily stood in the middle of the room, feeling rather foolish. A soft baaing sound came from within her reticule. She pulled out the slate quickly.
A HORSE IS TIED TO A 10-FOOT ROPE, Stanton’s writing read. THERE IS A BALE OF HAY 25 FEET AWAY. WITHOUT BREAKING ITS ROPE, THE HORSE CAN EAT THE HAY. HOW?
Emily went to lean against the high dresser to write her answer, the sound of slate against slate squeaking through the quiet room.
MAGIC ROPE. Emily tapped the period at the end of the sentence.
I SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO ASK YOU RIDDLES.
DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO? Emily wrote.
I’M SUPPOSED TO BE MEDITATING DEEPLY ON THE NATURE OF SOBRIETY AND SELF-DISCIPLINE, Stanton replied. BUT THIS IS MORE FUN.
WELL, JUST WATCH OUT FOR FORTISSIMUS. HE’LL RAP YOUR FINGERS WITH A CANE IF HE CATCHES YOU PLAYING HOOKY.
NOBODY WILL BE RAPPING MY FINGERS TONIGHT, DARLING. NOT IN THIS HAT.
Emily grinned, pressing her lips to the slate. Forget all the words; the kiss was what she really wanted to send. She was wondering how she might phrase her desire in a manner more evocative than a long string of X’s and O’s when she heard the sound of Miss Jesczenka’s gentle knock. Quickly, Emily erased Stanton’s words—and the faint smudges left by her lips—and tucked the slate into the dresser’s top drawer.
Miss Jesczenka had changed into a restrained gown of rich copper brown, embroidered with geometric figures in bronze thread. She pressed steepled fingers to her lips as Emily obliged her with a spin.
“Perfect,” she nodded approvingly. “A vision from head to toe.”
“Well, that’s my head and toes sorted,” Emily said, nodding toward her right arm. “But what about this?”
From shoulder to elbow, Emily’s arm was smooth and rosy; below the elbow, however, began the sturdy leather fastenings that held her prosthetic hand in place. Displayed against a background of gleaming white satin, the ugly rigging looked like a set of sock garters laid in a fancy presentation box.
“Easily fixed,” Miss Jesczenka said, producing a pair of evening gloves with the skill of a prestidigitator. They reached well above her elbows, hiding the prosthetic from direct view, though the buckles did bulge through the tight satin. Once she had fastened the tiny pearl buttons at the wrists, Miss Jesczenka carefully replaced the glimmering diamond ring on Emily’s finger.
“That certainly is stunning,” she said, tilting Emily’s hand up to the light.
“I’ll do my best not to hit anyone with it,” Emily said.
“Now, one last touch.” Miss Jesczenka reached into her pocket and pulled out a cylindrical silver powder box. Withdrawing a soft pink puff, she dusted Emily’s face with a cosmetic that smelled of talc and lavender. Emily fought the urge to sneeze. Tucking the box back into her pocket, Miss Jesczenka stepped back to scrutinize the effect.
“Oh, yes.” The woman smiled with the pride of an artist regarding a masterwork. “Just the thing for that shine. I believe you’re ready, Miss Edwards.”
The clock on the mantel struck nine. As if to confirm the clock’s opinion of the time, Miss Jesczenka consulted the small gold watch she wore at her waist. “And without a minute to spare. The photographer will be waiting.”
Emily gathered her skirts, kicking her train behind herself in a rather donkeyish way that made Miss Jesczenka’s smile dim.
“Photographer?” Emily followed as the woman led her briskly down the hall. “I’m going to be photographed?”
“You must have an official portrait made. The Institute will have no end of uses for it. And it’s a good idea to have it done while you’re looking your best, don’t you think?”
“But I thought I was being kept under wraps,” Emily puffed as she hurried to keep up. “I was told it was part of Mr. Fortissimus’ plans.”
“I could not comment on Mr. Fortissimus’ plans or lack thereof,” Miss Jesczenka said archly. “But I can say with absolute assurance that after tonight, whatever wraps you have been kept under will be off. There will be no end to the newspapers, journals, and ladies’ monthly digests that will be clamoring for information about you.”
Emily’s heart thudded dully behind its casing of silk and steel.
“Who, me? I can’t be in papers. I don’t have anything to say!”
“Having something to say is not a requirement for being in the papers, especially not for a lady,” Miss Jesczenka said. “As a matter of fact, they prefer it if you don’t. You need only be a pretty face in a pretty dress. The Institute will handle the rest.”
Just as it has handled everything else, Emily thought as they turned into a room that was usually used for classes. It was brightly lit; all the curtains had been drawn back, and the last brilliance of sunset streamed in through the tall panes of glass. A small studio area had been set up in one bright corner; velvet draperies hung behind a strangely shaped chair with one fat velvet-upholstered arm. The photographer and his assistants bustled around a large box camera, fussing with broad, flat glass plates.
The photographer posed Emily carefully, her head turned to one side and her ringed hand resting lightly on her opposite shoulder. Her gloved prosthetic was carefully left out of the shot.
“Smile pretty,” the man said as he ducked under a heavy black hood at the back of the camera. “And for God’s sake, don’t move.”
Emily realized, with a sudden flash of foreboding, that the direction was likely to summarize her entire mode of existence for quite some time to come.
At ten o’clock, after the photographs had been taken, Miss Jesczenka said that it was time to go down.
While the Investment ceremony was to be held in the Institute’s Great Trine Room, the reception that preceded it was to occur in the great hall—a soaring space with the magnificent dimensions of a cathedral. At one end, a wide marble staircase swept down from the broad mezzanine that ringed the hall. At the room’s far end stood two enormous black doors—the highly polished ebony guardians of the Great Trine Room.
The room was garlanded with swags of crimson and gold, and it was filled with a multitude of people—Emily knew the Institute had almost four thousand students, and that another thousand notables had been invited beyond that number. The air buzzed with conversation and energy—a brilliant contrast to the Grand Symposium, the last function Emily had attended here. Then there had only been a handful of participants, and the mood had been dark and ominous. But tonight the air itself seemed to sparkle, as if a million tiny fireflies had been released in the room. She tried to brush one away, but it vanished as soon as she looked at it. The excitement and energy of it all buoyed Emily up, made her feel cheerful and strangely eager, as if it had suddenly become intensely clear that unimaginable wonders awaited her.
“It would be best if Mr. Stanton could take you down,” Miss Jesczenka murmured into Emily’s ear, “but we can go down together if—”
“There will be no need for that.” From behind them came Zeno’s grandfatherly tone. The little man offered Emily his arm. He was dressed in ornate robes of black silk brocade, embroidered in gold with figures that much resembled the figures seen on the doors of the Great Trine Room. He wore a small cap on his head, black velvet that sparkled with jewels and intricately wrought gold charms. “Miss Edwards, may I have the honor?”
Emily gave him her arm, and together they descended the wide marble staircase. The rich perfume of hundreds of flowers rose to meet them, the scent wafting up from the deep-red blooms on the orchid vines that twined up the walls, from blush-pink summer peonies and plump cream-colored roses massed in large silver vases.
A few people near the bottom of the staircase looked up as Emily and Zeno descended. Some put their heads together to comment; here and there were grins. Emily put on her most tranquil smile and tried to look like a cattle baron’s daughter.
“You look lovely, Miss Edwards,” Zeno said as they arrived on the floor and began making their way through the murmuring onlookers. “I hope the events of last evening did not disturb your rest?”
“Not in the least,” Emily said, acutely aware of a fresh desire to tell Zeno everything about the bottle of memories. But she kept her mouth shut and said nothing more as Zeno ushered her to the center of the great hall.
“Mr. Fortissimus did an exceptional job of arranging the event, don’t you think?” Zeno finally said, after some moments of silence had passed between them. She followed Zeno’s gaze to where Fortissimus stood in the center of a large group of people, holding court. He gestured around himself now and again, obviously detailing specifics of the lavish decor. “You might wish to congratulate him on his accompishment.”
“That would be diplomatic of me, wouldn’t it?” Emily said. Zeno grinned up at her.
“You have made great strides, Miss Edwards,” he said. “I will be honored to stand next to you tonight in the Great Trine Room.”
Emily brought her brows together. “Stand next to me?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
No one ever tells me anything was Emily’s first choice of response, but she remembered what Miss Jesczenka had said about swimming with the current, and so restrained herself to inquiring politely: “Tell me what?”
“You will be participating in the Investment,” Zeno said. “Tonight will be your first public appearance as Mr. Stanton’s fiancée. You will not be called upon to do anything, don’t worry. Just stand with us as Mr. Stanton is Invested. Ah, Mr. Stanton. There you are!”
Emily looked up quickly as a flash of red caught her eye. A pair of gentlemen in dark evening dress parted to reveal Stanton, clad in robes of crimson brocade that were like Zeno’s, but infinitely richer, embroidered in some strange kind of floss that seemed to glow from within. He wore a high arched hat that, combined with his tallness, made him tower above everyone else in the room.
“Emily,” Stanton said as she was transferred from Zeno’s arm to his. His voice was formal, but he gave her arm a secret press of greeting. “Allow me to present you to Mr. Asphodel and Mr. Jenks, two prominent supporters of the Institute …”
And thus began a whirl of introductions and presentations, throughout which Emily smiled and murmured her pleasure. She met Schermerhorns and Schuylers, Schlesingers and Sinclairs. The names mushed together upon themselves like lumps in a bowl of exceptionally sibilant porridge; Emily was astonished that Stanton could keep them all straight. She concentrated intently as Stanton peppered her with name after name. She was actutely aware of the necessity to master the trick of remembering them, and fast. She started repeating people’s names back to them once they’d been presented to her, as she’d noticed Stanton doing; she felt somewhat dimwitted doing so, but it did help her keep the names in her head for at least as long as she was talking to them. The presentations went on for hours, it seemed, with Stanton steering her from one clot of evening-dressed gentlemen to another.
They seemed to be walking toward another group of fat businessmen; the men lifted hands and smiled in Stanton’s direction, but then Stanton muttered something under his breath in Latin and the men’s faces went all confused. As Emily and Stanton walked right past them, she heard them commenting among themselves, “But I just saw him coming this way …”
Emily looked up at Stanton, and realized that his entire form had gone a bit spectral. She looked down at herself quickly and noticed that hers had, as well. Under their cloak of invisibility, or semivisibility, or whatever sorcellement Stanton had worked, they walked briskly toward a secluded alcove. Ducking inside, Stanton jerked the velvet curtain closed. Emily blinked, as if waking from a particularly odd dream.
“Impossible!” he blurted through clenched teeth, as his form solidified. “If I have to shake another sweaty, greasy hand—”
“What did you just do?” she asked, looking down at herself. She had regained her substantiality also. He grinned, laying a finger to the side of his nose.
“Zeno’s been teaching me some wonderful tricks,” Stanton said. “That one’s quite useful, don’t you agree?” Before Emily could agree, he had reached up and was scratching his scalp vigorously. “I only wish I’d thought of it sooner. This thing is murdering me!”
“It’s very imposing,” she said, gazing upward. The thick encrustation of gold embroidery had to add ten pounds to its weight.
“I have all those sixteenth-century engravers to thank for it,” Stanton said, replacing the hat on his head and adjusting it so that it would balance properly. “Elongated headgear has always symbolized heightened spirituality and power, as if one could reach out to God with one’s hat. Think of bishops, archdeacons—”
“I’d rather not, thank you, especially not if you’re going to name them,” Emily said. “And to answer the question I’m sure you’d ask if you weren’t too busy thinking about hats, I am bearing up quite nobly. Though I wish those waiters would make their way closer to me once in a while.”
“That makes two of us,” Stanton said. He reached out from behind the curtain. She heard him issue a curt “excuse me” and when he ducked back, he held a whole silver platter of canapés. “I’m famished.”
Emily watched him demolish the decorative arrangement of lump crab and caviar on crackers. Stanton offered her a morsel, but she shook her head. Food was the last thing she wanted; she was more interested in the thin crystal flutes of champagne the waiters were offering. He cleaned off the plate quickly, even swallowing the decorative sprigs of parsley. Finally he set the platter on the ground and licked his fingers.
“I know this is awful. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not awful at all!” Emily said with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “It’s wonderful. Spectacular.”
“The Institute hasn’t had an Investment since Mirabilis assumed power thirty years ago,” Stanton said. “Fortissimus has outdone himself.”
“Zeno said I’m supposed to congratulate him,” Emily said.
“Oh, I’ll just bet he did,” Stanton snorted. “But maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea. He’s not entirely on my side yet, I’m afraid. That became quite apparent to me last night.”
“Oh yes.” Emily arched an eyebrow at him. “The ‘beefsteak.’ Were there many pretty girls there? How were their legs?”
Stanton blinked, then smiled broadly. “Why, Emily Edwards. You’re jealous! That’s adorable. Don’t worry, dearest, I didn’t have time to notice any pretty girls or their legs. I was too busy trying to fend off Fortissimus’ party bulldogs. They’re all hoping the Institute will contribute toward Tilden’s campaign, even though Fortissimus knows damn well we can’t afford to take sides. I spent the whole evening avoiding the outstretched hands.” He paused, reflecting. “At least the steaks were good. Grilled them on shovels. I wouldn’t mind one right now.”
Emily reached up to touch his flushed face. Through the soft satin of her glove, Emily could feel how hot his skin was. Stanton caught her hand, pressed it to his lips.
“So you were able to speak to Zeno?” he said, bringing up his other hand to clasp hers. “What did he say?”
Emily looked away, at the velvet curtain that separated them from the clamoring crowd beyond.
“Yes, I saw him,” she said softly.
“Did you speak with Komé? Did she tell you anything?”
Emily blinked. No, she hadn’t! She’d forgotten, until that very moment, that she’d been meaning to. Last night, Zeno had gotten answers to all his questions, and Emily had gotten answers to none.
She let out a breath, shook her head. Credomancers.
“I didn’t get to speak to Komé. And I didn’t tell him about the Lethe Draught,” she added with pert emphasis.
“Why not?”
She bit her lip. She didn’t want to go into it all at the moment, not with thousands of people milling about just outside the curtain. “I didn’t want to ruin things before your Investment,” she said. “There will be time enough later.”
“But surely it’s important. He might have been able to advise you—”
“Surely he would have had a very decided opinion on the matter,” Emily interjected, a little sharply. “What if he’d wanted me to drink it right then? I didn’t want to be pressured to take a step that maybe I’m not ready to take. All right?”
She was aware that there was too much vehemence in her voice. She softened her tone. “You won’t tell him about it, will you?” she added. “Let’s just take things slowly.”
“Of course,” Stanton said. “Emeritus Zeno does have a way of convincing one to do things one would rather not.” He reached up and ruefully touched his hat. Emily stifled a laugh behind a gloved palm. Stanton looked at her, his eyes searching her face.
“Do you know, I haven’t had a moment to really look at you all evening.”
Emily stepped back as far as the confines of the alcove would allow and stretched her arms. He appraised her critically, rubbing his chin.
“You have the most wonderful throat,” he said, as if reaching a conclusion. “I am completely convinced that it’s the smoothest, creamiest, most delicious-looking throat I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
“My throat?” Emily lifted her chin indignantly, no doubt showing her laudable throat to its best advantage. “I go through agonies of waist compression, and train dragging, and bustle balancing, and you compliment my throat? The one feature of my person that hasn’t been extensively fiddled around with?”
“I am very glad to hear that no one else has been fiddling around with your throat,” Stanton said, bending down carefully to place a series of warm kisses from her chin to her shoulder.
Emily shuddered pleasantly at the touch of his lips. She might have chaffed him a bit more, but it was difficult to speak with someone kissing—no, nibbling now, nibbling maddeningly at—her throat. Stanton’s ridiculous hat bumped her cheek, and she lifted a hand to keep it from falling. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and with the other he threw the offending haberdashery to the floor.
“Damnable thing,” he growled, giving the hat a kick. He looked into her face. His eyes sparkled brilliant green, but it was worry in them now, worry and dismay. He drew a deep breath then shook his head.
“I don’t think I can do this, Emily,” he said suddenly.
Emily’s brow knit. Her heart gave an unpleasant thud.
“What, the wedding?”
“No! I mean all of this.” He looked around. “The Institute.”
“You mustn’t doubt yourself,” she said, weakly repeating what she’d heard a million times from Miss Jesczenka.
“There’s a difference between doubting oneself, and telling oneself the truth,” Stanton murmured curtly. “Let’s run away. Elope. Live in Europe and read books and drink good coffee. We can even live in California, for all I care.”
“The Institute needs you.”
“I don’t want anyone to need me,” Stanton muttered sullenly. “Except you.”
She took him into her arms again, the fingers of her good hand toying with the hair on the back of his head. They held each other, cheek to cheek, for a long time.
This was everything he’d ever worked for, everything he’d ever wanted. She didn’t want to be the one that spoiled it for him. She certainly didn’t want him to look back on his short life and feel remorse for what could have been, if it hadn’t been for her. She determined to redouble her efforts. She’d remember names, she’d squeeze into nineteen-inch corsets, she’d suffer through tea parties … She’d swim with the current.
“Tonight,” she whispered. “We only have to get through tonight.”
At that moment, the velvet curtain was jerked aside. Before them stood Rex Fortissimus, disapproval etched across his features. Emily and Stanton startled away from each other like guilty children caught fooling around in the haystack.
“Mr. Stanton,” he said, “you are required.” He nodded toward Emily coolly, his recognition of her dismissive in the extreme. “Miss Edwards.”
“Mr. Fortissimus,” she nodded back, with coolness that matched his. She was alarmed at how quickly her resolve to help Stanton achieve the heights of credomantic success melted away in the face of the man’s sneering contempt. “It has been suggested that I congratulate you on the wonderful job you’ve done. While I am sure that some small and unenlightened minds might dismiss the decorations as vulgar and extreme, I will say that you have clearly done an excellent job spending the Institute’s money—”
Stanton quickly caught Emily’s hand and tucked her arm through his. He steered her out of the alcove, past Fortissimus’ outraged glare, and back to the thronging masses before she could say another word.
“And you’re giving me lectures?” he whispered in her ear as they dove back into the teeming crowd. She felt, rather than saw, his smile become brilliantly broad. “Come along, my dear,” he boomed, in a voice that seemed to be an echo of Professor Mirabilis’. “Let’s mingle.”
They mingled. The evening wore on, and Emily’s silk-slippered feet began to ache, and her ankle (which Miss Jesczenka had directed the masseuse to pay special attention to) began to throb again. She became more aggressive in her efforts to corral the bustling waiters and relieve them of their delicate flutes of champagne, and her efforts paid off. After downing a half dozen glittering glasses, she found that the salmagundi of names was growing pleasantly ridiculous. She collected them like one might save oddly shaped buttons. Her current favorite was Ambassador Haemeneckxs. Emily had to struggle not to shorthand him in her mind as Ol’ Ham ’n Eggs—his air of patrician distance made her feel quite sure that he wouldn’t be amused if she called him that to his face. There was also a Sir Eustace Blackbottom-Hound, a Mr. Radley “Call me Bob” Gildermeester, a Mr. Stone Mason, a Dr. Wiley Camelback and—most astonishingly—a gentleman with shining black-lacquered hair named Mr. Propinquity Flounder Spintop. Upon being introduced to that elderly gentleman, Emily cast a skeptical glance up at Stanton, biting back the words “you’re kidding” just in time.
“Mr. Spintop is in oil,” Stanton added soberly. But his eyes glittered, daring her to make the subsequent joke that he knew she was itching to make. A small grin played at the corner of his mouth.
Their shared amusement came to an abrupt end, however, with the arrival of the Blotgates. There was nothing funny about the name, and there was nothing funny about the couple. In fact, Emily thought that after meeting them, it was entirely possible she might never find anything amusing ever again.
Emily saw the pair of them before Stanton did; indeed, her gaze was drawn to the man and woman inexorably, as it might be to a horrible accident. They had an air of destruction about them. The man was compactly built, muscular, with close-cropped gray hair. A thick, keloided scar ran down the side of his face, across his throat, and down into his collar; it looked as if someone had tried to take his head off diagonally.
He wore the full dress uniform of an Army officer, stiff with gold braid and resplendent with medals and decorations. The woman on his arm was stunning—certainly in her fifties, but with a kind of luscious ripeness that would make any younger woman seem half formed by comparison.
When Stanton saw the direction Emily was looking, he pulled up short, his body tensing. It was as if he longed to turn abruptly and move the other direction, or go invisible again, but there was no time. The collision was imminent and unavoidable.
“Stanton,” the man called, inclining his head. His voice was low and cracking, like someone who’d just recently left off screaming. “I wondered when we’d get around to seeing you.”
“General Blotgate,” Stanton said, his eyes traveling quickly from the man to the woman. “Mrs. Blotgate.”
“Dreadnought! How long has it been?” the woman purred, extending a slim gloved hand. The way she said Stanton’s given name was a miracle. Coming from her magnificently formed lips, it sounded noble and melodious and absolutely correct. Emily could never get Stanton’s name to sound like that, and at the moment, the failure seemed egregious indeed.
Stanton nodded stiffly over Mrs. Blotgate’s glove, the sketchiest demonstration of respect he could offer without actually letting her hand hang in the air.
“Ten years,” he said. There was an odd paradox in his voice; the implication that it had not been long enough, yet he still cared enough to count. Stanton looked down at Emily, and in the instant their eyes met, she saw warning there. “Allow me to present my fiancée, Miss Emily Edwards.”
“Oh yes. The cattle baron’s daughter.” Mrs. Blotgate turned heavy-lidded eyes onto Emily’s face, let them roam over her Roman curls and extravagant white satin dress. Mrs. Blotgate herself was dressed in a simple, elegant gown of light blue silk, and looked as chic as an edged weapon. Emily felt suddenly sparkly and fussy and squat.
“Emily, this is General Oppenheimer Blotgate, and his wife, Alcmene.” Stanton paused. “General Blotgate is the director of the Maelstrom Academy at Camp Erebus, which I briefly attended.”
“Briefly?” General Blotgate snorted, his scar flaring red from temple to windpipe. “Three years in a young man’s life can hardly be called brief. And you certainly left your mark, being the only burned cadet we ever had. They still tell stories in the beast barracks about those stunts you used to pull.” He paused, looking at Emily. “Has your fiancé here ever shown you what he can do with Black Exunge?”
“Chrysohaeme and Black Exunge are two states of the same substance,” Stanton murmured to Emily. “Just as I was able to work with the chrysohaeme in Charleston, I can handle Black Exunge. Its transformative properties do not affect me.” To Emily’s gape of astonishment he added, “It’s not an ability I find worthy of note.”
“Your fiancé was the terror of the mess hall chicken coop.” Blotgate grinned wolfishly. “He’d steal some Black Exunge from one of the student laboratories, Aberrate a biddy, and when it was nice and big, he’d roast it alive. Just took a finger snap, you know. The biddies didn’t much like it, but he always did have an appetite.” He looked at Stanton for a moment. “Ah, old times. I can see why you want to distance yourself from them now. You’ve got a good thing here. It would be a pity to ruin it.”
Stanton smiled humorlessly, his green eyes glinting hard. “I’m surprised to see you here, General. I wasn’t aware you’d been invited.”
“Shall I produce the pasteboard?” the General said, fumbling pointedly in his pocket. “I know it’s here somewhere … quite an overwrought thing, all those damned scrolls and gold leafing and such—”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Stanton said.
“How very white of you, Dreadnought.” Mrs. Blotgate managed to make the words sound fluty and sneering all at once. “One could always count on you to do the right thing. Usually at the wrong moment, of course.”
Emily’s eyes traveled between Mrs. Blotgate’s face and Stanton’s. To her dismay, she saw something pass between them—something she didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Mrs. Blotgate noticed Emily’s confusion and savored it, her jaw relaxing like a python preparing to swallow a struggling creature whole.
“I see you are bewildered, Miss Edwards,” she said. “You see, I knew Dreadnought when he was a real Warlock. Before he sacrificed his true potential to become”—she waved a dismissive hand—“a priest.”
“Better a priest than a murderer.” Stanton said the words with malicious cheer. His voice was so hard it gleamed.
“You don’t belong with these crepe-paper prestidigitators, Dreadnought,” Mrs. Blotgate said, looking around at the garish spectacle that surrounded them. “It’s like the third act of a vaudeville show. It’s revolting.”
“Those who kill to obtain power are revolting,” Stanton said. Emily had never seen him so tense. His body seemed ready to spring at the woman.
“Everyone must get power from somewhere,” Mrs. Blotgate returned, obviously relishing the challenge. “Sangrimancers are at least honest about how we take it. We seize it from the weak and use it in support of the strong. Those who die in our service die nobly, sacrificed for greater goals they could never themselves achieve.” She paused, piercing him with gunmetal-gray eyes that seemed to be all pupil. “But you credomancers … you sneak your power. You steal it from people’s minds and their hearts. You manipulate them and make them believe whatever provides you with the most tangible benefit. We may violate them physically, but you violate them spiritually. Which is better, Dreadnought? Which is more pure?”
Stanton said nothing, just stared at her, his eyes igneous with hate. She stared back, smiling, like a snake warmed by the sun of his despising.
General Blotgate let out a strained bark of a laugh.
“Old Home Week.” He gave his wife a look of mild exasperation but made no effort to break her gaze, locked with Stanton’s. “These two were always like bulldogs in a crate.”
“Oh, quite the opposite, Oppenheimer,” Mrs. Blotgate said. “Dreadnought and I were great friends at the Academy. It is amusing to remember how desperately attached he was to me, but I’m sure that was just the madness of youth.” She paused, her lips curling with pleasure. “Don’t you agree, Dreadnought?” She paused again, exhaling malice. “Tell me, do you still have the scar?”
“Enough,” Stanton growled. “You’ve done what you came to do.”
And then the intensity that surrounded Mrs. Blotgate abruptly faded. Like a cat that had tired of playing with a struggling mouse, she lowered her head to murmur to the General, “Yes, perhaps we should be moving along. We’ll want to find good places for the Investment ceremony before they’re all taken.”
“Interested to see how it all works,” the General concurred. “I’m quite looking forward to the fireworks.”
“Oh, and a word of warning.” Mrs. Blotgate leaned in close to Emily, her breath hot and strangely spiced. “Lay off the champagne, my dear. Your cheeks are getting quite red.”
Then, with a bright little laugh, she allowed her husband to lead her away into the swirling crowd. Stanton stood, watching them go, his face pale with fury.
“Scar?” Emily hissed.
“A six-inch gash above my third rib,” Stanton said. “She tried to kill me. It’s how sangrimancers amuse themselves.”
“Who invited sangrimancers?”
“Obviously someone who wanted to make sure that my past is never forgotten.”
Emily bit her lip. She furiously desired to ask him what Mrs. Blotgate had meant by desperately attached. And how exactly that tied in with a six-inch scar and an amusing murder attempt. Now wasn’t the time, but she couldn’t help herself.
“She was … a friend?” Emily spoke the word with all the distaste usually reserved for words describing rotten things.
“I had no friends at the Academy,” Stanton bit back. Then, pulling his gaze away from the retreating Blotgates, he looked down at her. He put a warm hand over hers, pressed it reassuringly. “Never mind. Asinine insinuations. A petty attempt at a squink.”
“Then there was nothing between you?” Emily said.
“I just told you,” Stanton said. “She tried to kill me.”
“Yes, and what if she tries it again?”
“You think she could hide a knife under that dress?”
“You know what I mean. What if they use magic to disrupt the Investment?”
“No hostile magic can be worked in the Great Trine Room, especially not tonight,” Stanton said. “The wardings are very thorough, and there is no chance that the two of them could do the slightest thing with all the magisters assembled. There’s nothing to worry about.”
There was a warmth to his smile, a calmness to his voice, that filled Emily with a great feeling of peace. She let out a long breath and pressed closer to him.
At that moment, there was a blast of trumpets and the people around them lifted their heads, looking toward the Great Trine Room. Stanton straightened and took a deep breath.
“Nothing at all,” she heard him say very softly, almost to himself.
They made their way to the Great Trine Room, through throngs of guests who parted to watch them pass. Emily walked next to Stanton, her chin held high, not looking at the people who surrounded them, at the students who offered deep bows of respect, at the scions of society who lifted their glasses and laughed as if it were all a great show.
“The Investment itself won’t take long,” Stanton murmured as they walked. “A few ritual words, an anointment by Zeno, and then the swearing of allegiance by the magisters. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“Mr. Stanton! Oh, Mr. Stanton, over here!” The words were cried out from among the crowd. Emily looked and saw Rose and her coterie of followers from the Dreadnought Stanton Admiration League. An ornate banner that bore the word “Congratulations” was draped before them, and they threw roses and lilies in Stanton’s path. Stanton raised a hand in Rose’s direction; the girl seemed on the verge of swooning at this show of recognition.
Together they passed through the enormous black doors and entered the Great Trine Room. The room was much larger than Emily remembered it, but the last time she had been here, she’d hardly been interested in the surroundings. Together, they walked over the place where Mirabilis had been murdered, his chest slashed open, his heart ripped from its moorings. Emily shuddered at the memory.
The brilliance of the room seemed designed to dispel such dark associations. Every gas jet was lit, and this, combined with the heat from the thousands of white taper candles that burned along all the walls, made the room stifling. Emily dabbed at trickles of brilliantine-tinged sweat running down her forehead.
As its name implied, the room was a great triangle, with walls of gold-veined marble and carvings of highly polished ebony. The pyramidal ceiling soared high above, coming to a sharp point directly above a wide raised dais that was festooned with more red and gold bunting. Stanton led Emily to stand at the end of a row of people whom she recognized as the Institute’s senior professors, the magisters. Miss Jesczenka stood among them, hands clasped before herself and her back straight. She gave Emily a small nod, but said nothing.
In the very center of the dais stood Zeno, in his voluminous robes of black brocade. Stanton came to stand beside him, towering over the little man. Zeno clasped Stanton’s hand with a great smile before stepping forward to address the crowd. The simple act of drawing his breath to speak caused the entire room to fall abruptly silent; it was a wondrous effect.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” he began, and it was astonishing that such a towering, majestic voice could come from such a small figure. “Tonight we are gathered for the formal Investment of Dreadnought Stanton as the Sophos of this great and august institute of learning, which shall henceforward be known as the Stanton Institute. I am firm in my assurance that under its new leadership and with the benefit of a new name of such unparalleled distinction, the Institute will only grow in dignity and magnificence …”
Was it Emily’s imagination, or was Zeno beginning to glow? She peered closer, watching as golden brightness grew around him. At first, she assumed that it was some credomantic tactic, a spotlight of brightness to focus all eyes on the Emeritus. As such, it was unnecessary. All eyes were focused completely on the little man. In the front row, Emily noticed General and Mrs. Blotgate watching intently.
But the glow was growing brighter with each word Zeno spoke. He seemed unaware of it, pressing on with his speech. “Many of you may know the history of this Institute, founded almost a hundred years ago under my own leadership. At that time, the art of credomancy was yet unrefined, its powers the province of priests and holy men. But over the past century, the powers of this noble tradition have been examined, refined, explored, reaching the zenith of might at which you see them today.”
Zeno was glowing like a torch now, and Emily was aware of the magisters behind her, muttering among themselves. Emily saw Miss Jesczenka look up, toward the very pinnacle of the room’s pyramidal ceiling. Emily followed the woman’s eyes, and saw a glowing pinpoint of brightness there, shining down like a beacon.
“I can promise you, with unreserved assurance, that in the entirety of that long and august history, there has never been a man more admirably suited to serve as the Institute’s Heart than the man who stands before you today …”
Stanton was now looking concerned; he, too, was looking upward toward the source of the brilliant beam of light that surrounded Zeno. He looked back at the magisters; Miss Jesczenka gestured toward Zeno urgently. Emily saw, with horror, that Zeno was now not just glowing; he had begun to elongate. He was growing taller and taller, stretching upward like a growing tree. Alarmed, Stanton leapt forward, reaching for the old man. From the assembled crowd came murmurs of concern, then shouts of apprehension.
Suddenly, Zeno himself seemed to realize what was happening. He stopped speaking and looked around himself desperately. Then, in an instant, he became terrible. His whole form expanded, his eyes glowed, and he gave a thundering roar of power, issuing commands in Latin that made the floor of the Institute shake. Power streamed from his hands, clutching desperately at the floor of the dais, trying to hold himself down; his whole being glowed with the effort. He struggled, shaking the floors and walls of the Institute with magnified intensity, and for a moment he was able to forestall his upward movement, able to struggle against the strange force that was drawing him in. But then he began to move again, pulled like taffy, the thundering roar of his voice growing smaller and smaller.
Zeno was sucked upward, his feet remaining on the ground as his body became thin as a thread. His head and shoulders soared toward the ceiling, toward the pinprick of light at the pyramid’s apex, his futile words of power vanishing into a long babbling stream of nonsense as he was drawn into the light, his hands reaching downward, trying to grab for Stanton’s. And then his feet flew up from the floor, and there was the sound of a loud crack, and he disappeared with a brilliant flash that left black sparkles dancing behind Emily’s eyes.
And everything fell utterly silent.
Emily’s head spun. It was hot, and she couldn’t breathe, and around her all was a sudden welter of chaos, magisters rushing forward from behind her and students swarming up onto the dais, and then she was falling, forgetting entirely to arrange herself attractively as she hit the ground and everything went dark.