The Hidden Goddess

by M. K. Hobson

  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 i
dea. 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. Spint
op 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.