The Hidden Goddess

by M. K. Hobson

  “Oh, Duze, you naughty thing, don’t be standoffish!”

  But the words were shouted at Mrs. Blotgate’s back as the woman staggered away from them, pulling her cloak around her. As she got farther away, Emily could see her true form returning to her, her armor of silk and velvet, but that did not stop the gapers from staring after her, elbowing one another and laughing.

  Heart pounding, Emily hurriedly helped Miss Jesczenka to her feet. The woman seemed completely unflustered. She stood calmly, smoothed back her hair, straightened her hat. She glared at the staring men with an old maid’s steely frigidity. Emily watched the looks on their faces mutate from amusement to puzzlement, as if they weren’t quite sure of what they were watching, or why. Soon, the audience for the little drama had dispersed and Emily and Miss Jesczenka were left utterly alone.

  Emily was flabbergasted. The sudden silence was deafening.

  “What did you just do?” she managed.

  “Miss Edwards, you must learn more about squinking,” Miss Jesczenka said, taking Emily’s arm with the utmost decorum. “The key is to find your opponent’s greatest fear and attack it. The greatest fear of a woman—particularly an evil woman—is that she be made trivial and insignificant.” Miss Jesczenka looked in the direction Mrs. Blotgate had gone. “A woman’s power is tenuous enough as it is. Having that power mocked is the most terrifying thing that woman who lives in the service of evil could face.”

  “But what about you? You’re a woman, and you had to humiliate yourself …”

  “Humiliate myself?” Miss Jesczenka clucked as they turned toward the archway that read Tracks 21–30. “It’s hardly humiliating if no one remembers. Anyone who saw that has already forgotten that the woman pawing Alcmene Blotgate was me; they will remember an inebriated harlot who has already ceased to exist. If they even thought to wonder what became of her, they would wonder only that she vanished so quickly and completely.”

  Emily said nothing for a moment. Then she gave Miss Jesczenka a sidelong glance.

  “Could you teach me to do that?” she asked. She found suddenly that she very much wished that she could have been the one to send the odious Mrs. Blotgate scurrying in such a satisfying, ugly way.

  “I very much doubt it,” Miss Jesczenka said. “You haven’t a dissembling bone in your body. Unfortunately. Hurry now, or we’ll miss our train.”

  On the train, they found their seats in a ladies’ car that bustled with late-morning activity. Emily watched New York recede into the distance as the train gathered speed, its wheels humming and clattering on the steel tracks. It wasn’t until they were well out of the city that Emily thought to reach down the front of her dress and pull out Mrs. Blotgate’s card. Without a word, Miss Jesczenka reached over and took the card from Emily’s hand. She tucked it away in her own bag.

  “A very unpleasant couple, the Blotgates,” Miss Jesczenka said, as if the card had never existed. “They are mainstays of conservative Washington society. General Blotgate is the highest ranked practitioner in the military. He is first in line for the position of Secretary of War if Hayes gets the presidency.”

  Hand on her chin, Emily stared out the window.

  “Mrs. Blotgate comes from a very old and very feared family in the South, known for producing generations of sangrimancers.” Miss Jesczenka tilted her head. “The fact that she takes a new lover every year from among her husband’s cadets is widely known, but never mentioned for fear of reprisal.”

  Emily pressed her lips together, stared out of the window harder.

  “What was she bothering you about?”

  “Nothing,” Emily said, hoping that the shortness of her reply would indicate her desire to stop talking about Alcmene Blotgate. The encounter with the woman had left her feeling greasy and unclean. Emily tried to sort out the confusing welter of feelings knotted beneath her breastbone. The images that kept flashing through her mind were those of the flayed man from last night’s séance, the man with the halo of feathers and the hand-shaped birthmark. The man with seams of blood on his skin.

  Miss Jesczenka’s hand touched her knee, drawing her out of the morbid recollection.

  “You mustn’t worry about it.” Emily looked up at her abruptly, into Miss Jesczenka’s mild eyes. “There’s an old saying: He that can’t endure the bad will not live to see the good.”

  “That’s hardly comforting,” Emily said. Unbidden images of blade-edged fingers leaving blood trails on smooth brown skin flashed behind her eyes. “Especially when it’s all so bad.”

  “Oh, it’s never as bad as you think it is,” Miss Jesczenka said.

  The Institute is in a shambles, Komé has been kidnapped, the Sini Mira is on my trail, and the man I love is probably hiding something from me. Emily allowed herself a small, grim smile. Exactly how could it be worse?

  As if intuiting the drift of Emily’s thoughts, Miss Jesczenka shrugged.

  “Schisms of the type currently afflicting the Institute have always been part of credomancy,” she commented. “Sometimes they can even be beneficial, like dividing a plant. The separated halves may thrive better for the separation. The magisters who remain loyal to Mr. Stanton will be stronger and more focused for their loyalty. Those who defect to Fortissimus’ camp will always have the taint of treachery on their conscience. A credomancer with a guilty conscience is always at a disadvantage.”

  Emily reddened, thinking of Mrs. Blotgate, and hoped that Stanton’s conscience was clear.

  They rode the New York Central out of the city, winding along the Hudson up toward Albany. At suppertime they transferred to the Boston & Albany Railroad, which cut across the belly of New York State and into Massachussets. They arrived in Boston well before nightfall, and checked into the American Hotel—a foursquare brick pile that commanded a view of the smooth green commons.

  The rooms were comfortable and well appointed, but even in a room with a hundred feather beds, Emily would not have slept that night. Opening her trunk, she pulled out the slate Stanton had given her, regarding its smooth surface. She chewed on the end of the pencil, thinking of all the things she could possibly write. I miss you. I need you with me. I don’t want to be in Boston. I saw Alcmene Blotgate at the train station. None of the statements were brave or helpful, none could be adequately discussed via a slate with lambs on it, and at least one seemed dangerous to mention even at all. With a heavy sigh, she slid the pencil back into its slot.

  In the morning, Emily dressed carefully in a solemn mauve twill, placed her mother’s amethyst earrings in her ears, and tucked her mother’s hair sticks into a reticule of knitted black silk. Certainly the Kendalls would want some proof of her claims. Then she went downstairs to meet Miss Jesczenka for breakfast.

  “I’m going alone,” Emily said abruptly, over her eggs. Miss Jesczenka shook her head brusquely.

  “Out of the question. It’s far too dangerous.”

  “This is my family.” Emily paused. “I won’t have the Institute interfering with that, at least.”

  Miss Jesczenka slowly removed the tortoiseshell glasses from her face. She looked at Emily, her eyes soft and sad.

  “Miss Edwards, you must trust that the Institute wants only what’s best for you.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Emily said, meeting Miss Jesczenka’s gaze with all the firmness at her command. “I’m going to meet my family alone. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to tie me to a chair.”

  Miss Jesczenka sighed heavily. “All right, then. I’ll wait for you here. As long as you take a cab directly there and ask it to stand for your return, I can’t imagine anyone will bother you. But you must promise me you will be careful. I won’t have you coming back to me covered in insect parts.”

  Emily smiled slightly, but said nothing.

  “Your grandparents’ neighborhood is no longer as desirable as it used to be,” Miss Jesczenka warned. “All the best families have moved to the Back Bay, and Beacon Hill has gone over to tenancy. So come back quickl
y. If your grandparents wish to get reacquainted, ask them to come and call on you here, where I can protect you. All right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Emily promised, but was sharply aware of having learned that it was a promise she should not make.

  After breakfast, the concierge called Emily a cab, and Miss Jesczenka hovered protectively by the hotel’s front door as she climbed into it. Emily gave the driver the address they had found in the Boston Social Register, and he touched his cap smartly.

  The cab took her to Pemberton Square. Tall redbrick houses rose high up on each side of the broad cobbled street. The street itself was bisected by fenced garden plots that probably used to contain neat flower beds, but now contained small kitchen gardens. Here and there, laundry was hung out over the black-enameled fencing that held the sidewalk at arm’s length from the homes. Children played on stoops. On one set of stairs sat a man in his shirtsleeves, apparently indifferent to the overcast sky, reading a paper. It seemed friendly and cozy to Emily.

  The cab stopped before a large home. It was very evenly balanced in construction, with four windows on each side of the house and a large red-painted front door right in the middle. There was a fan window above the door, and stone urns that held nothing more than dirt and the twiggy remnants of dead geraniums.

  Emily climbed the steps. The front door had a small iron-barred grille in its center that could be slid open from behind to judge prospective callers. On a scuffed and tarnished brass plate beside the door was engraved The Reverend James Kendall, with a simple cross shown beneath it. This was the right place.

  Taking a deep breath, Emily rapped her knuckles against the wood. The sound hung in the air.

  There was no answer for some time, though Emily could hear shufflings behind the door. The little sliding door behind the iron grille was jerked open, and two eyes peered out at her. They peered for quite a long time, Emily thought. Then, finally, the door cracked open slowly.

  An elderly maid in limp black and white leaned against the edge of the door, her heavy face pale and slack. She stared at Emily, dumbfounded. The careful words Emily had prepared to introduce herself evaporated at the sight of the woman’s obvious shock; Emily half wondered if she’d have to catch her from a dead faint. But after a moment the old woman managed to force two whispered words past her leathery lips.

  “Miss Catherine.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Creature of Filth

  “No,” Emily said, staring at the stricken old woman. “My name is Emily. Emily Edwards. I’m here to see … Mrs. Kendall.” Remembering, she felt for a card, one of the new ones she’d had made, engraved in simple black letters.

  The maid blinked. Emily tried to hand her the card, but the old woman would not take it.

  “I’ve come from New York,” Emily fumbled for something to say. “From California, actually—”

  “Wait,” the maid blurted and disappeared from the door, closing it loudly. Emily stood on the doorstep, her face flushed. The woman had recognized her—or rather, had recognized her mother in her. Emily’s heart pounded like a drum, blood rushing madly between her ears.

  There was more shuffling behind the door, and more sounds. Emily heard a muffled: “Don’t be silly, Liddy!” and small crisp steps coming toward the door. Then the door was jerked open to reveal another old woman, different from the maid in every respect. She was neat and small and pretty, with smooth white hair. Emily was sure she would look nicer without the expression of anger and suspicion that disfigured her face. Her mouth was set in a way that said she was about to tell Emily to shove off, but then her eyes caught Emily’s. The blood drained from her face, but she did not falter. If anything, she stood up even straighter.

  “You do look like her,” she said softly. “Very much.”

  “My name is Emily Edwards,” Emily said. “Or Kendall. I don’t really know. I’ve come … I’ve come to speak with you about Catherine Kendall. She was my mother.”

  The woman blinked, her face softening for a moment, then hardening again abruptly. “Was?” she said. “She is dead, then?”

  Emily nodded.

  The old woman blew out a breath, as though a long-held suspicion had finally been confirmed.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Emily was shown into a large sitting room, and though she hardly considered herself au courant in matters of fashion, even she could tell that the decor was severely outdated. The furniture in the room was gothic and austere, all angles and corners. There was a notable absence of the kinds of ornamentation—needlepoint pillows and wax flowers, cut paper and painted china—that Emily had become accustomed to. One prominent piece of decoration, however, caught Emily’s eye. On the wall, a simple red cross. Her heart thumped nervously, but she pushed the anxiety away. Lots of people had crosses in their homes, she thought. And red was a very popular color.

  The old woman perched on the edge of a horsehair settle.

  “My name is Emily, too,” she said.

  “I know this is very unexpected.” Emily clutched her reticule tightly. The action made the diamond ring on her finger flash like a shooting star. The speck of brilliance was sufficient to draw Mrs. Kendall’s attention to Emily’s good hand, and from there to her prosthetic of ivory. The old woman looked away from the appendage quickly. Emily cursed herself for forgetting to wear gloves.

  “And you believe Catherine was your mother?” The old woman’s voice caught upon speaking her daughter’s name. “In what manner do you intend to support this claim?” There was a high tense note in the woman’s voice, both eager and forbidding, as if she wanted Emily to both prove and disprove her kinship.

  “I have this.” Emily pulled out the calling card with her mother’s name on it. She showed the card to the old woman, who took it with trembling hands. “That’s how I found you. It was in my mother’s things.”

  “My daughter handed out hundreds of cards,” Mrs. Kendall said, turning the card over with slender fingers. “That means nothing.”

  “There are also these.” Emily reached into the reticule and withdrew the hair sticks, holding them out for Mrs. Kendall to examine. The woman shook her head curtly.

  “I have never seen them before.”

  Emily fought discouragement. Was it possible this was all an elaborate mistake? It just couldn’t be. She leaned forward, gesturing to her ears.

  “And these,” she said. “She was wearing them when she died.”

  This time, the old woman paused. She leaned forward, too, so that she could more closely scrutinize the eardrops. She lifted a trembling hand, touched one of the glimmering amethysts, then let her hand drop wearily. She said nothing, but stood, and went to the drawer of a tall sideboard. She pulled out a velvet box. Without a word, she handed the box to Emily.

  Awkwardly, aware that Mrs. Kendall was watching her, Emily opened the box. Inside there was a velvet separator with a place for earrings and a necklace. The earrings were missing, but Emily knew exactly where they were—in her ears. The necklace was there, a perfect match.

  “Tell me what happened to her,” Mrs. Kendall said.

  “I don’t know all of it,” Emily said, thinking guiltily of the bottle of memories and the knowledge that this woman would relish of her daughter. “She died in California, at a place called Lost Pine. I was with her. She was going to San Francisco—”

  “San Francisco?” Mrs. Kendall snapped in disbelief. “Why on earth would she go there?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said. “That’s why I’ve come to you—”

  “What do you want here?” The words came from the doorway. Emily looked up and saw an old man with a sour face and acidic eyes. Tufts of white hair stood out over his ears. He wore a suit of black and a priest’s collar. He bore an electricity of anger into the room with him, anger that focused on Emily.

  “James!” Mrs. Kendall said, taking one unconscious step back from him.

  “I asked what you want here, young woman.” Mr. Kendall’s
words were for Emily alone, spat with barely restrained fury.

  “I wanted to meet you,” Emily whispered.

  “Why?” he barked.

  “Because Catherine Kendall was my mother.”

  “My daughter is dead,” the old man said. “And any bastard she had died with her. Or should have.”

  “No,” Emily said. “I didn’t die. I was raised up in California. I have her earrings—”

  “You could have gotten those anywhere.”

  “James, please,” the old woman said. “Look at her. She looks just like Catherine.”

  “And a poisonous mushroom looks edible until you die from eating one.” The old man looked sidelong at his wife. “The Russians have been back here, Mother. They steal my daughter, lead her to a strange death somewhere in the wilderness, and then they have the brass to come back!”

  “James!” Mrs. Kendall said. “What did they want?”

  “They were here less than a week ago, asking me questions about Catherine, and about you.” The last word was punched at Emily.

  “The Russians?” Emily said softly, the words catching in her throat. “The Sini Mira?”

  “Oh, you know about them, do you?” Mr. Kendall came closer to her, so close she could smell the mentholatum and talc on his clothes. “If you think that knowing will help your cause, young woman, you’re wrong.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Mrs. Kendall said to him, her voice low and hot.

  “I saw no need.” The Reverend Kendall’s eyes continued to burn into Emily. “I didn’t want you to know. She was raised a Witch, Mother. And she intends to marry a Warlock.” The word “Warlock” was spoken with such disdain that Rev. Kendall’s mouth went through precisely four discrete contortions.

  Mrs. Kendall lifted her hand to her mouth.

  “No,” she whispered against her fingers. “It can’t be.”