by M. K. Hobson
“I can’t believe it,” Emily muttered to herself. But actually, speaking the words, she found that she could believe it. Remembering Zeno’s eyes, the soft storm of schemes that had churned behind them … yes, she could believe it.
“Now, Miss Edwards, I have answered your questions. You must answer mine. Tell me of the hair sticks you mentioned.”
Emily looked down at the floor, stroking the golden ball in her lap thoughtfully. The Black Glass Goddess had the hair sticks now, and whatever secrets were on them. What use was it to hide the information from these people, even if she did not fully trust them? Now that the barn door had been left open and the horses had vacated their stables, what harm could it do?
“My father gave me a pair of silver hair sticks,” Emily said. “They had Faery Writing on them, and the name Aleksei Morozovich. I am almost certain that they had the formula for the poison on them.”
Perun and Dmitri exchanged glances. Shadows of rage and pain passed over Dmitri’s face.
“So they have been lost,” he said, his voice a horrible strangle. “And those poor people murdered, and …” Dmitri rubbed a hand across his mouth, turned away.
Despite how unkindly he’d spoken to her, Emily felt sudden sympathy for him. She understood the awful burden of guilt he felt. She’d brought the sangrimancers to the doorstep of Abner Pearl and his family … and for what? For a secret that was lost before it was even discovered. It was a waste—a terrible, useless waste.
“And what are we to do now?” Dmitri crossed the room in three steps. Obviously needing some outlet, he snatched the empty plate in front of Perun and threw it across the room. Emily winced at the sound of it smashing. “There is not a single hope left for the world!”
“Calm yourself, Dmitri Alekseivitch,” Perun frowned. “Hope is never entirely lost. Even in the coldest darkness of winter, hope remains.”
Dmitri made a sound of disgust. “You have been listening too much to credomancers,” he said darkly. “And Witches.”
Ignoring the barb, Emily held Perun’s eyes. “Without the hair sticks, how can we have any hope at all?”
Perun laid a kind hand on her shoulder. “Get some rest, Miss Edwards. Dmitri will take you to a place where you can sleep. I am going out for a while, but I will be back soon. And I will have a plan.”
After Perun left, Emily did receive a plate of pelmeni with smetana, pushed upon her by the woman he had called Irina Sidorovna—and it took only one bite to confirm that they were indeed delicious—creamy and oniony and dripping with rich meaty juice. But one bite was all Emily could manage, with Dmitri scowling at her. In the brooding silence, Emily’s mind filled with the screams of the dying, both remembered and imagined. She pushed the plate away and reached for the bottle of vodka, her hand trembling violently. Dmitri took it before she could, uncorked it, poured himself a glass. He looked at her hard. Then, sighing, he poured her a glass as well. They drank together in silence. They both knew things could have gone very differently than they had, and that each of them could have done something better.
After they had finished half the bottle, Dmitri took her upstairs, to the restaurant’s top floor. The rooms were mostly used for storage, but one had been cleared for her use. It had a comfortable-looking bed spread with a colorful counterpane.
“There is water, so you can wash, and I will find you clean clothes and shoes,” Dmitri said. Emily looked down at her own bare, scratched feet. “You’ll be staying here for a while.”
“How long?” Emily sat down heavily on the bed. Climbing the stairs had made her realize just how much vodka she’d drunk.
“Until Perun can formulate his plan,” Dmitri spoke the last word with faint contempt.
“I should go back to the Stantons’,” Emily said. “Or at least send a message—”
“No,” Dmitri said. “Temple Warlocks killed two dozen of my men today, rescuing you. I think that’s enough.”
Emily bared her teeth at him. “You think I wanted it? I didn’t ask for any of this, Dmitri Alekseivitch.” She wasn’t sure why she had added his second name, but she remembered it was what Perun had called him. Dmitri winced when she spoke it.
“You were perhaps too young then to understand the meaning of a man’s patronymic, or too drunk now to respect it,” Dmitri said coldly, “but it is derived from the name of a man’s father. My father’s name was Aleksei.”
Emily looked up, finding the man’s brown eyes.
“Aleksei … Morozovich?”
“Reclaiming my father’s work and seeing it implemented is of great personal importance to me.” Dmitri spoke through clenched teeth. “As is killing every Warlock who has ever spent a single moment in the service of the Black Glass Goddess.” He bowed contemptuously as he opened the door to leave. “Sleep well, Emilia Vladimirovna.”
* * *
Emily did sleep, but not well, and when she woke again it was dark outside and her head throbbed horribly and her mouth tasted as if she’d been sucking on a rotten potato.
Well, here I am in the hands of the Sini Mira, she thought, arm over her eyes to block out even the faint light of the low-burning lamp. Once it had been her worst nightmare, but she had discovered that nightmares could be much, much worse.
Even though Perun had given her so many answers, they did not balance against all her questions. And while she was very glad to have Komé back—she glanced at the side table to make sure the golden ball was still there—the old Witch was too busy growing roots to give her any answers. But, Emily realized suddenly, she didn’t need Komé’s answers. She could speak to Ososolyeh just as well as Komé ever could. Without even knowing it was happening, Emily had been growing into something new—just as Komé now was. Perhaps that had been the intention all along.
Now that she had learned more from Perun, perhaps Ososolyeh could show her the rest. Climbing out of bed, she tried the door. It was unlocked, which was a pleasant surprise. She was rather glad for the fact that her feet were still bare; it allowed her to move silently down the dark hallway.
She crept down three flights of stairs. At the bottom, the door to the restaurant’s kitchen was open, and light from it spilled into the hallway. Laid over the smell of food was the acrid stink of cigarette smoke. Quietly, she crept to the back door. It opened onto a tiny, trash-strewn yard, hemmed by tall brick buildings on all sides and piled high with empty wooden crates. There was a chopping block by the door, bright with blood; chicken heads were piled in a basket beside it.
Getting as far away from the smell of blood as she could, she went back to the corner of the yard where a few small trees and bushes straggled. Stripping quickly, she crept under a tall weedy bush, her fingers and toes feeling for the soft, moist earth beneath it. Within moments, as if the earth guessed her haste, she was sinking into the ground, soil sliding over her like a lover’s hands. Instead of fighting against it as she had before, she relaxed in the embrace, the sweet smell of rot and clay and life filling her nostrils, soothing her aching body.
Basket of Secrets. Ososolyeh cooed a resonant greeting, its eternity of memories thrumming through her like a heartbeat.
Emily breathed back, letting her body dissipate, letting her body expand into the vastness of the void, into the glowing bones of the world.
Tell me, she prayed. Tell me more.
Smooth black walls, slippery and gelid.
A pyramid of yellowed skulls. The smell of smoke, bitter and acrid.
A Temple in which something ancient and malicious crouched, razor fingers gleaming, dripping with fresh-drawn blood.
Zeno was there.
Zeno was dying.
He was dying, and it was a bad death, sick with agonized regret.
If only things had gone as they should have … She could feel, rather than hear, Zeon’s fading thoughts.
But everything went wrong … so wrong …
Life pumped from Zeno’s gaping throat, spurt after weakening spurt. His naked body, withered and
pale, showed the horrible marks of extended torture—flesh battered, bones crushed. But he had not broken—she could feel it. He had outlasted the ancient and malicious thing, and death was his reward. He had been discarded, thrown into a pit, his blood a treat intended for the unholy thing within—an enormous hunk of meat, quivering slimy and slick.
But I can give him one more chance.
One more chance.
Emily could sense him marshaling power, all the power that he had or ever had. Collecting it for one final effort.
May good triumph over evil! The silent command, willed rather than spoken, made the earth shake. He drove the decree deep into the flesh that slicked and roiled beneath him. The flesh shuddered and cringed. She could hear cells rupturing, veins and vessels shredding, delicate internal structures collapsing. Zeno poured his vast will into the command, until only one tiny golden drop of himself remained.
Then, with his body’s very last bit of strength, Zeno reached out to grab something protruding from the crumbling earthen wall of the pit.
A root.
A fat, deep, ancient root.
Zeno clutched it.
He sent the last tiny drop of himself outward, sent it soaring along a network of roots, tiny and large …
Freedom.
Release.
Escape.
A stripped soul singing along, borne away by sap and nectar, up bright living channels, up, up to where the sun was, to where leaves spread and rustled …
I am going home. Zeno’s words floated on a last breath, spoken in the language of wood and water and leaves …
“Miss Edwards!”
The voice came from far away. There was the feeling of hands, but not the gentle soft caress of the earth. These were rough, hurried hands, digging at her, pulling her up like a root vegetable. Emily stirred, aware that she was well buried. Hands helped her sit up, brushed smothering dirt from her face. Then the sound of Dmitri’s voice, harsh.
“Miss Edwards, for God’s sake!”
She felt herself gathering back into herself, the threads of her human consciousness retracting from where they’d spread out in a thin, vibrant array. Dmitri knelt over her. A lantern glowed on the ground nearby.
“What are you doing?” He grimaced, averting his eyes from her mud-streaked nakedness.
“Getting answers,” she said softly. She felt as if she’d forgotten how to speak. She hardly knew if she was speaking in Russian or English anymore. Maybe she was speaking some new language, the language of wood and water and leaves.
But it seemed he could understand her. He snatched her dress from where she’d discarded it and thrust it toward her with his face turned away. She could feel his disgust like a physical thing. She pulled the dress over her head slowly, still trying to remember how to move.
When her body was covered, Emily wrapped arms around herself and sat staring at the ground. “I lost my father, too, Dmitri Alekseivitch. A Warlock killed him to destroy the poison. I was very young. I watched the knife go into his chest. Again and again.” She looked up at Dmitri. “I didn’t tell Perun that.”
Dmitri looked down at her, his face harshly shadowed by the light of the lantern he held. After a long silence, he reached down to help her stand, and escorted her back to her room, locking the door behind her as he left.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Plan
Not surprisingly, the door was not unlocked again until the next morning, when Dmitri came to retrieve her.
“Perun’s got his plan,” Dmitri said. “And he’s ready to present it.”
This time he led her into the restaurant proper—a cheerful room crowded with dozens of heavy wooden tables covered with bright cloth and flowers arranged in colored bottles. Morning sunshine glowed through the closed wooden shutters. At one of the tables, Perun sat. Sitting next to him, straight and prim in a chestnut-colored dress, was Miss Jesczenka.
“Emily.” Miss Jesczenka stood quickly. She came over to where Emily stood next to Dmitri and took Emily’s hands in hers. The older woman’s gaze flew over her from crown to toe, taking in her dirty and disheveled appearance. “Are you all right?”
Emily wasn’t certain how to answer, so she said nothing.
Miss Jesczenka scrutinized Emily’s face, looked at the bandage on her throat. She put a worried hand on Emily’s forehead, as if suspecting a fever—as if her bearing witness to horrible death and tragedy were like a bout of influenza.
“Mr. Stanton,” Emily asked. “Is he all right?”
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Miss Jesczenka said. “You ran away from his mother’s house, left your ring … and she said you saw the book.” She paused, looking at Emily again, carefully. “As soon as I get back, I’ll let him know that you’re safe.”
“I told you, we mean no harm to Miss Edwards,” Perun said. One of his omnipresent cigarettes smoldered between his brown-stained fingers. “Shall we begin our discussion?”
Irina Sidorovna brought out a samovar of tea and a plate of cakes and a bowl of raspberry jam. She set these in the center of the table. Perun turned the small spigot on the samovar, poured tea into little cups, and pushed the saucers across the tablecloth toward the women. He stirred a large spoonful of raspberry jam into his own cup, his spoon making small tinkling sounds against the china. Emily tasted her tea; it was bitter and strong. She dipped a spoonful of jam into it, and the sweetness did indeed help.
“The Institute is grateful to you for helping Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka began, not even looking at her tea. “If the events truly happened as you have described them, then you have done us a great service.”
Perun chuckled. “Why should I lie, Miss Jesczenka?”
“There are many scenarios I can imagine in which lying would suit your purposes,” Miss Jesczenka said coolly. “But whether or not you are lying is immaterial. I am here to take Miss Edwards back to the Institute. Mr. Stanton very much desires her return.”
“I’m sure he does,” Perun said. “However, the Institute is not a safe place for her right now. Is it?”
Miss Jesczenka colored slightly. Perun sipped his tea, took a cake and examined it. He ate it in one bite.
“I have called you here to explain the situation, and to see if there is some possibility the Sini Mira and the Institute could do together what neither of us can do alone. It may surprise you to know that we had a very amenable understanding with Emeritus Zeno.”
“So amenable that you kidnapped him at the precise moment that it would be most damaging to the Institute he founded,” Miss Jesczenka sneered.
Perun brushed crumbs from his hands. “As I’ve told Miss Edwards, we did not kidnap Emeritus Zeno. Rather, I believe it was the Temple of Itztlacoliuhqui, the sangrimancers who tried to kill Miss Edwards yesterday. The sangrimancers who have taken her hair sticks, on which her father inscribed the secret of Volos’ Anodyne.”
Miss Jesczenka turned astonished eyes on Emily.
Emily answered her gaze. “My father was an assistant to a scientist in Saint Petersburg,” she said. “A man named Aleksei Morozovich. My father brought Morozovich’s research with him to America. My hair sticks—he gave them to me when I was very young. He told me they had Faery Writing on them. So I took them to a Faery Reader in Chatham Square—”
“That’s why you were asking about Faery Reading,” Miss Jesczenka breathed.
“I’m sure the formula for the poison was on the hair sticks,” Emily said. “If I’d known, I never would have left them. When I came back the next morning …” Emily dipped her head, shame reddening her cheeks afresh. “Temple Warlocks had gotten there before me. And it was the Temple, Miss Jesczenka. The man who tried to kill me was named Heusler. I met him at the Symposium.”
“Selig Heusler, High Priest of the Temple of Itztlacoliuhqui,” Miss Jesczenka affirmed, letting out a dismayed breath. “Why haven’t you told us any of this before, Miss Edwards?”
“I didn’t know any of it before,” Emily l
ooked up, heat rising under her collar. “And even if I had, what chance did anyone give me? Everyone kept putting me off, sending me away … I was a nuisance, remember? A distraction. What should I have done?”
She scanned Miss Jesczenka’s face, honestly seeking an answer. But Miss Jesczenka had none. She just touched Emily’s hand gently before turning hard brown eyes back on Perun. “So, Miss Edwards had the secret of Volos’ Anodyne in her possession, and now she does not. The Temple of Itztlacoliuhqui has stolen it, and has probably already destroyed it, if it is as much of a threat to them as you imply.” She tilted her head. “What do you hope to gain by keeping her here? What is keeping you from turning her over to me right now?”
“To answer your last question first, I believe it is Miss Edwards’ decision as to whether she wants to go with you. Therefore, I am in no position to turn her over,” Perun said. “To answer your first question, I believe the Temple will not be able to destroy the poison unless they have Miss Edwards, and thus it is of utmost importance that she be kept safe.”
Emily blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The way the secret was hidden,” Perun replied. “Why would your father have encrypted it on something like hair sticks?”
“They are small, easily concealed.” Miss Jesczenka was brusque. “No one would ever think to look on them. Also, they are a woman’s item. No one thinks women capable of such subterfuge.”
“Believe me, Miss Jesczenka, I know all about women and subterfuges.” Perun stared hard at her as he spoke. “But what you say is true. Hair sticks are very small. So small, indeed, that violet scale had to be employed to fit all the information onto them. Lyakhov would have had to search far and wide to find a man who could encrypt them, even in 1856, when Faery Writers were far more common than they are now. Why go to such trouble? Why not use a larger object?”