by M. K. Hobson
Emily took the golden ball and held it in her lap, feeling the truth of Perun’s words with her new fingers. She smiled a greeting to Komé, but the baby oak tree within the ball had nothing to say to her at all.
Then Perun and Dmitri were gone, and Emily was left alone with Stanton, who sat looking at her, his eyes narrowed with glittering humor. She quirked him a smile, feeling ridiculous.
“Now you know how I feel,” he said. She lifted an eyebrow at him, made her face into a serious frown.
“That’s entirely different,” she said loftily. “You’re just a Sophos. I’m a goddess.”
He smiled at her as he stood up.
“Indeed,” he said. “But I knew that all along.”
He reached down to give her a hand up, pulled her close to his side. Heat pounded from his body in waves, an unspoken point of a discussion she already knew they were about to have. But she wasn’t quite ready for all that yet. First she had something to show him.
“Penelope’s sent us a wedding present,” Emily said, pulling at his hand. “Come see.”
She led their steps toward a broad paddock where the Institute’s horses were pastured. A pair of large black Morgans stood in the center of the field nipping at fresh green grass. Stanton’s eyes widened with surprise and sudden joy.
“Romulus! Remus!”
He whistled to the horses, and they trotted over to the rail diffidently. He pressed his fingers to their velvety muzzles. They whuffled him a restrained greeting.
“Penelope had such a time getting them to New York,” Emily said, as Stanton slicked his hand along Romulus’ thick-muscled neck. “They’re so all-fired lively.”
“Hello, gentlemen,” Stanton was saying softly. He looked at Emily. “I was always so fond of them.”
That was an understatement, Emily thought. Stanton was fond of his horses like Nero had been fond of a nice tune. And seeing them again after a time away, Emily could suddenly understand the pride he took in the magnificent animals. They looked as if they could take vertical flight from a dead standstill.
Stanton’s hand stilled on Romulus’ neck, stayed there for longer than Romulus liked. The animal danced away. Stanton’s hand fell to his side.
“What do you think?” Emily asked him. “How do they look?”
Stanton gave a whistle and a command and the horses went running. He stared after them as they cantered away. Then he turned, leaning back against the rail, giving her an appraising look.
“So, My Goddess,” Stanton said, adopting the brusque tone of a Sophos, “it’s time for that discussion you already knew we were going to have.”
The statement was somewhat cryptic, but Emily knew exactly what it referred to—the heat pouring from Stanton’s body. He was still burned. Even Ososolyeh had not been able to heal him of that. Or perhaps it had chosen not to, preferring to give him the choice. For the hundredth time, Emily felt both great appreciation for and great annoyance with the ancient consciousness of the earth.
“Lyakhov’s Anodyne won’t hurt you, won’t impede your ability to work magic or run the Institute,” Emily said. “There is nothing to discuss.”
“But there is,” Stanton said. “I can be cured. I had to preserve my ability to work magic so I could be Zeno’s desperatus, but now that’s over …” He paused. “I could give it all up, Emily. I could relinquish the power of the Institute and ask the blessing of the new Sophos. He could make me a silver touch-piece, and I could be healed. We could have a long and happy life. Together.”
“We are together,” she said. “Anything more than that isn’t really up to us, is it?”
Stanton considered this. Emily squeezed his hand again.
“By the way, the answer is the rope isn’t tied to anything,” she said.
Stanton looked at her, not comprehending.
“Horse has got a ten-foot rope around his neck, there’s hay twenty-five feet away … remember? Well, I figured it out. The rope isn’t tied to anything. Horse can eat all the damn hay he wants.”
“Now, that’s just not fair!” he protested. “You’ve got the whole consciousness of the earth on your side.”
“The point isn’t that I figured out your riddle, dear. The point is that you’re free to choose,” Emily said. “You’ve never been more powerful. You have a great future ahead of you. And I will be there for it, whether it’s long or short or somewhere in between.”
He looked at her.
“Even after everything?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Even after everything.” She paused. “For better or for worse.”
She said no more, but basked in the warm certainty of conviction. Nothing mattered except that she loved him. Not Black Glass Goddesses, not sadistic ex-mistresses, not even the Institute. He was decent. She knew it down to the bones of the earth that stretched far beneath them.
“We can have a huge wedding, and I’ll make everyone love Dreadnought Stanton, Sophos of the Stanton Institute, as much as I do. Heck, I might even start an Admiration League.”
Stanton’s eyelids fluttered at the thought.
“And I’ll sit in hot parlors and drink tea with tedious old women, and if they annoy me, I’ll just wrap some roots around them. And even if I don’t love every minute of it, I’ll love you every minute.”
“The roots idea sounds promising,” he said, touching her face. “But even so, that’s an awful lot to ask. You’ve already given up so much.”
“I haven’t given up anything,” Emily said. “I’ve gained the world. Quite literally.”
“Still,” Stanton said. “Still—”
She put a finger over his lips.
“Not now,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Gifts and Decisions
The next day, Stanton came for her early in the morning. He told her to fetch her hat and reticule, and put her into the Institute’s carriage. They rode to the train station, where the Institute’s private car was waiting for them, as overstuffed and elaborate as Emily remembered it. It was filled with flowers—masses of blush-colored peonies in heavy crystal vases. Emily settled herself onto a soft leather sofa; Stanton whuffed down beside her, dropping a silver and gold box onto her lap. It contained chocolates. He scooped out three for himself and held them in his hand.
“I’ve made three decisions and brought you three gifts. The chocolates are the first gift, but I mostly bought them because it didn’t feel right not having three.”
“Credomancers and their trines,” she teased. She removed a silky chocolate from a gold foil shell. “All right then, let’s have the decisions first. In order, so I can keep them all straight.”
“First, I’m keeping the Institute. Second, we’re eloping.” He popped two chocolates into his mouth at once. “No big ridiculous wedding, no orange blossoms, no authority muttering a bunch of nonsense over our heads. Jump straight to the honeymoon. Seems better that way, don’t you think?”
“Oh certainly. But I have to say, the second decision seems a bit at odds with the first.” Emily bit into her chocolate, sucking at the sweet cherry at its center. “If there isn’t a wedding, won’t you be missing out on a huge credomantic opportunity? And who’ll run the place while you’re gone?”
“There’s already been a wedding,” Stanton grinned at her. “Mrs. Zeno is going to run the Institute.”
“Mrs. Zeno?” Emily said. “I never knew there was a Mrs. Zeno!”
“There wasn’t, until last night at midnight,” he said. “Zeno married Miss Jesczenka in the conservatory. It was a beautiful ceremony. I wept.”
“And how precisely did Miss Jesczenka go about marrying an orchid?” Emily said, not even bothering to imagine how such a union might be consummated.
“Well, actually it was more a kind of a credomantic swindle than an actual wedding,” Stanton said. “By pledging herself to Benedictus Zeno, father of modern credomancy and founder of the Institute, she gains sufficient status to wield power on
my behalf.”
“So she can take care of things while we’re off honeymooning and eating chocolate,” Emily said. “That sounds like a wonderful arrangement. How long are we going to be gone?”
“That’s the third decision,” Stanton said, his eyes glittering. “We’re never going back.”
Emily looked at him.
“But you said you’ve decided to continue as Sophos. How can you do that if you’re not in New York?”
“Another credomantic swindle,” Stanton said. “It’s not necessary to have Dreadnought Stanton running the Institute in the flesh, as long as the illusion of Dreadnought Stanton’s mastery can be maintained and exploited.”
“I don’t get it,” Emily said.
“It’s an arcane concept known as Syndication,” Stanton said. “ ‘Dreadnought Stanton will still be Sophos—he just won’t be me, and I won’t be him. They’ve bought all the rights to my name, and will pay me licensing fees for it in perpetuity. They’ll use it as they see fit.”
“They bought your name? But I was just starting to get used to it!”
“For the Institute’s purposes, Dreadnought Stanton will always be shrouded in mystery, never seen, always off on some grand adventure or another. Mystic Truth Publishers will keep putting out books about him. But Mrs. Zeno will run the show.”
“What about the Stanton Agency?” Emily asked. “Don’t tell me she’s going to run the Institute and the Agency at the same time? What a lot of work!”
“I’m sure she can handle it all with briskness and dispatch.” Stanton smiled. “She’s the finest credomancer I’ve ever met.”
Emily nodded at the assessment and took another chocolate.
“I’ll have to pick an entirely new name, of course,” Stanton said. “Which brings us back to the gifts. Gift number two, to be precise. I’m leaving the choice of my new name up to you, since you seem to be so particular about it.”
“You’re going to let me choose your name? My stars, what’s gotten into you?”
“I’m in love,” he said. “Madly and unquestionably.”
“And no more secrets?” she said softly. “No more evil ex-lovers? No more bloated malevolent chunks of you hidden in remote locations around the world? No more Black Glass Goddesses who want to claim you for their own?”
“No more secrets,” he promised.
“All right, then,” she said. “What’s your middle name?”
Stanton, seeing how neatly he had been trapped, frowned at her. He took three more chocolates and chewed them vehemently, arms crossed. He steeled himself, but then abruptly lost his courage.
“I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t.”
“No more secrets,” she reminded him firmly. “And really, how much worse can it be? Aloysious? Percy? Lucifer?”
“Wordsworth,” he finally muttered.
“Wordsworth?” Emily drew her brows together. “Dreadnought Wordsworth Stanton?”
“After William Wordsworth, the tooth-squeakingly pretentious English poet who wanders lonely as a cloud. I must say, it doesn’t suit me at all.”
Emily refrained from commenting on that.
“William,” she said ponderingly. Then inspiration lit her eyes. “Will. That suits you perfectly!”
“Will Edwards,” Stanton spoke the name experimentally. “Sounds very matter-of-fact. I shall endeavor to acquire a sunburned neck to go with it.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said.
“Should I adopt the custom of chewing on a straw, or should I carry a plug of tobacco in my jeans pocket?”
“Edwards is a perfectly decent name,” Emily said frostily. “But, come to think of it, it’s not really my name, is it?”
“We could always use my mother’s maiden name, if you’d prefer.”
“Which was?”
“Van Breeschoten,” Stanton said.
“Edwards it is, then,” Emily said. “And the third gift?”
“You do like getting gifts, don’t you?”
“Who doesn’t?” She tumbled over him, feeling in his pockets. Empty candy wrappers scattered like jeweled petals. “Now give! What is it?”
Stanton wrestled with her, laughing. He pulled her down onto his lap, then reached into his pocket. He pressed a silver dollar into her hand.
“What’s this?”
“A silver touch-piece,” he said.
She turned it over in her hand.
“My last act as Dreadnought Stanton, Sophos of the Stanton Institute, was to create a touch-piece with the power to heal any decent, loyal servant who craves the blessings of his Sophos, even if he be the lowliest of peasant.”
“But I thought you couldn’t heal yourself.”
“I couldn’t, not until I relinquished my name. It was put to a magical trust. And this physical being you see before you ceased to be Dreadnought Stanton. Dreadnought Stanton still exists, but this person before you is not him. This person before you is the lowliest of peasants, craving the blessing of his Sophos.”
He took the silver dollar from her hand and touched it to his lips, closing his eyes with surprising reverence. Then he opened his eyes again and looked at it.
“Did it work?” Emily said breathlessly.
“I don’t know,” Stanton said. “I don’t feel any different.”
He snapped his fingers.
“Flamma,” he said.
Nothing happened. He looked at his fingers for a moment, then let his hand catch Emily’s.
“It worked,” he said softly.
“Then you are—”
“Cured,” Stanton said, nuzzling her neck behind her ear. “Completely and utterly unable to channel magic in any form.”
Emily twisted to look back at him, her heart trembling. She pressed her hand to his face and realized that indeed he was no longer hot. His cheek felt warm and pleasant.
“It’s done, Emily,” Stanton said, as if he could feel how hard her heart was beating. “I’m just who I am—no more, no less.” He was silent for a moment, and his face was slightly anxious. “Do you think it will be enough?”
Emily took his face between her hands and pressed her lips to his.
“It will be plenty,” Emily said. “But you’re sure you won’t regret it?”
“I’ll either regret it or I won’t,” he said.
The strange arrangement of words, the lack of utter conviction that she had come to expect from him, startled her. But then she realized that the uncertainty was one last gift—a gift he didn’t even know he was giving. Any other answer would be a credomantic gloss, a promise he didn’t know if he could keep. She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tight.
“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. “For taking the chance.”
When he looked at her again, his face had taken on a familiar polish. “I can tell you one thing with complete certainty. I won’t miss Rose Hibble running around after me all the time.”
“She was the first on my list for the root treatment,” Emily confided in a low voice, sliding her hands along his chest. She loosened his tie, slid it from around his throat, let it drop to the floor among the shining candy wrappers.
“That might have been satisfying,” Stanton said, his voice low. She unbuttoned his collar. Then she moved her fingers down the front of his shirt, one button at a time. “Miss Edwards, it appears that you’re unbuttoning my shirt.”
“I have some etchings to show you,” she murmured. She pulled the fabric free and ran her hands over his smooth chest. Her new right hand had such delicacy of feeling that she could feel the edges of the red birthmark, the mark of an outstretched hand. She pulled back curiously, stretching out her fingers to cover it.
“It matches perfectly,” she breathed, staring at it.
“I was born to be the consort of a goddess,” Stanton said, his chest rising and falling beneath her hand. “I’m just glad it turned out not to be one of black glass.” He pulled her close, his hands smoothing along her back.
&nbs
p; “No corset,” he said, squeezing, his words a teasing whisper. “Skycladdische.”
“You’d better believe it,” she said, pressing her chest against his and covering his mouth with a kiss that tasted of chocolate.
“Wait,” he said, pushing her up a bit. “We can’t.”
She sat back, looked down at him, her eyes wide.
“You said we could jump straight to the honeymoon!” she protested. “Don’t you dare tell me you’ve changed your mind, and you’re going to get all persnickety now just because we haven’t had some goddamn authority say a bunch of nonsense over our heads!”
“Not at all,” he said, standing and sweeping her up into his arms. It was a rather undignified move, given the closeness of the car and the clutter of the decor, but he managed to accomplish it nonetheless. “It’s just that this railcar happens to have a bed. A very large and proper bed. That would be nicer, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Emily said, as Stanton bumped her head against a vase full of peonies, sending pink petals fluttering to the floor.
Epilogue
Several weeks later, each astride a frisking black Morgan that was displeased at having been pulled up to stand, Emily and Stanton sat looking down over a valley south of Sacramento. In the purpling summer twilight, with a gentle warm breeze stirring poppies and lupines, Stanton was moved to quote Wordsworth:
“It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worship’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,