by M. K. Hobson
“Miss Edwards.”
The words were low and not spoken with any particular urgency, but Professor Mirabilis’ voice stopped her as surely as if the old man had seized her arm. Clearly, one did not ignore the Sophos of the Mirabilis Institute.
Emily froze, stock-still and trembling, staring at the floor. She did not look up as Mirabilis strode casually toward her.
“My, don’t you look nice!” Mirabilis smiled. “And you’ve managed to give the strident Miss Pendennis the slip. You have excellent judgment.” His voice lowered an octave. “Miss Pendennis is an … exceptional woman. But your native common sense is more than equal to the challenges that face you. I do hate to see women swayed by advisers who may not have their best interests at heart.”
Emily curled her lips back from her teeth, but said nothing.
“Now,” Mirabilis continued, “tonight’s Grand Symposium will be preceded by a small dinner for the colleagues. If you could be downstairs by eleven to meet—”
“Fine,” Emily said curtly.
“Additionally, please understand that this Grand Symposium shall be a dangerous gathering. No great thing can be accomplished without a correspondingly great measure of risk. For your safety, I have not told all to all. Answer questions honestly if I ask them, but volunteer nothing. Allow me to do all the talking.”
“It’s your money,” Emily said, aware that her voice was trembling slightly. “You’re paying for my time.”
Mirabilis knit his brow. His face was inscribed with annoyance, as if her petulance was a personal affront.
“Miss Edwards, is there something wrong?”
She tried to say nothing. She tried to keep her mouth shut, but words burst from her lips in a sudden molten gush.
“Profound advantages?” She lifted her eyes, fixed Mirabilis with accusing venom. “How could you let him do it? How could you let him discard his life so stupidly? And then you added insult to injury by making it all meaningless. Subverting him. Undercutting him. Sending him to Lost Pine. You never wanted him to succeed. All you cared about was his father’s connections! You never had any faith in him. You wanted to make him a failure. I don’t know why … but it’s horrible. It’s horrible and it’s vicious and I despise you for it!”
Mirabilis was silent for a moment, obviously sorting through the particulars of the wild flood of accusation.
“I don’t know what Mr. Stanton has told you,” Mirabilis began.
“He told me …” She searched her memory, her voice breaking with despair. “He told me it was a defect. He told me it was an impairment. He made it seem like such a small thing.”
“All credomancers are liars,” Mirabilis interjected, smiling at what was probably a very old chestnut within these walls.
“Mr. Stanton isn’t a liar,” she spat, refusing to be jollied. Mirabilis frowned.
“Miss Edwards, get ahold of yourself,” he rumbled, and the words were like a hundred strong hands seizing her and giving her a shake. She lowered her head, breathing hard. Mirabilis was silent a moment before continuing.
“Mr. Stanton was burned long before he came to the Institute,” Mirabilis said. “He continued his studies here with full awareness of the implications it would have for his health. It was his decision, and he made it for good reasons.”
“There are no good reasons for suicide,” she hissed.
“That, Miss Edwards, is where you are wrong.”
Emily stared at him. His eyes glittered dangerously.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Emily whispered.
“Credomancy isn’t the only thing he’s studied,” Mirabilis said. “And this isn’t the only place he trained.”
“The Erebus Academy,” she said, remembering Perun’s words in Chicago. Mirabilis nodded.
“It is an elite institution, the West Point of the Army’s magical divisions,” Mirabilis said. “Mr. Stanton was there for three years. That is where he studied sangrimancy, with the intention of becoming a Maelstrom.”
Emily felt as if the floor were falling from beneath her feet, but she stood stock-still.
“He did very well there, I understand.” Mirabilis clipped each word; it almost seemed that he took perverse pleasure in them. “Indeed, he was, by all accounts, exceptionally well suited to the practice of blood magic. His snobbishness, his impatience with human frailty, his rigid worldview …”
“Then how did he end up here?” Emily’s throat was dry.
“I approached him at a … fortuitous moment. I made arguments that helped him understand that studying at my Institute would be beneficial. That greater goals could be served.”
“What greater goals?”
“That’s really none of your business, is it?” Mirabilis said. “But you are correct in one regard. I never thought he’d amount to much as a credomancer. It is simply not his area of natural proficiency.”
“So you did subvert him. You did want him to be a failure,” Emily said, suddenly understanding, “because he was too dangerous any other way.”
Mirabilis looked at her for a long time.
“Don’t you think the world is better served by Dreadnought Stanton the mediocre credomancer than Dreadnought Stanton the very talented sangrimancer?” Mirabilis said at last. “Don’t you think there are enough Captain Cauls in the world as it is?”
“He couldn’t ever be like that,” Emily said.
“People can surprise you,” Mirabilis said. “And not always pleasantly.”
Emily stared at him, her eyes wells of horror. Mirabilis did not smile at her.
“The fact that you have developed a fondness for Mr. Stanton is abundantly clear. I wish to make it similarly clear that nurturing such fondness is a grave error. The blight he labors under is powerful. What is done cannot be undone. He is not for you, and he never can be.” Mirabilis frowned more deeply. “And if the boy had an ounce of decency, he would have made you understand that from the beginning.”
He clasped her solid hand, made a little bow over it. “Until tonight, then?”
And he walked off briskly, his footsteps echoing in the tall empty hall.
Damn him!
When Emily got to her room, she slammed the door behind her and began removing every single article of clothing Miss Pendennis had so carefully put her into. Her immaterial hand made this a tortuous process; buttons scattered and fabric ripped as she pulled at her garments angrily.
Damn Dreadnought Stanton!
She threw the dress in a heap on the floor, and piled the corset and the petticoats and the bustle and the chemise and all the other nonsensical pieces of effluvium on top. When she was finished, she climbed into bed stark naked but for the silk pouch she always wore. She curled herself up into a ball and pulled the blankets over her head.
Damn all Warlocks anyway!
She lay curled in the still whiteness of the bed, listening to her heart pounding against her ribs. Despite her best efforts to maintain a comforting shield of anger, it was crumbling beneath pain and confusion.
Why hadn’t he told her?
All those days and nights … everything that had passed between them. Everything they’d been through. And he’d never told her. Never told her he’d studied blood magic … never told her he’d planned to become a Maelstrom, just like that monster Caul … never told her he was dying … never told her anything about who he really was. And after all, why would he? One didn’t go around telling such personal and important things to the luggage.
Emily buried her head in her pillow, feeling acutely disappointed and embarrassed.
… if the boy had an ounce of decency, he would have made you understand that from the beginning …
How could she have let herself go and grow feelings for him? She was furious with her own stupidity. As if a few kisses meant anything. It was just a meaningless encounter, a by-product of the madness of sangrimancy. He didn’t want her. If he did, he would have told her. He wouldn’t have left such horrible explanatio
ns to strangers. He would have trusted her. Goddamn it, she had trusted him! She had trusted him, and he had trusted her with nothing.
Three times what thou givest.
So there it was, then. The final and most crushing of the retributions she’d earned. A silly, stupid broken heart. How perfectly appropriate. And to think that she’d done this to Dag, good, kind Dag …
She wished for Dag, suddenly. If she hadn’t felt close to him before, she certainly did now. She understood him, understood the agony of loving someone who didn’t love you back. She wanted to crawl into his arms and be soothed, and soothe him in return, and forget all the grand ideas she’d ever had about true love, and the necessity for it. Because true love was a load of baloney. Finding a good friend … a good friend who trusted you … was more than enough.
Mirabilis had said that everything would be all right after the Grand Symposium. With a little luck, she could start for home in a day or two. With a little luck, she’d never have to look at Dreadnought Stanton’s face again. She buried her face deeper in the pillow, trying to reconcile herself to the thought.
There was a soft knock at her door. Emily huddled deeper under the covers as the door opened.
“Miss Edwards?” Miss Pendennis’ voice from the door was puzzled. “My goodness, your clothes are all in a heap! Are you all right?”
“I have a terrible headache,” Emily said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d—”
“Certainly,” Miss Pendennis said. “I’ve got something that will fix you right up.”
Emily had been planning to say “leave me alone,” but never mind.
The strange thing was that the pretending of a headache actually preceded the onset of one. A heavy bilious headache that came on abruptly. Within moments, Emily’s head was throbbing.
CARISSIMA MIA.
Emily pressed fingers to her temple, trying to remember what she’d just been thinking about. Something that had made her angry and upset all at once. But though she tried hard to remember what it was, all she could come up with was a memory of huge rabbits. Huge black rabbits with red eyes.
“Here we are,” Miss Pendennis said, bustling in. Emily pulled the covers down just far enough to expose her eyes and watch Miss Pendennis approach. The woman was carrying the large leather case Emily had seen her unpack earlier that morning, the one that was bound in steel. Pulling a chair to the side of the bed, Miss Pendennis sat down. She laid the case on the bedside table and snapped it open, revealing an exotic assortment of items nestled in a blue velvet lining: bright iridescent bottles, long quills and parchment, candles of many colors.
Miss Pendennis lifted out the top drawer of the case, laying it aside, momentarily revealing another layer of larger items underneath. There was a chalice, a bowl, and … Emily felt a strange thrill go through her … an athame. A gleaming Witch’s blade, small and slim, a single piece of exquisitely sharpened steel with a handle wrapped in thin black velvet cording. It was neatly fitted into the bottom of the case. Emily’s gaze lingered on it for a long time. It hummed softly to her. She longed to touch it.
PERFECT.
Sudden panic gripped Emily as images of spurting blood flashed at the corners of her eyes.
“No!” She sat up, sheet clutched to her chest, eyes squeezed shut against the sudden burning pain in her temples. She looked at Miss Pendennis, opened her mouth to say something, but the minute she did, the words evaporated.
Miss Pendennis looked at her, astonished.
“Miss Edwards?” she asked. “Were you going to say something?”
NO.
“No,” Emily said quickly, the word sounding before she even knew her lips had formed it.
Miss Pendennis put her hand on Emily’s forehead, held it there for a long time. Her eyes took on a canny quality.
“You said Dreadnought drank a compulsion potion, didn’t you?” Miss Pendennis said. “But of course, when you drank the potion, nothing happened. Because of the stone in your hand.”
Emily opened her mouth to say, “That’s right.” But before the words could be spoken, she closed her mouth abruptly.
AH, IT IS A TRICKY WITCH! BRAVA!
“I never drank the potion,” Emily said, finally, laboring over the words.
Miss Pendennis looked at her.
“So you didn’t touch or taste any of it?”
Yes, Emily struggled to speak. I tasted it to make sure that Mr. Stanton wouldn’t be hurt …
NO, CARISSIMA MIA. YOU NEVER TOUCH IT.
Yes, I …
NO.
“No,” Emily said, haltingly. “Rose … Grimaldi … made it. She … fed it to Mr. Stanton. I never touched it.”
Miss Pendennis scrutinized Emily’s face. She knew that the woman did not believe her. She also knew that the woman could not be allowed to disbelieve her.
WE WILL MAKE HER BELIEVE.
Emily felt hot, unbidden tears well up in her eyes, all the tears she’d been meaning to cry a moment ago. Her heart ached; she curled herself forward over her knees, sobbing wretchedly.
“Miss Edwards! Emily! My dear, what is the matter?”
“Mr. Stanton,” Emily said simply, through the hand that covered her face. “Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he … tell me?”
OR WILL THIS MANNISH FEMALE NO UNDERSTAND THE BROKEN HEART?
But understanding did dawn on Miss Pendennis slowly. She clucked her tongue, laid a heavy hand on Emily’s shoulder, sighing heavily.
“Oh, dear,” she said ruefully. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
Emily sobbed harder. She was acutely aware of Miss Pendennis’ hand patting her back soothingly.
“Now, now,” Miss Pendennis said. “I was so surprised myself, I didn’t mean to go on and on about it. How stupid of me. I’m so sorry. You mustn’t worry yourself about it. We have so much to do.”
YES, CARISSIMA MIA, SO MUCH TO DO!
The thought struck Emily between the eyes. It made her sit up stock-straight and dash her tears away.
“You’re right,” she said. “So much to do.”
Throwing the sheet off herself she leaped out of bed and rushed to the pile of discarded clothing. She pulled on her undergarments and threw the chemise over her head, then held up the corset.
“I want to get dressed again.”
Miss Pendennis rose from the bed slowly, regarding Emily. Emily could see her own madness, her frantic incoherence reflected in Miss Pendennis’ eyes. But there was nothing she could do. Nothing she could do.
Without a word, Miss Pendennis positioned the corset around Emily’s waist and tied her into it. When the woman reached down to retrieve the fawn-colored cashmere, Emily growled petulantly.
“No, not that one,” she said. “I never want to see that horrible dress again as long as I live.” She let her lips form into a sweet, soubrettish smile. “Isn’t there another? You have ever so many …”
“Of course, I’m sure I can find something …”
Miss Pendennis closed the door behind herself silently, and when the woman was gone, Emily found her fingers playing quickly over the clasps of the leather case that was bound with steel. Perhaps she snapped it open. Perhaps she ran her fingers over the beautiful blue velvet lining. If she did, each action was immediately forgotten.
GOOD.
GOOD, CARISSIMA MIA.
REST NOW.
REST UNTIL IT IS TIME.
The next thing Emily knew, Miss Pendennis was shaking her. Emily opened her eyes and found herself staring at the brightly colored carpet on which her head rested. She was entirely at a loss to explain how her head had come to rest on said carpet.
“Miss Edwards!” the woman was saying. “Miss Edwards!”
Emily blinked confusion.
“Miss Pendennis?” she said.
Fragmented memories tumbled through her head: the conservatory, steamy heat, a stalk through the park. She had been angry, terribly angry about something …
Stanton.
That was it, Dreadnought Stanton, his checkered past and his circumscribed future. The memory closed around her oppressively, bitterness rising afresh. But a broken heart didn’t explain how she’d ended up facedown on the carpet.
“Come on, up with you.” Miss Pendennis put her hands under Emily’s arms and lifted. “I must say, for a robust California girl you’re as vaporous as any eastern female I’ve met. You can put on a new dress later. Now you’re getting back into bed.”
Back into bed? New dress? Emily looked down at herself, clad only in corset and chemise. When precisely had her clothing gone missing? She climbed into bed, confused, and Miss Pendennis tucked her under the covers.
“Now, does your head really hurt? Or did I simply fail to catch your clever way of indicating you wanted a good cry?”
“My head feels fine,” Emily said finally.
Miss Pendennis nodded briskly. She took the case from the bedside table.
“Unfortunately, I can’t mix up a nostrum that will help the real problem,” Miss Pendennis said. “Look, I’m terribly sorry about Dreadnought and all those careless things I said earlier. I had no way of knowing that you two …” She paused awkwardly. “I’m just never good at figuring those kinds of things out, I’m afraid.”
Emily felt a blush creep up her neck. There was only one thing worse than having a broken heart. It was a broken heart laid out on the table for everyone to cluck over. She gritted her teeth. “Mr. Stanton is the least of my worries.”
Miss Pendennis smiled wanly.
“Good girl,” she said. “Keep your chin up.”
Emily spent the rest of the day in bed—an occupation that was apparently ladylike, but that gave her far too much time to think about things she’d rather not have thought about. She was glad when Miss Pendennis came in with the purple moiré silk over her arm and said it was time to dress for the Grand Symposium.
Emily stared into the mirror as Miss Pendennis fussed around her, making the final touches to her costume. Swathed in shimmering silk, Emily looked as rich and unapproachable as a plate of gilded truffles. The dress had a tight bodice, cut low to reveal her shoulders and arms. The skirt billowed extravagantly from the waist, then twisted and looped and puffed in innumerable, fascinating ways. Her hair had been knotted at the back of her head and secured with the hair sticks; Miss Pendennis had secured a fluffy spray of ostrich feathers to camouflage the sparseness of the bun.