by M. K. Hobson
Emily extracted her mother’s amethyst earrings from her silk pouch and hung them in her ears.
“Those suit the dress perfectly!” Miss Pendennis touched one of the drops with a finger. “You are full of surprises, Miss Edwards.”
“A lady is supposed to be, isn’t she?” Emily said softly as she tucked her silk pouch down the side of the dress, nestling it next to her left breast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Skycladdische and the Sangrimancer
The Grand Symposium was to be held at midnight, and was to be preceded by a late supper. Emily and Miss Pendennis went downstairs together, walking briskly to the mezzanine that overlooked the Institute’s magnificent great hall.
“Stay close to me,” Miss Pendennis whispered, looking side to side, as if they were going together into a jungle. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
They paused at the top of the wide marble staircase that led down to the floor of the hall. The room blazed with light reflected from dozens of mirrors and innumerable cut crystal prisms that dangled from the gilded gas fixtures. The ceiling was a series of stained-glass domes, their vivid colors muted against the dark evening sky. The air was rich with the scent of orchids—an exotic perfume wafting from masses of deep-red blooms arranged in huge ormolu vases.
At the far end of the room were two enormous black doors, highly polished, inlaid with channels of hammered gold as wide as Emily’s forearm. These channels outlined a large triangle. At each point of the triangle was an arcane symbol, and in the center of the triangle, where the doors met, was the sigil of a closed fist. Inscribed in gold beneath the triangle’s base, words in Latin: Ex Fide Fortis.
Miss Pendennis noticed the direction of Emily’s gaze. “Never mind the Great Trine Room—look over by the fireplace.”
Emily’s eyes found the fireplace, which was carved of white marble and had to be at least ten feet tall. Around it, a small group of men stood smoking and drinking brandy from large bubble-shaped snifters. Three of the faces were familiar: Mirabilis and Tarnham, with old Ben hovering nearby in formal pressed whites. The fourth man was of medium build, with a very self-satisfied air about him.
“That’s Addison Rocheblave,” Miss Pendennis said. “President of Rocheblave Consolidated Industries. Surely you’ve heard of him?”
Emily shook her head.
“He’s the richest sangrimancer in America, if not the world. He built his fortune on other people’s blood, operating asylums, poorhouses, whorehouses, orphanages, opium dens, gambling pits … anyplace where easily forgotten unfortunates could be lured and bled. By doing this, he’s addressed the greatest difficulty any sangrimancer faces—maintaining a ready supply of blood for their ghastly rites. Not that they usually mind harvesting it themselves, mind you. For them that’s part of the fun. But it’s rather hard to maintain a decent lifestyle if you have to wander from town to town, murdering randomly and hoping not to get caught.”
Miss Pendennis drew a deep breath.
“Anyway, he’s leveraged that blood money to cement business alliances with everyone who is anyone … the Astors, Rockefeller, Morgan, Gould, you name it.”
“A big bug,” Emily summarized.
“I’ll bet he paid Mirabilis a pretty penny for the privilege of attending,” Miss Pendennis mused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your twenty thousand is coming out of his pocket.”
Emily fought a wave of revulsion at the idea. Then motion at the other end of the room drew her attention. At first, Emily had the strange impression that a tramp had found his way into the Institute. But the man, in a high-collared black suit with frayed cuffs, was being respectfully escorted by Institute guards toward the fireplace. The man was so hugely fat that Emily wondered how he could stand up, much less walk—but he moved across the floor with surprising briskness.
“I don’t believe it!” Miss Pendennis grinned wolfishly. “This just gets better and better. If Caul could see this, he’d rip himself to bits.”
“Who is it?”
“Selig Heusler. The High Priest of the Temple of Itztlacoliuhqui.” She lifted an eyebrow. “A pretty shabby specimen, if you ask me.”
“Itztlacoliuhqui?” Emily remembered Caul speaking the strange word. “The goddess with the half-baked doomsday?”
“Temamauhti.” Miss Pendennis nodded. “I don’t know anyone who takes it seriously, except that lunatic Caul. Put two sangrimancers in a room and they’ll come up with some kind of harebrained scheme to take over the world, or destroy it. Temamauhti is a harebrained scheme of the latter sort. A blood apocalypse of unimaginable proportions.” She paused. “Mirabilis probably invited him just to tweak Caul’s ear. Oh, the old boy has brass, I’ll give him that!”
“Ah, Miss Edwards, Miss Pendennis!” Professor Mirabilis’ cheerful voice echoed in the hall’s vastness. “Gentlemen, please!”
Glasses of brandy were put down and cigars were hastily extinguished. Mirabilis gestured the women down the stairs. “Come, join us!”
When they had descended, Mirabilis took Emily’s arm and escorted her toward the fireplace. “Not everyone is here yet, but they shall be arriving shortly.”
“Who else is coming?” Emily asked warily.
“I have invited three representatives from each of the grand traditions,” Mirabilis said, not really answering.
“Credomancers and their trines,” Miss Pendennis, walking behind them, muttered. Mirabilis did not look back, but bent his head close to Emily’s to whisper. “Remember what I told you earlier.”
“Eyes open and mouth shut,” Emily whispered back, now understanding the reason Mirabilis had emphasized it. “Don’t worry, I got it.”
When they reached the group, Mirabilis stepped back and presented Emily with a flourishing bow, as if she were a life-size doll of his own design.
“Gentlemen, this is Miss Emily Edwards, of whom you have heard so much.” Mirabilis looked at each of the sangrimancers in turn. “Mr. Heusler. Mr. Rocheblave.”
Emily stared into the middle distance, trying to ignore the fact that the men were looking at her like a cupcake on a plate. Her carefully cultivated composure was rattled when Heusler grabbed her arm. He lifted the truncated appendage to his face so he could examine it with his small paste-diamond eyes. As he turned her arm this way and that, Emily caught a glimpse of dark patterns showing under his grimy cuffs. Black inked tattoos, the kind sailors wore, but heavier of line and strangely unsettling.
“Where’s the stone?” Heusler finally asked, after having apparently committed the exact lineaments of her arm to memory. “I didn’t come all this way to look at a stump.”
Mirabilis disengaged Emily’s arm from Heusler’s grasp, put his body between hers and the High Priest’s.
“Your questions will be answered when the Grand Symposium commences,” Mirabilis said.
“He’s got it locked up somehow,” Rocheblave said to Heusler. He had a high, querulous voice. “And here I thought credomancers put more store by trust.”
Mirabilis smiled noncommittally and gestured toward the end of the room where a table had been laid.
“The remaining colleagues will join us soon,” Mirabilis said cheerfully. “Shall we eat?”
At the table, which shone with silver and prismatic cut crystal, Emily was seated between Mirabilis and Miss Pendennis. She picked at a plate of something exotic that probably contained lobster. Miss Pendennis leaned across her, speaking to Mirabilis under her breath.
“So I’m dying to know—who have you invited from the animantic tradition? I know Mr. Saladin Buck is off in Europe somewhere, but surely you got ahold of Mrs. Amanda Haynes Reader … or maybe Townley Newgate? This symposium sure could use a little Townley Newgate right about now.”
Mirabilis buttered a small piece of bread with extravagant casualness, but said nothing.
“Well?” Miss Pendennis demanded.
“Miss Edwards and the Indian Holy Woman will serve as the other two animant
ic representatives,” Mirabilis said smoothly.
“Are you insane?” Miss Pendennis’ voice carried across the table, as did the sound of her fist pounding the damask. Mirabilis smiled apologetically as the gentlemen around the table looked up. Heusler seemed glad for the opportunity to let his piggy little eyes linger on Emily. “You’re telling me that spirit workers will be represented by—excuse me, Miss Edwards—a backcountry Witch with no experience of magical society and an Indian in a nut?”
“And a very pushy women’s reform crusader,” Mirabilis said mildly, sipping his wine. “You’ve summarized it perfectly, Miss Pendennis.”
Emily looked down at her plate, trying to ignore that horrible High Priest. He just kept looking at her, his tiny eyes appraising and disgustingly suggestive. To make matters worse, he was seated next to Tarnham; when the fat man leaned his head over and said something under his breath, Tarnham laughed in not a nice way and reached up to stroke his ferret. Emily thought of black knives and blood. The images made her flush suddenly.
“I’m going for some air,” Emily murmured.
But Miss Pendennis didn’t seem to hear. She was leaning toward Mirabilis again, her cheeks pink with indignation.
“Come to mention it, you’ve hardly outdone yourself in your selection of credomantic talent either. Tarnham, for mercy’s sake? Your secretary? Why not Rex Fortissimus, or one of your own magisters? And where’s Dreadnought, anyway? You promised Miss Edwards that you’d allow him to participate!”
Emily pushed herself away from the table without waiting to hear Mirabilis’ response.
Along one side of the great hall was a line of tall French glass doors that opened onto a broad veranda overlooking the Institute’s gardens. One of the doors had been left ajar to admit fresh air. She snuck out through it, her skirts rustling. She came to stand by the mossy stone railing, looking down over it at the smooth green grass below.
She shivered a little; the night air was cold, and the veranda was dark. She had only been away from the table for a few minutes when she heard footsteps coming up behind her.
“Well,” a voice drawled lazily. “If it isn’t the guest of honor.”
Emily didn’t need to turn to know that it was Tarnham. She pretended as if she hadn’t heard him, but it didn’t help. He sidled up to her, a greasy grin on his face. His ferret peered at her.
“Parted from the stalwart protector of her virtue?” Tarnham smirked as he rolled the last word around in his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’ve already been routed! Dinner isn’t even over yet.”
“I haven’t been ‘routed’ Mr. Tarnham,” Emily said flatly. “I came out for some air.”
“Yes, I suppose girls like you need cooling off every now and again,” Tarnham said. “By the way, Heusler is quite taken with you. Says he’ll pay good money. I could hardly discourage him, since I hear money’s what you’re mostly interested in.”
He stared down at her décolletage and made a little reproachful tsk tsk.
“Why, you’ve got a loose thread, just there.” His hand came up to where her dress dipped to reveal the cleft of her breasts. “Why don’t you let me …”
Without a second thought, Emily hauled back and slapped him across the face, putting her whole shoulder into it. Tarnham went reeling, staggering a step. He rubbed his cheek and stared at her with wide eyes.
“I won’t be squinked, Mr. Tarnham,” she said. “I don’t care what kind of woman you think I am, but skycladdische or not, I’m someone you’d better not trifle with!”
Tarnham stared at her. “You struck me!”
“I’ll do it again, you slimy, smirking hoodlum,” she hissed, balling her hand into a fist. “I don’t know how women do things in New York, but in California we settle matters like this with six-shooters. Now take that ugly rat of yours and leave me alone.”
Tarnham drew himself up, tugged his coat down, and retreated in a hurry. Emily turned away. Anger and indignation burned in her cheeks. Yes, she would be heartily glad to never see another Warlock again!
She was surprised by a soft ripple of laughter drifting up from the shadows, where the stairs led down to the garden. Someone thought that was funny, did they? She stormed over to see who it was.
It was Stanton.
“Well done.” He grinned. He was wearing dark evening clothes and an overcoat, and he looked well. Better than he had a right to. “I have always wanted to see Tarnham get the kind of female attention he deserves.”
“I’m glad I could oblige,” Emily said coolly, turning away.
“Emily? Are you all right?” Miss Pendennis ducked her head out of the door. “I heard a blow, and then that Tarnham came scurrying through ever so …”
When Stanton saw Miss Pendennis, he gave her a little salute. “Hello, Pen.”
“Hello, Dreadnought.” She smiled at him. “Thank the goddess you made it. It’s downright ugly in there!”
Miss Pendennis looked between Emily and Stanton. She scratched the back of her head, cleared her throat.
“Yes. Well. I’ll just go back in, then.” She looked at Emily. “As long as you’re … all right?”
“I’m fine.” Emily bit the words. “I shall be in momentarily.”
When Miss Pendennis was gone, Stanton said, “She’s a great friend …”
“… of your sister Hortense. Yes, I’ve heard.” Emily didn’t look at him. “I’ve heard a great many things.” She paused. “How’s your shoulder?”
He shrugged the shoulder in question. “Better.”
“And I expect you’ve gotten yourself cleansed?”
“Quite a disgusting process, really,” Stanton said. “It involves bone rattles and live chickens. You would have found it fascinating.”
“Oh, I’ve found more than enough to fascinate me,” Emily said. “I’m getting pretty tired of being fascinated by things, actually.”
Stanton said nothing. He was looking at her, his green eyes traveling from her face to her feet.
“You look wonderful,” he said.
Emily shrugged as if the subject bored her, letting her hand smooth over the purple silk of her skirt. Then she turned away from him abruptly and went back to the railing. He followed, coming to stand next to her. They looked out over the darkened gardens, the smell of distant daffodils rising on the gentle breeze.
“Ready for the Grand Symposium?” he asked.
“No, given that it has no chance of success and Mirabilis’ true motivations for holding it are clouded with intrigue.”
Stanton nodded, leaned forward on the stone railing, supporting himself on his elbows. He looked at her sidelong. “I’m glad you asked for me,” he said. “I’ll do everything I can to help, I promise.”
“You always have,” Emily murmured. Except tell me the truth about anything.
The act of speaking with Stanton made her feel cross and lonely. Never mind. By this time tomorrow she’d be on a train back to California with twenty thousand dollars in her pocket, and that was all she cared about.
Without a word, Stanton reached over, took the stump of her ghost hand, and lifted it gently. He looked at it like a jeweler inspecting a broken watch.
“Professor Mirabilis didn’t tell me about this,” he said. “Where exactly is your hand?”
“It’s in another dimension,” Emily said. Stanton’s fingers were warm on her arm.
“I guessed as much,” he said. “The Institute has a world-renowned extradimensional research program. I might have applied for it if I hadn’t taken the Jefferson Chair—”
Emily jerked her arm away abruptly. “I’m sorry you didn’t,” she said. “I’m sorry you wasted so much of your precious time in Lost Pine. I’ll give everyone your regards when I get back.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Just as soon as this is over with. I’m going home.”
“To marry your lumberman, no doubt.”
“Yes,” Emily spat. “To marry my lumberman.”
Stanton
blinked at her. “What?”
Emily didn’t reply. Nervously, she ran her index finger over the gold ring she wore on her thumb. When she realized what she was doing, she stopped abruptly. She lifted her hand to him, fighting to hold it steady.
“Mr. Stanton, will you please remove the ring from my thumb?” she asked. “I doubt we’ll be seeing much of each other after tonight, so it’s best that I return it now.”
Stanton made no move to take the ring.
“Are you really going to marry the lumberman?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “I’ve got a great future ahead of me, just like you’ve got a great future ahead of you.” She paused, letting her hand drop angrily. “Of course, your future will be far shorter than my future, but that hardly matters. Because our two futures won’t have anything to do with each other, given that I’m a skycladdische and you’re half a sangrimancer!”
Stanton stared at her, obviously absorbing the specifics of the outburst. He lifted a hand and rubbed his broad forehead with his thumb and forefinger.
“Well, I must say. I thought you said you wouldn’t stand to be squinked, but they’ve obviously been squinking you from here to next Sunday!”
“It’s not a squink if it’s the truth,” Emily hissed. “Is it?”
“What? That you’re a skycladdische, or that I’m half a sangrimancer?”
“That you’re dying.” Emily’s voice was low and resonant.
Stanton was silent for a long moment.
“We’re all dying,” he said eventually. “I’m just doing so at a more rapid pace than most.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it wasn’t your business to know,” Stanton said.
Emily looked at him and was silent for a long time, her eyes searching his face.