The Hidden Goddess

by M. K. Hobson

  “Well, this is to be a teaching dinner, isn’t it?” Miss Jesczenka put down her fork, rearranging it and its fellows neatly before her as she spoke. “It’s part of the business, Miss Edwards. Men have to bond with their fellows, and this is the manner that suits them best. Even if Mr. Stanton happens not to share their appreciation for such entertainment, he can’t hold himself aloof from the people whose support will provide him with his power.”

  Emily frowned.

  “I can promise you, Miss Edwards, as Rex Fortissimus is hosting the event you’re referring to, Mr. Stanton won’t enjoy a moment of it, no matter how many girls or legs there are.”

  “Why not?”

  “Right now, Rex Fortissimus is unquestionably the most powerful credomancer in New York,” Miss Jesczenka said. “The Fortissimus Presentment Arranging Agency is internationally renowned. He made his fortune consulting for Tammany Hall, coming up with creative methods for keeping their subliterate constituency pliable and amused—”

  “He didn’t seem to be able to do much for Boss Tweed,” Emily interjected.

  “Fortissimus is no idiot,” Miss Jesczenka sniffed. “By the time the graft and corruption got so far out of hand that no amount of creative Presentment would cover up the stink, he had switched sides. As a matter of fact, he helped Tilden to convict Tweed. All those cartoons by that clever Mr. Nast? His idea.”

  “So when things got tough, Fortissimus not only jumped like a rat from a sinking ship but blew a few extra holes in the boat while it was going down?”

  “You could put it that way,” Miss Jesczenka said, though it was clear she wished Emily wouldn’t. “He worked for Tammany Hall when it was profitable. Now it is profitable to whisper in Tilden’s ear, because Tilden has a chance to become the president of the United States, and Boss Tweed is rotting away in a jail in Spain somewhere.”

  Emily knit her brow. “So what does that have to do with Mr. Stanton?”

  “Fortissimus is sure to have packed this beefsteak with his Democratic cronies. Given that the Stanton family is staunch Republican, he will certainly be in for an evening of …” Miss Jesczenka paused, obviously choosing her words carefully. “Partisan wrangling. He’ll have to be on his guard from the time he walks in to the time, if he’s lucky, he passes out from drinking Fortissimus’ cheap liquor.”

  “But I thought Fortissimus was hired to help Mr. Stanton!”

  “He was,” Miss Jesczenka said. “But credomantic power is hierarchical. One gains power only by someone else losing power. Since Mr. Stanton will be assuming the full power of the Institute, it’s in Fortissimus’ interest to propitiate him—but it’s also in his interest to make sure that his own power base remains intact. Fortissimus will take this opportunity to ensure that Mr. Stanton maintains a healthy respect for the considerable extent of his influence.”

  “Well, why is Mr. Stanton going to his beefsteak at all then?” Emily asked. “Shouldn’t he just ‘cut him dead’?” She used the term with self-conscious pride; she’d just learned it during their last lesson. But Miss Jesczenka seemed too horrified by the idea to notice her student’s dexterity.

  “And start a conflict with a vastly more powerful credomantic practitioner?” Miss Jesczenka recoiled. “That wouldn’t help anyone, Miss Edwards. Powerful enemies can be valuable, in certain situations, but powerful friends are better. And Mr. Stanton is by no means strong enough to make powerful enemies. Not real ones, at least.” Miss Jesczenka leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Really, it was a stroke of genius for Emeritus Zeno to invite Fortissimus to participate so closely in Mr. Stanton’s Investment. I’m sure that if he hadn’t, Fortissimus would have proved extremely obstructive.”

  Emily shook her head. Of course Zeno had come up with the perfect solution to Fortissimus’ potential obstructiveness. Zeno always came up with the perfect solution. The old man was a continual mystery to her. He seemed such a kind and gentle soul—but behind his mellow visage roiled a stormy sea of schemes.

  “But I don’t understand why being Invested is going to make Mr. Stanton any more powerful,” Emily said. “I mean, he is as powerful as he is, isn’t he?”

  “That might be true if Mr. Stanton specialized in another form of magic,” Miss Jesczenka said tactfully, simultaneously referring and not referring to the years Stanton had trained as a blood sorcerer. “But that’s not the way it works in credomancy. Mr. Stanton is as powerful as his cultors believe him to be. And right now, strictly speaking, he has no cultors. That is what the Investment is designed to do—formally transfer the loyalty of the cultors from Sophos Mirabilis to Mr. Stanton.” Miss Jesczenka paused. “He hasn’t explained this to you?”

  “There hasn’t been time,” Emily said.

  Miss Jesczenka took a deep breath. Then she let it out. “My, it is warm in here, isn’t it?” She stood, going to the windows to open them. A welcome breeze of cooling evening air stirred the silk curtains.

  “Credomancers draw their power from how strongly people believe in them—you know that, of course.” Miss Jesczenka settled herself back in her chair. “But there’s a structure to that belief that allows power to be focused and distilled. That structure is called a credomantic pyramid. Most institutions of power, whether they’re political, military, or commercial, are credomantic pyramids. The broad base consists of the cultors—that’s Latin for ‘worshipper’ or ‘follower.’ At the Institute, those are the students. Fortissimus himself has hundreds of very powerful cultors—the employees of his Agency. Now, above the cultors are the praedictators—middle managers, if you will. As the holder of a Jefferson Chair, Mr. Stanton was a sub-praedictator, because he had no cultors of his own. Above the praedictators are the magisters—the professors, here at the Institute. Finally, at the very top, there is the Sophos, in whom all power is concentrated, collected, and focused.”

  Emily pondered this. “So you’re a magister?”

  “I am now the only female professor at the Institute since the departure of that dilettante Mrs. Quincy.” Miss Jesczenka frowned at the old woman’s memory. “And she was only given the position in San Francisco because her dead husband endowed the extension office. But I am a faithful practitioner. I have given my life to the study of credomancy, and I will be proud to serve as one of Mr. Stanton’s magisters.”

  “Then you have cultors?”

  “Over two hundred of them. I have four instructors under me and each instructor has about fifty students under his direct tutelage.”

  “So it really is a big leap for Mr. Stanton to go to being Sophos all at once, isn’t it?” Emily remembered Stanton’s words at the blockhouse.

  “An unprecedented leap,” Miss Jesczenka said, but then said nothing more. Emily bit her lip. The shortness of the woman’s replies indicated that Emily was asking questions Miss Jesczenka didn’t particularly want to answer, but those were usually the questions that most needed to be asked. She pressed on.

  “Mr. Stanton took the power of the Institute with sangrimancy,” Emily said softly. “I’m sure some people believe that he shouldn’t have the position at all.”

  “I am sure many people believe that,” Miss Jesczenka said.

  Emily remembered Stanton bent over Mirabilis’ blood-soaked corpse, his fingers tracing arcane patterns in the gory pool of red, muttering guttural words of power. Emily had seen magic, grown up with magic, known magic all her life … but she’d never seen power like that. The memory of it sent spiders up her spine.

  “Well, he didn’t steal Mirabilis’ power, no matter what anybody says,” Emily snapped, feeling a strange sudden need to defend Stanton. “It was the only thing he could do.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Stanton did what he thought was best,” Miss Jesczenka said mildly. Then she gestured toward the rolling cart. “Shall we have dessert?”

  Emily sat brooding while Miss Jesczenka served her a plate of something frothy with a decorative sprig of mint arranged elegantly on the top.

  “Speaking of Mr.
Stanton,” Miss Jesczenka said in a sprightly tone, “I met Rose Hibble earlier today. She said she’d given you a card for Mr. Stanton. She was quite worried about whether she’d gotten the inscription right. Did you give it to him?”

  “Oh heck, I forgot,” Emily said.

  “You must encourage her, you know. She has the potential to be an incredible asset to Mr. Stanton. She is a true zealot, veritably aflame with faith. Best of all, she has the energy and drive to foster admiration in the people around her. She can develop cultors for Mr. Stanton right and left. Really, as Mr. Stanton’s wife, you will be expected to fill that role eventually. But in the meantime, you can help by treating her well and encouraging her, even if Mr. Stanton hasn’t the time.”

  Emily chewed over this. Could she ever be like Rose, hanging on Stanton’s every word and action, either real or imagined? She doubted it. Just the thought of it gave her a mild headache and made her feel tired.

  Emily looked down at her untouched dessert, and decided to leave it in its pristine state. It was so pretty, it seemed a shame to spoil it. She placed her napkin gently beside her plate, as Miss Jesczenka had taught her. The woman nodded approvingly.

  “Very nice,” she said. “You didn’t knock anything over. I believe you’re learning, Miss Edwards.”

  Emily blushed, thinking of the piles of soaked damask she’d been responsible for sending to the Institute’s laundries over the past month. She stood.

  “Shall we retire to the Library?” Emily said with extravagant formality.

  “That would be delightful,” said Miss Jesczenka.

  The Institute’s Library featured a huge central room, a Palladian space ringed with stained-glass windows depicting arcane scenes. From high skylights above, sunset brilliance slanted through the dust of ancient texts.

  The shield-shaped chandeliers that hung from the carved ceiling had not been lit yet, but the shelves along the walls, and on the mezzanine above, were lined with glowing gas fixtures under green glass shades. The whole room had a strange twilight aura—the odd feeling of summer when the hour grows late, but light remains.

  In the very center of the room, inlaid in brass on the floor, was a compass with the Institute’s motto: Ex fide fortis. From faith, strength. The compass’ arrows pointed to an archway leading to a different wing in each of the cardinal directions.

  Even though the day’s classes had long since concluded, the library was full of students. Several quiet young men looked up as the women passed, then just as quietly returned to their studies.

  Their steps echoed dully against the stacks of leather-bound books. Finally they came to a door over which was written, in letters of gold, “Social Practices and Customs.” The room was lined with dark wood shelving, close packed with books and smelling of parchment and vellum and ink. Miss Jesczenka went straight to the circulation desk, where a young man sat in close concentration before a pot of ink that was levitating in the air directly before his eyes.

  “Excuse me,” Miss Jesczenka said softly, but not softly enough; the young man startled and flinched. The pot of ink began to fall—but before it could hit the desk, Miss Jesczenka darted out a hand to catch it without spilling a drop.

  “Thanks awfully,” he said. “I ruined a whole ledger of entries that way, just last week—” As he reached up to take the pot of ink from her, he realized for the first time just who was standing before him. He blanched. “Oh! Professor! I didn’t know … forgive me …” He hurried to stand, brushing his hands on his trousers and smoothing back his hair.

  “I need the Boston Social Register,” Miss Jesczenka said.

  “Certainly,” the young man said crisply. “Allow me to fetch it for you.”

  The young man was gone and back in moments, bearing a thick volume.

  “It’s an updating copy, just refreshed this month, so it should be current.” He laid it on a nearby table for their use.

  “Updating copy?” Emily asked, as she came to peer over Miss Jesczenka’s shoulder at the book, on which the title Boston Social Register was stamped in gilt letters.

  “It automatically updates itself with current information every quarter.” Miss Jesczenka opened the book, and pointed out the date: June 1876.

  “But if my mother were in it, she wouldn’t be in it now,” Emily said. “She died when I was five … in 1856, I guess that would make it.”

  “By 1856, she wouldn’t have been Miss Kendall anymore,” Miss Jesczenka pointed out. “So let’s start with 1850, a year before you were born. She should still have been Miss Kendall then.”

  Miss Jesczenka gestured to the clerk. He came over with great dispatch, a look of helpful eagerness on his face.

  “We need this returned to 1850,” she said, handing him the book.

  “Certainly, Professor Jesczenka. Of course you’re welcome to use the Chronos Cabinet yourself, if you’ve got several years you need to return to.”

  They followed the young man to the desk, behind which was a large ebonized cabinet, decorated with scrolling floral patterns. On its lid was a series of wheels, white dials enameled with black numbers. The young man turned the wheels with his thumb. Then he opened the cabinet and laid the book inside.

  “I’ll be just here if you need me,” he said, taking his seat and resuming his attempts at ink-pot levitation.

  “What is this thing?” Emily asked as Miss Jesczenka closed the lid of the cabinet and latched it shut. She pulled down a large handle on the cabinet’s side. There was a small whirring sound, like the sound of something being sucked up through a pneumatic tube.

  “The space within the cabinet reorients itself briefly to the year you direct it to,” Miss Jesczenka said, waiting a moment before she raised the handle and lifted the lid. “Anything inside it returns to that year as well.” She lifted the volume out of the cabinet, laid it on the counter before her, and opened the cover. Emily read the date on the frontispiece.

  June 1850.

  “Would that work with anything?” Emily breathed, astonished. “If you put a cat in there and turned the dial back a year or two, would it come out a kitten?”

  The young man sniffed disapprovingly from his chair. “Don’t think there aren’t cutups around here who haven’t tried it.”

  “It’s not advisable,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Living creatures are not meant to travel in time.”

  “Can it be turned forward?” Emily persisted. “Could we find out who is going to be in the Boston Social Register in 1900?”

  The young man stifled a chuckle. Miss Jesczenka gave him a frosty glance.

  “No, Miss Edwards, because 1900 hasn’t happened yet.” She said this so kindly that Emily was willing to overlook the slight smile that curved her lips. “Now, Kendall …”

  She leafed through the pages until she found the K’s, then let her slim finger travel down the columns. It stopped at a point on the middle of page 132.

  “Kendall,” she read. “Rev. and Mrs. James (Emily Grace Nesbitt).” And, below that, connected by a line, read “Kendall, Miss Catherine Olivia.”

  Emily felt her heart flutter, leaned forward for a better look. There it was, in black and white. Catherine Olivia Kendall. And other names, too, the names of Catherine Kendall’s parents … Emily’s grandparents. And beside the line that connected them, an address.

  Emily’s mouth felt dry again, and she longed for another drink of the ice water that Miss Jesczenka had given her when she’d stepped out of the Haälbeck door.

  “Pemberton Square,” Miss Jesczenka mused. “I believe that was a good address in those days.”

  So it was entirely possible that her mother was respectable, Emily thought. On one hand, it was nice to think that she might be able to lay claim to an actual heritage even more respectable than the cattle-baron history the Institute wanted to manufacture for her. But on the other hand, it raised so many more questions than it answered. How did a respectable girl from Boston end up frozen to death in Lost Pine? Why would a respectable
girl from Boston be looking for the Sini Mira?

  “Now, we need to find exactly when she ceased to be a Kendall and took on her husband’s name,” Miss Jesczenka’s voice broke through Emily’s thoughts. “The register is updated every quarter, in January, April, July, and November. We’ll just have to go one by one until Miss Kendall vanishes and Mrs. Whoever-She-Is shows up on the marriages page.”

  They didn’t have far to look. They advanced the book through the remaining issue of 1850—November—and Miss Kendall remained firmly entrenched below her parents. But when the register was advanced to January 1851, her name was missing from below James and Emily Kendall’s.

  “I believe we’ve got her!” said Miss Jesczenka, turning quickly to the page titled “Marriages of 1851.” Miss Jesczenka ran her finger carefully down the page, and Emily looked intently over her shoulder, but Catherine Kendall’s name did not appear on the marriages page. Miss Jesczenka said nothing, but advanced the register to the next issue—April 1851. Still no Miss Kendall, and no wedding. Miss Jesczenka tried a third and last time, advancing the register to the July 1851 issue, before she finally closed the book.

  “Thank you, we’re finished with it now.” Miss Jesczenka returned the book to the young clerk. “You’ve been a great help.”

  “My pleasure, Professor,” he said, the ink pot hovering satisfactorily before his eyes.

  Miss Jesczenka seemed sober as they walked back; Emily couldn’t help but notice the furrow in her brow.

  “Well, we found something, at least,” Emily ventured. Inwardly, she was bubbling with excitement, but there was something in Miss Jesczenka’s face that worried her.

  “We found more than you may like,” Miss Jesczenka said quietly. She looked around them to make sure that no one was close enough to hear her next words. “Miss Edwards, there’s only one reason a woman’s name would be expunged from the Social Register like that. She got into a … difficulty.”

  Emily stood stock-still, looked at her. “A difficulty?”

  “The date of her expungement coincides with the time she would have been carrying you. Don’t you understand what that means?”