by M. K. Hobson
Emily shook her head. Miss Jesczenka sighed.
“Your father, whoever he was, was not married to your mother.”
Emily was silent for a long moment. The excitement in her chest took on a slightly queasy cast.
“So I’ve gone from orphan to bastard in one fell swoop?”
“I am afraid so,” Miss Jesczenka said. “No one needs to know, of course—”
“Of course not,” Emily muttered. No problem at all. The Institute would pay people to believe she was some mysterious cattle baron’s daughter, and the fact that she’d sprung from the wrong side of the sheets would be covered up just as completely as the fact that she’d grown up in a timber camp in California. The shortcomings of her unseemly history would be eradicated with the Institute’s money and power—because she was going to be the wife of the Sophos, and the wife of the Sophos had to be beyond reproach.
“Miss Jesczenka,” Emily asked as they reached the threshold of the Library’s main door, “what does fait accompli mean, exactly?”
“Something already done,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Something that cannot be helped.”
And at that moment, Emily felt very fait accompli indeed.
It didn’t take long—from the Library doors to the high vaulted Main Hall—for Emily’s despondency to mellow and her excitement to rekindle. Well, she was a bastard. So what? She was no worse off than she’d been before. If Stanton was willing to marry someone with no parents, he should be willing to marry someone with just one. And she was more excited at having discovered a mother—a real mother whose existence could be empirically verified—than at losing some small measure of legitimacy. She had a mother, and her name was Catherine Kendall, and the Sini Mira were looking for her. And Emily was going to find out why.
“What is the time?” Emily asked as they headed back toward her rooms.
Miss Jesczenka consulted the gold watch that hung at her waist. “Nearly nine-thirty. Why?”
“I’ll see myself up,” Emily said. “I’m going to drop in on Emeritus Zeno.”
Miss Jesczenka quirked an eyebrow, indicating that Emily’s whimsical fancy to “drop in” on the father of modern credomancy was unprecedented, but she said nothing.
Emily said her good-nights to Miss Jesczenka at the Veneficus Flame. The flame burned in the uplifted hand of a wise-looking goddess whose statue occupied an honored place in the very heart of the Institute. As had become her habit, Emily looked up at the flame that the goddess held aloft, pleased to see how high and strong it was burning. To her, the strength of the Veneficus Flame was the material representation of the benefits she’d bought at the price of her hand. The knife flashing down, the dull thud, the sudden blinding pain … the memories made her wince. If only she could trade those memories for the ones in the Lethe Draught.
She shivered and laid her living hand on the goddess’ ankle, closing her eyes to steady herself. She could feel the power surging beneath the smooth cool surface, the strength of the Mantic Anastomosis rushing beneath her fingers. And then, suddenly:
Treachery.
Emily’s heart jerked, and she pulled her hand from the statue as if she’d been burned. A message from Ososolyeh, as clear as if the word had been whispered in her ear. She looked around the darkened hall, but there was no one there. Her heart beat in her throat as she hurried away from the statue. Wasn’t that just her luck lately—to look for comfort and find only something more alarming.
She turned down the hall to Zeno’s office, pausing when she heard the sound of men talking around the corner. It was probably just a few students, or a cluster of instructors. None of them had ever paid a moment’s attention to Emily. She was willing to wager nine-tenths of them didn’t have the slightest clue who she was or why she was hanging around the Institute. She kept on walking.
But as she turned the corner, it wasn’t an instructor or a student that she ran into.
It was Rex Fortissimus.
Fortissimus wasn’t a large man—he was a little over medium height and somewhat paunchy of build—but he carried himself like a colossus. He had neatly groomed steel-gray hair, a luxurious silver mustache, and the sharpest, whitest teeth Emily had ever seen. He wore a ring on every finger—two on some. His watch chain glittered with jeweled fobs and ornaments, and the enormous blazing diamond set in his gold stickpin made Emily frown at her own ring. The thought of the Institute buying her engagement ring was bad enough, but the thought of Fortissimus procuring it from his own jeweler—some snooty joint, no doubt—was simply unbearable.
Fortissimus was wearing evening clothes and an overcoat and had his gloves in his hat. Even though he was dressed to go out he stood entirely immobile, critically examining a large swag of gold bunting. He was surrounded by a group of tired-looking laborers.
“I’m so sorry,” Emily said quickly when Fortissimus finally noticed her. What was it about Fortissimus that always made her apologize?
“Miss Edwards,” he said, flashing his white teeth at her scornfully. “Good evening.”
Suddenly Emily regretted very much not having changed into a dinner gown; she felt Fortissimus’ eyes over every inch of her limp and rumpled afternoon dress. She crossed her hands in front of her and attempted to look composed.
“Where is Miss Jesczenka?” Fortissimus’ eyes continued to scan Emily’s body, as if she might have secreted Miss Jesczenka somewhere on her person. “Is it not her duty to accompany you?”
Keep me from causing trouble, you mean, Emily thought. “Oh, I just … I was just stretching my legs.”
“It would be better if you took your exercise away from the master’s wing,” Fortissimus said, obviously unwilling to let a reference to Emily’s legs proceed from his lips. “Emeritus Zeno must not be disturbed.”
“Of course,” Emily said. “I didn’t know you had business with him tonight.”
“I do not,” Fortissimus said curtly. “But I fear that the arrangements for the Investment tomorrow haven’t been seen to with the care I’d hoped.” He directed the last words like spitballs at the hangdog laborers standing before him. “But correcting such incompetence will have to wait until morning, as I have an engagement this evening.” The way he said “an engagement” made it sound as if he was having the Empress Eugenie over to buff his nails. This infuriated Emily, and she lifted her chin impetuously.
“Yes, if by ‘an engagement’ you mean beer at Delmonico’s,” she said, striving to match his supercilious tone. “Mr. Stanton told me.”
“Most gentlemen would hesitate to impart such knowledge to a lady,” Fortissimus said. “Perhaps next time Mr. Stanton volunteers such vulgar information about his schedule, you could remind him that you are his fiancée, not some common female who is expected to take such things as a matter of course.”
Emily bit back a harsh retort. She remembered what Miss Jesczenka had said about Fortissimus being a powerful enemy—but she could not imagine anything she could possibly do that would be likely to gain his alliance. Anything, that was, short of magically transforming herself into one of the simpering daughters of the New York aristocracy that everyone thought Stanton should be marrying.
So inwardly she seethed, but outwardly she made no show of it as she allowed Fortissimus to take her arm and lead her back to the domed entry hall where the Veneficus Flame burned.
“Now, if you can find Miss Jesczenka, I’m sure she will be happy to accompany you on a walk through the gardens,” said Fortissimus as he pointed Emily up the stairs that led to the private rooms. “Though the hour does grow late, and the gardens are better appreciated by the light of day—”
“Mr. Fortissimus!” It was Miss Jesczenka’s voice. She was coming down the stairs, and her face was painted with worry and concern. “Miss Edwards! What are you doing still up? How fortunate that you happened to run into Mr. Fortissimus. You’ve told him, then?”
Emily blinked, not quite sure what she was supposed to say.
“No,” she said finall
y.
“It’s good of you to be accommodating, Miss Edwards, but we really must consult Mr. Fortissimus on this matter.”
“Matter? What is the matter?” Fortissimus looked at Miss Jesczenka, and Emily noticed that his eyes when he looked at her were softer, less disapproving. This was probably because Miss Jesczenka was standing in a particular way—a way Emily had never seen her stand before. She looked vulnerable and soft and innocent and lost. She had removed her tortoiseshell glasses, let them swing from a gold chatelaine around her waist; her velvet-brown eyes gleamed moist and pleading. Fortissimus, for all his stature as a credomancer, did not seem to have a defense against this particularly feminine wile.
“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you about something so insignificant, Mr. Fortissimus,” she said, and she sounded as if she truly regretted wasting a moment of his time, “but it’s about the dressmaker you engaged for the final fitting of Miss Edwards’ gown for tomorrow. The wretch was supposed to arrive today, but she never did and … oh!” Miss Jesczenka laid a hand against her cheek and let out a little sigh of frustration, as if the retelling of the incident were upsetting her beyond the capacity for speech. Fortissimus clucked his tongue sympathetically, his whole posture becoming strong and paternal.
“I’m sure it was simply an oversight,” he said, taking her slender hands in his large ones and giving them a consoling pat. He glanced back disdainfully at the laborers, who were busily rehanging the bunting. “So many details have been overlooked, it’s quite vexing. I’ll send a boy tonight to make sure the fitters are here first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Fortissimus,” Miss Jesczenka gushed, her voice dropping to a lower register. “You manage such difficult situations so … masterfully.” Then Miss Jesczenka turned and fixed Emily with a calm brown gaze, and when she spoke her voice was as severe and disapproving as Fortissimus’ had been.
“Really, you should retire, Miss Edwards. It simply won’t do to have you running around the Institute like this. I’ll see you up.”
Fortissimus grunted in satisfied agreement. Emily saw a look pass between them—a look of complicit sympathy for Emily’s impossibility.
“Certainly,” Emily said through gritted teeth.
After many more effusive thank-yous to Fortissimus, Emily and Miss Jesczenka retreated up the stairs. But as they reached the landing, as Emily was about to continue up the next flight, Miss Jesczenka laid a hand on Emily’s arm. She paused, listening silently as Fortissimus’ footsteps retreated down the corridor.
“Now you can go back to Emeritus Zeno’s office if you like,” Miss Jesczenka said.
“I could have given him the slip just as easily,” Emily said, “without you having to make a fool of yourself.”
“With how full of secrets you looked, he wouldn’t have been satisfied if he’d seen you to the door of your bedroom himself.” Miss Jesczenka sighed. “I don’t know what you’re seeing the Emeritus about, and it’s probably better that I don’t. But you’d better go ahead, if you’re going.”
Emily turned to go, then hesitated, brow wrinkling. She turned back to Miss Jesczenka.
“Why on earth should anyone prefer us to behave so stupidly?” she said. But Miss Jesczenka’s eyes revealed no answer to this question.
“Go on, now,” was all she said.
Emily crept back downstairs on swift silent feet, past the Veneficus Flame, not pausing to risk another message from Ososolyeh. She reached the door of the Sophos’ office, laid a quiet hand on its gold-plated doorknob. She turned it quietly, opened the door, and crept into the large book-lined antechamber. There were voices coming from within the office, from behind the tall heavy wooden doors with their magical sigils emblazoned in gold and mother-of-pearl. Could Fortissimus have snuck back when she wasn’t looking? It couldn’t be, she thought. No one was that sneaky.
“Emeritus Zeno,” she called softly, before opening the door. “Emeritus Zeno, forgive me for bothering you—”
As Emily walked into the office, she saw two men: Benedictus Zeno, small and friendly and benign, with a face that looked as if it did not know how to express meanness or malice. And another man, sitting casually in one of the carved-wood chairs that was drawn up before the vast desk.
A man with ice-blue eyes and hair as white as paper, with a brown cigarette between his fingers from which silver smoke curled.
Emily knew him in an instant, but when he saw her, he lifted his chin and lamplight illuminated his face wholly, and any doubt she might have harbored was dispelled.
He was called Perun. He was the leader of the Sini Mira.
Emily blinked, looked from the face of the Russian to Zeno’s face and back again.
Treachery.
Without speaking a word, Emily slammed the door behind herself and ran back the way she had come.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Bad Investment
Emily’s first impulse was to leave the Institute that very night. But as she sat trembling on the soft bed in her silent room, she realized that such a move would be too impulsive, and that it would be far better to take herself in hand, review the situation coolly and calmly, and then leave the Institute.
Her fear, as it often did, took the form of anger—anger at Stanton mostly, for having told her she’d be safe in the Institute. He was always telling her she’d be safe in the Institute, and he was always wrong about it! Here was the Sini Mira, lounging in Zeno’s office, in the very heart of the Institute, trading pleasantries with the man who was supposed to be protecting her.
Relax, she commanded herself, breathing deeply. Review the situation coolly and calmly. But her attempts to mathematically outline the problems arrayed against her, and solve for whatever value would show her the way out of this mess, led her to one irreducible conclusion. Catherine Kendall was very important to someone, for some reason, and that reason was very likely contained in the little blue bottle of memories in her pocket.
Emily pulled out the bottle and looked at it, holding it up against the low flickering glow of the gas jet. There seemed to be two distinct layers to the contents within. She took off the cap and sniffed it. It smelled of clove oil and iron filings. She wondered what it tasted like, and nearly touched a drop to her tongue before shaking her head and wedging the cap firmly back on. Tomorrow was Stanton’s Investment. Certainly Zeno would let the Sini Mira do nothing to disturb that. Assuming, of course, that Zeno had any kind of power over the Sini Mira at all.
There was a knock at the heavy mahogany door, which Emily had taken great care to lock. Emily drew her nightrobe more tightly around herself, her heart thudding against her ribs.
“Miss Edwards?” Zeno’s soft voice came through the door. “Miss Edwards, it is important that I speak with you.”
Emily was distinctly aware that she did not have to open the door. Indeed, every particular of Miss Jesczenka’s training over the past few weeks advised against it. She was clad only in a nightgown—never mind that the nightgown had more fabric in it than any dress she’d ever owned in Lost Pine—and a lady did not hold conversations in her nightgown. But that didn’t stop Emily from stalking over to the door and crouching by the keyhole.
“It’s not a proper hour for calling, Emeritus Zeno,” she hissed through the small opening. “You and whoever’s with you can just go away.”
A soft chuckle filtered through the wood.
“Miss Edwards,” the voice was so reasonable and soothing, a grandfatherly voice that made Emily suddenly long for her pap. “There has been a misunderstanding, and I feel it must be rectified immediately. Please let me come in. I’m alone, I promise.”
Emily weighed her options. Turn Zeno away and spend a sleepless night wondering about his motives, or open the door and hear what he had to say. She knelt with her forehead against the cool doorknob for almost a minute, trying to decide what to do. She remembered the barked insistence in her ear: treachery. But who was the traitor? Zeno? The pale Russian?
And who, precisely, was being betrayed?
“Miss Edwards, I swear to you that no harm shall befall you.” Zeno’s voice made the wood of the door vibrate slightly. “Please let me speak to you.”
Her fingers played over the heavy lock. He only wanted to talk to her, after all. Finally, she opened the door with a jerk.
While Zeno was revered as the father of modern credomancy, he was a particularly unimposing figure, so unlike the swaggering, braggartly credomancers Emily had become accustomed to. He was small and unassuming, his bearing vaguely apologetic. He looked at her with large calm eyes.
“I am sorry to have to come to you like this,” he said. “I know that it’s awkward, but I would like the chance to explain what you saw.”
Emily retreated from the door to one of the large chairs by the window. Zeno followed silently, taking a chair across from her and regarding her through steepled fingertips. He did not speak for a while, but when he did, his voice was clear and resonant.
“In the position of Sophos, one must deal with a variety of individuals,” he began. “Those individuals may not always be friendly, but they must be dealt with nonetheless.”
“The Sini Mira are Eradicationists,” Emily said curtly. “They want to poison magic!”
“They seek to implement a formula that may have some baneful properties, yes,” Zeno said. “You remember Komé referred to it at the Grand Symposium.”
The poison, Komé had said. The poison hidden by the God of Oaths. It did not die with him. Ososolyeh desires it.
“The poison hidden by the God of Oaths.” Emily repeated the words as they had sounded in her mind. Zeno nodded.
“In the Russian cosmology, Volos is the God of Oaths. The poison she was speaking of is called Volos’ Anodyne. The Sini Mira wish to know where it has been hidden. The man you saw—Perun, the leader of the Sini Mira—came to me to find out.”
“Why would he think you would know?” Emily snapped. “And even if you did, why would he think you’d tell him?”
