The Hidden Goddess

by M. K. Hobson

  “He did not wish to ask me, he wished to ask her.” Zeno reached inside his coat and produced the golden rooting ball in which the acorn that contained Komé’s spirit floated gently. It glittered as he turned it over carefully in his hand.

  Emily fixed him with a hard stare. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him it would be impossible for him to speak with Komé,” Zeno said. “You must understand, I seek to protect her, and you, and the whole Institute. It is a dangerous time now. It is always dangerous when great power is transferred. It is the only reason I agreed to meet with him. If I had turned him away, the Sini Mira might have felt it necessary to cause some disturbance at Mr. Stanton’s Investment tomorrow.”

  “Then you didn’t tell him anything?”

  “I told him nothing he did not already know,” Zeno said.

  “They went to talk to my pap,” Emily said. She hadn’t meant to say it, but the words seemed to tumble out of her mouth all on their own. “The Sini Mira. They sent men to Pap’s place, and asked him questions about my mother—” She halted abruptly, pressing her lips together tightly. She hadn’t meant to tell him about that. But everything about him seemed so certain, so comforting …

  “Did he tell them anything?” There was an intensity to Zeno’s voice that made Emily tremble. She felt suddenly as if there was nothing she could do to keep from telling him about the little blue bottle in her pocket. But something still made her feel she shouldn’t. She struggled against the impulse to speak. These were her memories. She would not let the Institute have them. She swallowed hard, looked away from him.

  “No,” she said finally. “He didn’t have anything to say.”

  Zeno was silent for a long time, and the force of his benevolence seemed to hum in the air between them.

  “If you know anything, Miss Edwards, it could be very important.”

  “Why?” Emily said.

  “Obviously they believe your mother had some connection with the poison. It is the only reason they would be looking for her now. What connection that might be, I cannot say.” He paused. “If the Sini Mira finds the poison, they will implement it. It will have immediate and terrible repercussions for magic. If you know something about your mother that might lead to us finding the poison before they do …” He let the words hang. He stared at her. His eyes were terrifying.

  “He told me my mother’s name,” she said abruptly. Miss Jesczenka knew about that anyway, Emily reasoned, and she would certainly tell Zeno if he asked. “Catherine Kendall. She was from Boston.”

  “That is something,” Zeno said.

  “And …” the words were on Emily’s lips, to tell Zeno about the bottle of memories. The words were already forming in her mouth, all on their own. She had to tell him; it could have huge ramifications for magic if she didn’t. For Stanton. Fatally unpleasant, he’d said …

  The memories in the bottle could be the turning point between the Sini Mira finding the poison and implementing it and the credomancers finding it and stopping them. But she bit down on the words, chewed them, swallowed them. Not now. She was not ready, and an impulse of wariness still buzzed at the back of her mind.

  Treachery.

  What if Zeno were lying about everything? She’d trusted Mirabilis—rather against her better judgment, she reflected—and for all his assurances that she would come to no harm, she’d still lost her hand. She looked at the ivory prosthetic. It glowed softly in the room’s low yellow light, and the hand that was gone seemed to ache faintly. No. She would not tell Zeno anything. Not now, not until Stanton’s Investment was over, until he was Sophos. She trusted Stanton. Right now, she wasn’t sure if she trusted anyone else.

  “Is there anything more you have to tell me, Miss Edwards?” Zeno prompted gently.

  “The Sini Mira,” Emily murmured, seizing desperately on something she could tell him that didn’t reveal the existence of the bottle of memories. “They sent a man to follow me in California.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “He said his name was Dmitri. He rescued me from an Aberrancy.” Emily described the events. She hadn’t even told Stanton about her encounter with the Aberrancies, but each word she spoke to Zeno seemed to demand another, and sentences strung on sentences until she’d told him everything.

  “It sounds like your visit home was quite eventful!” Zeno smiled. “And it is comforting to know that the Sini Mira find you more useful alive than dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The man could have killed you easily if the Sini Mira meant you harm,” Zeno pointed out. “Instead he saved you, and let you go on your way without impediment. Actions do speak loudly, Miss Edwards.”

  That was true, Emily thought. The Sini Mira didn’t seem to mean her harm—at least not yet. But who knew how their feelings might change if they knew about the blue bottle? This resolved her even more strongly not to speak of it again.

  “You are safe here, Miss Edwards,” Zeno said in a rich soothing tone. It made Emily feel sleepy. “The Sini Mira have gone. They will not be allowed to return. I’m sorry you were upset.”

  “It’s all right,” Emily found herself saying.

  “I can see that you’re tired,” Zeno said. “And I apologize for having kept you up so late. Tomorrow will be a busy day. I trust you will get some rest.”

  And indeed, not five minutes after Zeno was gone, as if his last few words had been a command rather than a heartfelt hope, Emily had crawled into bed and fallen into a deep and dream-filled sleep.

  The next morning, Emily woke from muddled dreams well before dawn, her head aching slightly. She splashed her face with cold water from the basin. The events of the previous night were vague, as if remembered through a fever.

  Craving fresh air to clear her head, she opened the windows wide and climbed onto the windowseat, drawing her knees up to her chest. The predawn air was cool on her face and her bare feet. She closed her eyes, inhaling the fragrance of dew and darkness. So this was it. The big day, after which everything would be different. Leaning her head back against the cool marble, she looked out over the smooth lawn of the Institute, curving downward toward the crystal-paned conservatory. The only light came from the Institute itself, from the gas fixtures that blazed at each exterior door.

  In the light from one of these fixtures stood two people.

  Emily’s first instinct was to duck back inside, so whoever it was wouldn’t see the fiancée of the future Sophos sitting in the window in her nightgown. But it soon became clear that the two individuals—one male, one female—had eyes only for each other.

  The young man was familiar only in that Emily had seen hundreds of his type during her time at the Institute. Dark-suited, the fresh-faced youth was such a standard-issue Institute student he could have been used for an advertisement. The woman held him in her arms, their heads drawn together in intimate converse. As if hearing a sound, the woman startled, cast a guilty glance from right to left. When the light caught her beautiful face, Emily almost gasped. Miss Jesczenka! Quickly, flushed with embarrassment at having intruded on such a private moment, Emily slid down from the windowseat. Well, that put paid to the idea that no one at the Institute saw Miss Jesczenka’s loveliness. And a boy half her age! Well, good for Miss Jesczenka.

  When Miss Jesczenka arrived just after breakfast to help her get ready for the Investment, Emily certainly didn’t mention what she’d seen. She did, however, ask how anyone could possibly spend a whole day getting ready for an event that didn’t begin until midnight. In response, Miss Jesczenka proceeded to fill every hour with a procession of experts. Emily was bathed, massaged, oiled, perfumed, and manicured. Her short hair was creatively arranged in something called “Roman curls,” each curl brilliantined smooth and secured with a little diamond-tipped pin.

  When the fitters arrived from Worth, it was clear that Rex Fortissimus had given them an earful. They profusely apologized for any perceived misunderstanding; it was their u
nderstanding that they were supposed to come that afternoon, not the previous. Miss Jesczenka had nothing but sympathetic comfort for the poor young women, impeccable in white aprons over black dresses.

  “Oh please, don’t apologize,” Miss Jesczenka purred, giving the lead fitter a glance that was both sympathetic and conspiratorial. “Mr. Fortissimus does get things so muddled.”

  Emily stood like a mannequin in a lace-trimmed chemise and petticoats while the women bustled about her, drawing tight the corset lacings until her waist had been compressed to the nineteen inches that the Gods of Fashion had handed down as the standard of female beauty.

  “You’ll need to let that rest for a while,” the lead fitter said, as she went to busy herself with the gown. “We’ll have to tighten it again before we put the dress on.”

  “Tighten it again?” Emily moaned, looking at Miss Jesczenka. The woman was sitting in a corner, sipping tea and watching the proceedings.

  “The laces and fabric will stretch,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to ruin the fit of the dress with a slack corset.”

  “I still don’t know why I couldn’t have worn one of those nice flowing dresses that so many ladies are wearing now.”

  “Yes, I can see that you’d be much more comfortable as an aesthete.” Miss Jesczenka dipped a cookie into her tea. “But this is not England, and you’re not going to be romping through fields of poppies.”

  Emily grunted discontentedly. “I shall surely faint.”

  “That will be very becoming and maidenly,” Miss Jesczenka said. “And you can be assured that I shall be nearby all night with smelling salts to revive you. But do take care to fall in an attractive arrangement, won’t you? It wouldn’t be very nice to sprawl yourself out in front of all the Institute’s distinguished guests.”

  Emily glared at her, but Miss Jesczenka just smiled and dipped another corner of her cookie into the tea.

  After a half hour of letting the corset relax itself as it would—a half hour after which Emily found she could breathe a little easier—the fitters attacked her again, drawing the laces tighter and tying them off with seemingly sadistic satisfaction.

  “Nineteen inches on the nose!” said the lead fitter, using a tape to measure Emily’s waist. Emily tried to take some comfort in the fitter’s pride, but there wasn’t much to be found. Her blood pounded in her ears, and every time she moved, little black sparkles danced behind her eyes. She wondered how one went about falling in an attractive arrangement.

  Miss Jesczenka consulted her watch.

  “I’m going to see to my own dress. Will you have her ready for me in about an hour?”

  The fitters nodded efficiently as Miss Jesczenka left, then proceeded to bring out the gown.

  It was the first time Emily had seen it completed, and looking over the extravagant draperies of white satin spilling luxuriantly from the fitters’ clean white-gloved hands, she just knew she was going to spill something on it. A linen cloth was placed over her head to protect her Roman curls as the heavy, rustling satin was slid down over her. The girls moved about her in a dainty dance, fastening the tiny satin-covered buttons up her back, using miniature silver scissors to trim away errant threads. It took about three-quarters of an hour, but finally they were finished. They stepped back and let Emily examine herself in the mirror. The gown had a broad row of ruching from hem to breast, dainty kick pleats of white satin, and ruffled sleeves that looked like old tea roses turned upside down. The effect was simple, but the draperies that seemed so carelessly elegant were really quite complex; the girls had spent a good quarter-hour fussing with them to get them to pouf and hang just so.

  As she stood before the mirror, the fitters proceeded to warn her very sternly about the grave sartorial dangers associated with sitting, eating, drinking, treading on her hem, or letting anyone else tread on her hem. Once they’d exhausted their litany of potential disasters—and most of her remaining patience—they left, and Emily was alone for the first time all day.

  Since sitting was out of the question, Emily stood in the middle of the room, feeling rather foolish. A soft baaing sound came from within her reticule. She pulled out the slate quickly.

  A HORSE IS TIED TO A 10-FOOT ROPE, Stanton’s writing read. THERE IS A BALE OF HAY 25 FEET AWAY. WITHOUT BREAKING ITS ROPE, THE HORSE CAN EAT THE HAY. HOW?

  Emily went to lean against the high dresser to write her answer, the sound of slate against slate squeaking through the quiet room.

  MAGIC ROPE. Emily tapped the period at the end of the sentence.

  I SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO ASK YOU RIDDLES.

  DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO? Emily wrote.

  I’M SUPPOSED TO BE MEDITATING DEEPLY ON THE NATURE OF SOBRIETY AND SELF-DISCIPLINE, Stanton replied. BUT THIS IS MORE FUN.

  WELL, JUST WATCH OUT FOR FORTISSIMUS. HE’LL RAP YOUR FINGERS WITH A CANE IF HE CATCHES YOU PLAYING HOOKY.

  NOBODY WILL BE RAPPING MY FINGERS TONIGHT, DARLING. NOT IN THIS HAT.

  Emily grinned, pressing her lips to the slate. Forget all the words; the kiss was what she really wanted to send. She was wondering how she might phrase her desire in a manner more evocative than a long string of X’s and O’s when she heard the sound of Miss Jesczenka’s gentle knock. Quickly, Emily erased Stanton’s words—and the faint smudges left by her lips—and tucked the slate into the dresser’s top drawer.

  Miss Jesczenka had changed into a restrained gown of rich copper brown, embroidered with geometric figures in bronze thread. She pressed steepled fingers to her lips as Emily obliged her with a spin.

  “Perfect,” she nodded approvingly. “A vision from head to toe.”

  “Well, that’s my head and toes sorted,” Emily said, nodding toward her right arm. “But what about this?”

  From shoulder to elbow, Emily’s arm was smooth and rosy; below the elbow, however, began the sturdy leather fastenings that held her prosthetic hand in place. Displayed against a background of gleaming white satin, the ugly rigging looked like a set of sock garters laid in a fancy presentation box.

  “Easily fixed,” Miss Jesczenka said, producing a pair of evening gloves with the skill of a prestidigitator. They reached well above her elbows, hiding the prosthetic from direct view, though the buckles did bulge through the tight satin. Once she had fastened the tiny pearl buttons at the wrists, Miss Jesczenka carefully replaced the glimmering diamond ring on Emily’s finger.

  “That certainly is stunning,” she said, tilting Emily’s hand up to the light.

  “I’ll do my best not to hit anyone with it,” Emily said.

  “Now, one last touch.” Miss Jesczenka reached into her pocket and pulled out a cylindrical silver powder box. Withdrawing a soft pink puff, she dusted Emily’s face with a cosmetic that smelled of talc and lavender. Emily fought the urge to sneeze. Tucking the box back into her pocket, Miss Jesczenka stepped back to scrutinize the effect.

  “Oh, yes.” The woman smiled with the pride of an artist regarding a masterwork. “Just the thing for that shine. I believe you’re ready, Miss Edwards.”

  The clock on the mantel struck nine. As if to confirm the clock’s opinion of the time, Miss Jesczenka consulted the small gold watch she wore at her waist. “And without a minute to spare. The photographer will be waiting.”

  Emily gathered her skirts, kicking her train behind herself in a rather donkeyish way that made Miss Jesczenka’s smile dim.

  “Photographer?” Emily followed as the woman led her briskly down the hall. “I’m going to be photographed?”

  “You must have an official portrait made. The Institute will have no end of uses for it. And it’s a good idea to have it done while you’re looking your best, don’t you think?”

  “But I thought I was being kept under wraps,” Emily puffed as she hurried to keep up. “I was told it was part of Mr. Fortissimus’ plans.”

  “I could not comment on Mr. Fortissimus’ plans or lack thereof,” Miss Jesczenka said archly. “But I can say with a
bsolute assurance that after tonight, whatever wraps you have been kept under will be off. There will be no end to the newspapers, journals, and ladies’ monthly digests that will be clamoring for information about you.”

  Emily’s heart thudded dully behind its casing of silk and steel.

  “Who, me? I can’t be in papers. I don’t have anything to say!”

  “Having something to say is not a requirement for being in the papers, especially not for a lady,” Miss Jesczenka said. “As a matter of fact, they prefer it if you don’t. You need only be a pretty face in a pretty dress. The Institute will handle the rest.”

  Just as it has handled everything else, Emily thought as they turned into a room that was usually used for classes. It was brightly lit; all the curtains had been drawn back, and the last brilliance of sunset streamed in through the tall panes of glass. A small studio area had been set up in one bright corner; velvet draperies hung behind a strangely shaped chair with one fat velvet-upholstered arm. The photographer and his assistants bustled around a large box camera, fussing with broad, flat glass plates.

  The photographer posed Emily carefully, her head turned to one side and her ringed hand resting lightly on her opposite shoulder. Her gloved prosthetic was carefully left out of the shot.

  “Smile pretty,” the man said as he ducked under a heavy black hood at the back of the camera. “And for God’s sake, don’t move.”

  Emily realized, with a sudden flash of foreboding, that the direction was likely to summarize her entire mode of existence for quite some time to come.

  At ten o’clock, after the photographs had been taken, Miss Jesczenka said that it was time to go down.

  While the Investment ceremony was to be held in the Institute’s Great Trine Room, the reception that preceded it was to occur in the great hall—a soaring space with the magnificent dimensions of a cathedral. At one end, a wide marble staircase swept down from the broad mezzanine that ringed the hall. At the room’s far end stood two enormous black doors—the highly polished ebony guardians of the Great Trine Room.