by M. K. Hobson
“I left the Agency after that, of course. And of course, there was a child. The bitter fruits of ruination. I gave the baby to an orphanage. What else could I do?” She looked at Emily, as if wishing Emily had an answer she herself had never been able to find. When she saw no answer, she let her eyes fall back to her lap. “I do not know what became of him, and I will never know. I could not even give him a name, only a description in my own language. Utisz. Anonymous.”
“How did you do it?” Emily asked breathlessly, imagining Miss Jesczenka young and lost and alone. She herself had often felt young and lost and alone, but she couldn’t imagine how much worse it must have been for the woman who sat before her.
“I was hired by a flower shop that needed a quick-foot for deliveries. The flower shop specialized in orchids. My deliveries often took me to the Mirabilis Institute, to the conservatory. It was there that I met Benedictus Zeno. We became friends and I liked him very much. He was good to me, and he even spoke to me in Polish sometimes. After a while, I told him everything that had happened. I wouldn’t ever have told anyone, but I told him …”
A look of fresh puzzlement at the unexpectedness of her admission came over Miss Jesczenka’s face. How well Emily knew that puzzlement.
“He helped me gain admission to the Institute. Mirabilis didn’t want to have anything to do with me. He didn’t think I was a good risk, as he put it. But Zeno was kind. He understood. And I did everything I could to make him proud.”
“I’m sure he would be proud of you,” Emily said. A sudden question struck her. She wondered if she should speak, but curiosity overcame tact.
“But Fortissimus has seen you a hundred times since. How come he’s never recognized you?”
“Fortissimus sees positions, not people,” Miss Jesczenka said bitterly. “He would not recognize his own mother if she were dressed in the clothes of a beggar. And as I’ve told you, credomancers often have the weakness of believing their own press. He believed that girls he made ruined women would stay ruined women.” She paused, clenching her teeth. “More fool he.”
Then she rearranged her face brightly, and the note in her voice when she spoke next was as cheerful as if she’d just been talking to Emily about the bright morning sunshine, and how vexing it was that the heavy dark curtains must be drawn to keep it out.
“Now you know my darkest secret,” she said. “My sad tale of woe.”
Emily looked across the carriage at her. “It seems that you’ve done very well for yourself.”
Miss Jesczenka smiled at her. “Yes, I have, haven’t I?” Her note of cheerfulness became terrible, almost mad in its intensity. “I’ve come far enough to pay back Ogilvy Creagh Flannigan for what he did to me. I intend to repay him pound for ounce the humiliation and misery he caused me. Revenge is indeed a delicious dish, Miss Edwards, served hot or cold. I hope you never have cause to develop a taste for it.”
And hearing the bitter note of obsession in the woman’s voice, Emily found that she sincerely hoped so as well.
The Fifth Avenue Hotel occupied an entire block between Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth streets. Six stories of white marble, it faced onto the sweet-smelling gardens of Madison Square. The carriage came to a stop and Dmitri’s face appeared through a crack in the door.
“The men are in place. Come in quickly, Miss Edwards.”
Emily was ushered hastily into the luxurious grandeur of the hotel, Dmitri at her elbow, his eyes darting back and forth as they walked. Emily found that his nervousness was infectious; she found her eyes sweeping the beautifully dressed crowd for black suits and obsidian stickpins.
She was escorted into a box called a Perpendicular Railway—a little car with a liveried attendant who touched his hat to her as he slid the ornate grate closed. Emily felt her stomach fall to her feet as the box swept her swiftly up to the Imperial Suite on the sixth floor.
As they came down the hall, Emily glimpsed a beautiful large ballroom, in which the acoustics did indeed seem to be wondrous. Emily could hear every note of the reporters gabbling within, their loud voices carrying into the hall. But they didn’t go directly into the room where the reporters were. Instead they entered the suite through different doors, into a large withdrawing room with arched marble windows hung with gold brocade draperies. Miss Jesczenka threw her bag down and immediately began rummaging through it.
“We’re going to have to be even more aggressive than we were at the Investment.” From the bag she withdrew a silver case that Emily recognized as the same silver powder case she’d used at the Investment. She pulled out the same pink puff, dusted Emily’s face with it as she had before, but she didn’t just stop there; she proceeded to sprinkle Emily’s whole body, stopping just short of dumping the silver box’s contents over Emily’s head. Emily brushed away glittering dust, coughed chokingly at the overwhelming stink of lavender. “The glamour I applied to you for the Investment was subtle—I didn’t want random ambassadors to start dying of unrequited love for you. This time, however, the more heart-breakingly lovely you are, the better our purpose will be served.”
“It’s like a love spell?” Emily felt a faint echo of panic, remembering the love spell she’d put on Dag Hansen. The love spell that had cost her so much.
“Exactly so,” Miss Jesczenka said briskly. “You’re going to make those reporters fall head-over-heels in love with you. They’re going to find you so appealing and attractive that not only will they believe everything you say, they’ll be driven to hit the streets immediately in your defense.”
“But that’s not honest!” Emily said.
“Forget about being honest,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Worry about being convincing. Now, let’s get these in your ears.” She took out a pair of delicate pearl earrings and hung them in Emily’s ears. “These earrings will allow me to communicate with you. Listen for me, and for God’s sake, do exactly as I say.” Indeed, Emily did not see how she could fail to listen to Miss Jesczenka; once the earrings were in her ears, Miss Jesczenka’s voice became twice as loud.
“Won’t the reporters hear?” Emily winced, putting a hand to her ear.
“No, only you,” Miss Jesczenka said. “And don’t wince like that, it’s not maidenly at all. Now, one last thing.” Her hand dipped back into the bag and when she removed it, something blazed between her fingers. Emily stared dumbfounded at the diamond engagement ring she’d left back at Mrs. Stanton’s.
“How did you get it back?” Emily said.
“Much as it pains me to compliment Dmitri, I will allow that he’s got some highly skilled footpads in his employ,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Give me your hand.”
For some reason, Emily hesitated slightly. Miss Jesczenka’s brow knit.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, nothing,” Emily said, holding out her hand, hoping Miss Jesczenka didn’t see how much it trembled beneath its sheath of white satin.
When everything was ready, Miss Jesczenka positioned herself before the doors to the drawing room. She took a deep breath, and once again, she seemed to be gathering strength, marshaling force from deep within herself. Then she threw up her head, straightened her back, flung open the doors, and strode into the ballroom.
The room was large and high ceilinged. Dozens of reporters lounged on carved chairs that had been brought in for them; some of them had tipped the chairs back, some sat straddled over them, casually slouched forward. Emily’s eyes swept the room, noting the arrangements that had been made for them: platters of delicious-smelling food—already mostly devoured—carafes of ice water and juice and coffee, lots and lots of coffee. But what Emily noticed most, and what gave her the most comfort, were dozens of Russian men—Dmitri’s men. Gone were the loose peasant shifts; now they were all carefully suited, and they stood ranged around the walls, their bodies hiding the silver-loaded rifles behind them. Dmitri himself was standing by the door, staring stock-straight, his face impassive and watchful.
As she came into t
he room, the gabbling voices stilled. Dozens of eyes followed her as she walked. The reporters sat up straighter; some of the straddlers even swung their legs back over their chairs and hastened to sit in a more dignified fashion. Notebooks came out, pencils were pulled from above ears.
Emily came to sit demurely on a red velvet sofa as Miss Jesczenka took her place at a highly polished lectern. She lifted her chin, gathered the reporters within the compass of her velvet-brown gaze.
“Thank you all for coming,” Miss Jesczenka began. “I am Miss Tiza Jesczenka, and I have the great honor to hold a position as senior professor at the Stanton Institute of the Credomantic Arts, the foremost institution of credomantic education in the United States. I appear before you today as Miss Edwards’ representative. As you all know, she is engaged to be married to Mr. Dreadnought Stanton, the Sophos of the Institute. She has asked you here personally because it is her deep and heartfelt desire to defend her true love against the scurrilous accusations and ignoble attacks leveled against him by those who wish to see him damaged by such falsehood.”
Miss Jesczenka paused, looking out over the reporters. Their pencils hovered over their pads, but they did not write. They were too busy staring at Emily. Emily blushed. The glamour Miss Jesczenka had cast on her was certainly quite powerful. Lowering her eyelashes made the men breathe hard. Lifting a hand—which she did experimentally to touch a stray curl—made them watch as if they were imagining her using that hand to do something shocking.
We’re off to a fine start, Miss Jesczenka’s voice whispered in her ear, as the woman lifted a glass of water to her lips. She put the water down carefully, looked out over the reporters again.
“First, she prays that you all imagine the grief these accusations have caused her. The terrible, heartbreaking grief of an innocent, virginal bride-to-be, with all the fondly cherished hopes and dreams that a young girl nurtures in her chaste bedchamber. She has been very hurt by these accusations. Very deeply hurt.” Emily saw the agony her supposed pain caused the reporters. They looked at one another, concerned. She lowered her eyelashes again, and felt certain that one man in the front row was about to break into tears.
“Is it not unfair, gentlemen—is it not ignoble and unkind—that this beautiful child, who dreams only of true love and its appropriate sanction, should have to suffer the existence of such base and disgusting and utterly unfounded lies about the man she loves? The powerful, honest man who rescued her from dangers more terrible than should ever be imagined, the bold lover who brought this innocent girl from an innocent land to New York, with all its bright promise … where, instead of finding the welcome and adoration of its inhabitants, she was instead wounded—nearly fatally, perhaps—by their depravity, and cruelty, and sniggering prurience?”
The reporters looked among themselves, ashamed. They had all written stories about Dreadnought Stanton, Emily guessed. And they were all imagining themselves with beautiful, innocent fiancées reading them. Heads hung, feet shifted guiltily.
“Shame on you!” Miss Jesczenka cried suddenly, her voice trembling. “Shame on you all!” But at that moment, Emily rose softly and laid a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“No, Miss Jesczenka,” Emily said, keeping her voice very soft, as she had been instructed.
Don’t worry if they can’t hear you … they’ll just listen harder, Miss Jesczenka had said. It wasn’t hard to keep her voice soft, with her heart thudding in her throat as it was. Emily stepped before the lectern, putting herself, her lovely dress the shade of a shell’s lip, and her shimmering glamour on display before them. She crossed her hands before herself, lowered her head.
“Please, don’t be so hard on these poor men.” Emily put a lilt in her voice. “They were only doing their jobs. They didn’t know. They didn’t know that it was all lies … all lies …”
Emily let her lower lip tremble and lifted a handkerchief to her eyes to catch supposed tears. Several of the men moved forward, looking to be in the right position to catch her if she should faint.
“Gentlemen, I understand that each one of you has a very important job. Mr. Stanton often says that reporters are the most powerful men in New York, and for the first time, I truly understand that terrible power. I understand that you must write stories that are interesting and … titillating …” Emily took care to hit every “t” in the word with tantalizing precision. “But my fiancé—Dreadnought Stanton, the Sophos of the Stanton Institute of the Credomantic Arts, the foremost institution of credomantic education in the United States—is truly a great man. He is kind and noble, decent and strong. I know that he could never do anything ugly. He could never do anything base.”
“But he practiced sangrimancy, didn’t he, Miss Edwards?” Emily’s eyes came up quickly to a man in the back who spoke the words loudly. He was a very large man in a shiny gray waistcoat. He looked calm and pleased with himself. He wasn’t sitting, but was leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed. He didn’t have a notebook or a pencil; he was just watching Emily with cool appraising eyes. He was smiling, but not necessarily in a mean way.
Horace Armatrout! How did he get in here? Miss Jesczenka’s words hissed in Emily’s ears.
“There will be time for questions later, Mr. Armatrout,” Miss Jesczenka said crisply.
Don’t worry, he’s not one of Fortissimus’ men, but he’s honest. Too honest. He writes for The New York Times and he’s impossible to manipulate. The womanly wiles may work on the other simpletons, but not on him. Be careful.
“It’s all right, Miss Jesczenka,” Emily murmured, lifting a hand. The gesture made a cluster of reporters in the middle of the room fan themselves. But Emily paid them no attention. She looked at Horace Armatrout.
“Mr. Stanton did study sangrimancy,” Emily said. “But that was a mistake he made long ago. He has paid the price for it. He admits his error of judgment.” Not seeing any give in Armatrout’s cool eyes, Emily looked rather desperately around at the men she knew she had under her sway. “Haven’t any of you gentlemen ever made a mistake?”
“Oh, of course, of course …” Emily heard the men mutter among themselves. By that point, however, Emily was aware that she could have told them that they had all attended the Fifth Council of Reims and had gotten good copy out of it, and they would have agreed with her. All of them. All of them except the coolly smiling Mr. Armatrout.
“Short of a hangman’s noose, I wonder how exactly one goes about paying for the mistake of killing people and stealing their blood,” Armatrout said. But it was not a question, so Emily said nothing, just kept her lips pressed together tightly. “And speaking of errors in judgment, what about this ‘Mrs. Blackheart’?” Armatrout reached into his pocket, pulled out a red book, and held it before himself. “Just another one of his mistakes, Miss Edwards? To be honest, I find your apparent acceptance of your noble fiancé’s indiscretions kind of … puzzling.”
All right, Miss Jesczenka’s voice was clipped. I think it’s time we considered the fainting option. But Emily did not faint; she just lifted her chin and stared back at Horace Armatrout.
“I have met Mrs. Blotgate,” Emily said. “She was a guest at the Investment, in the company of her husband.” Emily had to clench her teeth to get the next words out, but she got them out all right, to her credit. “She seemed very nice. I don’t believe any of the things I read in that book, not about her or about my fiancé.”
“You read the book?” Armatrout sprung the trap, his voice rich with pretended astonishment. “You read The Blood-Soaked Crimes of Dreadnought Stanton? Hardly nice material for an innocent such as yourself.”
God no, you haven’t read it. Miss Jesczenka’s voice in her ears was horrified. You can’t even conceive of the kind of depravity described in that book.
“Oh, no … I couldn’t read it,” Emily stammered. “I couldn’t even concieve of the kind of depravity described in that book.”
“Then how do you know about ‘Mrs. Blackheart’?”
Armatrout asked her. Then he shrugged. “Oh well, I’m sure you’ve been well prepared. Well briefed.” He encompassed Miss Jesczenka and Emily in one pointed glance.
“I … I have heard a little about it. But I felt quite ill when I saw it. I felt the evil in it. The horrible, horrible evil. I felt that it was an evil book, and it … it made me feel ill.”
Stop babbling, Miss Jesczenka’s voice was hard. Let him have the point. You’ve already lost it. Emily pressed her lips closed, clenching her teeth.
“As I said, Mr. Armatrout,” Miss Jesczenka quickly interjected, “there will be a time for questions later. At the moment, Miss Edwards has something to deliver. Something that will reveal the true author of these attacks, and the malicious intention behind them.”
Emily wasn’t listening as the woman continued to speak. She was watching Armatrout. He had apparently satisfied himself as to the idiocy of the proceedings and was lounging at the back of the room, using a pocketknife to pick his fingernails.
“Miss Edwards?” Miss Jesczenka’s voice prompted. But Emily was still watching Horace Armatrout.
Emily, the voice barked in her ear, making her startle. Bring out the letters. They’re ready for you. They’ll do anything you say now.
Emily’s hands dipped swiftly into her bag for the letters. She half pulled them out; the reporters leaned forward eagerly, like dogs waiting to be thrown a treat.
And then, Emily’s hand paused. She looked at Armatrout again. He was watching her without seeming to watch her. She did not pull the letters from her bag. Instead, she tucked them back down swiftly and strode across the room, her silk skirts rustling. Dozens of astonished eyes followed her.
What are you doing? Miss Jesczenka’s voice had a note of panic that Emily had never heard in it before. Show them the letters! Miss Edwards, please, you must! That’s what all this was for! You’ll never have a better chance …
