The Hidden Goddess (13 page)

Miss Jesczenka smiled but said nothing. Her teaching dinners often featured strange and exotic foods meant to challenge Emily’s developing social skills. How should a banana in caramel sauce be tackled? With a spoon, or with a fork? Emily didn’t see why it mattered much, as long as a sufficient quantity of banana and caramel passed one’s lips. Miss Jesczenka took a less sanguine view of the matter.

Emily seated herself and waited patiently as Miss Jesczenka lit the candles—hardly necessary, with midsummer brightness streaming in through the windows—and gently lifted the lids from the steaming dishes. She served Emily quietly and deftly. Emily didn’t see anything too exotic—roast beef and potatoes and a steamed artichoke. Emily guessed Miss Jesczenka was trying to trip her up with the artichoke, but she couldn’t imagine any way to eat it other than taking it apart with her fingers. To her surprise, Miss Jesczenka smiled approvingly, as if she’d been outsmarted.

Emily should have felt proud, but she didn’t. In fact, she still felt awfully cross. Miss Jesczenka was pleasant company, but all in all, she’d rather be eating oysters in a chop-house with Stanton. The obsessive rules of etiquette struck Emily as mean-spirited, like the old trick of tying someone’s shoelaces together under the table. It was only fun if you liked watching people fall down.

Emily found herself wondering suddenly if her mother had known which forks to use. She thought of the card that was attached to the bottle of memories, her mother’s calling card.
Bristol board, elegantly done
. She looked across the flickering candles at Miss Jesczenka, who was delicately cutting a piece of meat.

“Do you know where I could get my hands on a copy of the Boston Social Register?”

Miss Jesczenka lifted an eyebrow. “The Boston Social Register? The Institute’s Library has a copy, of course. Who do you need to look up?”

Emily shoved the potatoes around her plate with her fork—the correct fork, in case Miss Jesczenka had anything to say about it. “In Lost Pine, I learned my mother’s name, and that she was born in Boston. I doubt she’d be in there, but maybe it’s worth a look.”

“Perhaps after dinner,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Unless you plan to be otherwise occupied?”

No, Emily thought, she didn’t plan to be otherwise occupied. She lifted her glass of wine and took a fortifying swallow, then addressed her attentions to the slice of roast beef on her plate. She carefully wedged her fork in the joint of her ivory hand—the narrow place where the thumb met the palm. Carefully, she held the meat while she cut it into small, manageable bites. When she was finished, she laid the knife aside and switched the fork back to her left hand.

“So have you ever heard of a beefsteak?” Emily asked, after savoring a hard-won mouthful. Even the abrupt change in topic couldn’t faze the unflappable Miss Jesczenka.

“It’s one of those things men get up for themselves,” she said. “They generally involve beer and oysters and steaks grilled on shovels and great quantities of cigar smoke. They gather to watch negligible girls sing off-key while showing their legs. Distasteful, but very effective at strengthening credomantic ties between gentlemen.”

“Mr. Stanton said there wouldn’t be ladies there,” Emily said, sitting up straighter at the mention of the negligible girls.

“There won’t,” Miss Jesczenka said. “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be any
females
.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Does that bother you?”

“Of course it does!” Emily snapped too quickly, then added in a grumbling tone, “A bit,” aware that she sounded foolish.

“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.