The Hidden Goddess (15 page)

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 finally.

“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?”

“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.