The Hidden Goddess (26 page)

“I must have been dreaming,” she said, pulling away from Miss Jesczenka and climbing to her feet. She felt so tall, a monstrous version of herself. There should be a fire, and snow outside the window. It should be cold. There should be screaming, but she was glad that there wasn’t.

She felt for the hair sticks her father had given her, but she did not have them.

“My hair sticks,” Emily said, looking around herself feverishly. “Where are they?”

“They’re packed with your things,” Miss Jesczenka said, looking up at her. “They’re safe. Don’t worry.”

Emily brushed a hand across her eyes.

“Faery Writing,” she said, under her breath, hardly realizing she spoke the words aloud. “Very important. Remember, Emilichka.”

“Faery Writing?” Miss Jesczenka said. “Miss Edwards, what are you talking about?”

Emily stopped, blinking. The warmth of the room surrounded her, and she looked down at Miss Jesczenka. The woman’s face was full of worry. She was not screaming. She was not the one who had been screaming. The one who had been screaming was dead. Emily swallowed hard, looked around the room some more, slowly reorienting herself. She was twenty-five years old. Her mother and father were dead, long dead, and she had drunk her memories of them.

“What is Faery Writing?” Emily said.

“It’s an old-fashioned kind of magical code,” Miss Jesczenka said, her tone vaguely puzzled. “No one uses it anymore. It was used quite a bit during the war, but since then, it’s been superceded by better types of encryption. I believe there are still a few Faery Readers around Chatham Square, back in New York, but—”

“I want to go back to the Institute,” Emily said firmly, staring into Miss Jesczenka’s soft brown eyes. “I have to see Mr. Stanton.”

“That’s not a good idea right now,” Miss Jesczenka said.

“I don’t care,” Emily said. “I have to see him.”

Miss Jesczenka stared at her for a long time.

“All right,” she said finally.

They took the afternoon train from Boston—one that would not arrive in New York until late that night. Miss Jesczenka had suggested that they wait until the next morning to depart so they could arrive at a decent hour, but Emily insisted on leaving immediately. She wanted to get away from Boston, away from the choking congestion of Witch hunters and the Sini Mira that she imagined all around her. Ever since she’d sampled the Lethe Draught, she’d felt paranoid and twitchy, as if every shadow contained something horrible within it. She remembered the revolvers she’d once carried, the comforting heavy weight of them in her pockets. She wished she had them now.

Explosions of memory kept detonating within her. A whiff
of stewed cabbage made Emily remember a time her father had cooked dinner, and she’d refused to eat because she didn’t like cabbage. She’d never liked cabbage. Now she had a hundred new memories of hating its sulfury smell and nauseatingly slippery texture. It was so disorienting that Emily often found herself falling silent in the middle of a conversation, freshly experiencing pieces of her past.

If Miss Jesczenka noticed this change in Emily, she didn’t comment upon it. But she did press Emily for details of her meeting with her grandparents as they clattered over the iron tracks toward New York.

“They are Scharfians,” Emily said. “The Reverend Kendall is a great friend of Brother Scharfe.”

Miss Jesczenka looked horrified. “Did he put you out of the house?”

Emily nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Jesczenka said, laying a hand over Emily’s. “Truly I am.”

Not as sorry as Emily felt. But the disastrous encounter with the Kendalls and their prejudices was, oddly enough, the furthest thing from Emily’s mind at the moment. She was still trying to sort out the gout of memories she’d recovered the night before.

She understood now why Pap had said her mother was evil. Remembering her mother’s voice, her soft gentle voice in the service of Cowdray’s filthy words, made Emily feel helpless and small. How desperately she’d wanted her mother to get well. How deep the sorrow in her small, remembered heart. How she wished she could speak to her mother one more time, just for a moment, and tell her that she understood now, even if she couldn’t understand then.

Emily sighed, pushing back her thoughts of her mother. They were too raw, too painful to examine for very long. She thought instead about the hair sticks and about what her father had said; that they contained an important secret, which must have been why Mrs. Kendall hadn’t recognized them among her daughter’s other things. They’d never belonged to Catherine Kendall at all. And the secret that her father said
was written on them probably had something to do with the important work he’d been doing with his mentor in Russia. Work important enough that Warlock murderers would chase him halfway across the world to destroy it.

Emily and Miss Jesczenka arrived at the Grand Central Depot just before midnight and took a carriage uptown to the Institute. The building blazed with gaslights; it seemed that even in the darkest night, they kept all the lamps lit. The light revealed dozens of men clustered around the outer walls of the Institute, men in dark overcoats with notebooks in their hands. They stood chatting companionably, smoking cigarettes, taking furtive swigs from hidden flasks.

“Reporters,” Miss Jesczenka said. There was an equal measure of delight and dread in the word. “I hardly know whether to hope they are graduates of the Institute, or to hope they are not.”

The carriage pulled up at the gate that guarded the drive to the Institute, and a young gatekeeper approached. His face was held hard, in a manner that suggested he’d had to send a dozen people packing already that night. But when Miss Jesczenka leaned forward from the shadows of the carriage to speak to him, his manner became one of attentive respect.

“Who is your Sophos?” Miss Jesczenka demanded of him.

“Mr. Dreadnought Stanton,” the young man said after pausing a moment and looking at Miss Jesczenka’s face for reassurance. She smiled at him as if he’d done something extremely clever.

“Make sure you tell it to that pack of hoodlums out there whenever they ask.” Miss Jesczenka tilted her head toward the shadowy milling reporters. “You know how easily they get their facts mixed up.”

“Yes, ma’am!” the young man agreed as he hastened to swing open the gate for their carriage. It didn’t open easily; it seemed to not be sitting quite right on its hinges. He had to put his shoulder into it to get it to move, but finally he managed. As they rode up the driveway, Emily saw the look of concern on her companion’s face.

“He wasn’t sure how he should answer,” Miss Jesczenka
noted. “And that gate has never given anyone a whit of trouble before. I am afraid Mr. Stanton has not made the progress I had hoped.”

“It’s only been a day!” Emily said. Miss Jesczenka raised an eyebrow.

“An empire cannot be
built
in a day,” she said. “But it can topple in one. Mr. Stanton must work quickly if he is to succeed. I only hope …” She trailed off, then gave Emily a bright smile. “Never mind. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Inside the Institute, the air was dead-still and strangely foreboding. Even though it was past midnight, there was an air of desolation and abandonment that went beyond the late hour. The glittering luster of the interior seemed to have been rubbed off by grimy, unseen hands. The polished marble walls looked flat and dull, like old sugar crusted on a plate. The red orchids, once so fat and fragrant, were withered and shrunken. Festive swags still hung, dispirited and dispiriting, drooping down in places. Miss Jesczenka planted her hands on her hips, regarding the scene with distaste.

“As many credomancers and would-be credomancers as there are in this place, and none of them think to clear away the remnants of failure and defeat?” She reached up and began pulling down bunting and wadding it up, looking for an ash can to stuff it in. The next words she spoke were under her breath, as if meant for herself alone: “Or is it that more people find it convenient to remember than to forget?”

She jerked down another swag of bunting. But this time, instead of paper and fabric fluttering gently to the floor, a huge chunk of decorative molding came crashing down. Emily leapt backward with a small cry as the hall exploded with plaster dust. She looked up with astonishment at the lathwork peeping from behind the gaping hole in the ceiling. Miss Jesczenka waved her hand before her face to clear the air.

“What is happening?” Emily blurted.

“The integrity of the Institute is a direct reflection of the strength of its leadership,” Miss Jesczenka quoted in a weary textbook voice. “The Institute is falling to pieces. Literally.”

“Miss Jesczenka!” The voice came from the end of the hall. Rose stood before the doorway to the office of the Sophos. Standing with Rose, peering down the hall through the settling dust, were three girls of similar attentiveness and intensity. Standing somewhat apart from this group of women was a well-fed man in a very nice suit. He looked annoyed.

“Rose?” Emily looked at Miss Jesczenka with puzzlement, as they moved toward the door of the office. “And her Admiration League friends? What are they doing here?”

“Emeritus Zeno’s secretary resigned his position with the Institute on the night of Zeno’s kidnapping,” Miss Jesczenka said. “He was made an attractive offer by Mr. Fortissimus’ Agency. It was necessary to find someone to serve as Mr. Stanton’s secretary until a suitable replacement can be hired. Miss Hibble came to mind.”

Emily lifted an eyebrow.

“I am satisfied that Miss Hibble’s qualifications are adequate for the position. She does have an advanced secretarial degree from a … college,” Miss Jesczenka said, obviously considering, then discarding, the adjective “well-respected.” Then she bent closer, putting her lips next to Emily’s ear. “Most importantly, she can be trusted. At this moment, that is an extremely rare commodity.”

When Emily and Miss Jesczenka reached the door of the office, Rose stopped issuing orders to her female charges and clasped Emily’s hand.

“Miss Emily! Oh, how good that you’ve made it back!” Rose’s face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. It was clear that she was thriving within her new position. “Mr. Stanton has been simply tormented by your absence. I can’t believe you went gallivanting off in his hour of need.”

The three girls behind Rose nodded solemnly, regarding Emily with an odd mix of resentment and awe. Emily opened her mouth to say something, but Miss Jesczenka cut in quickly, gesturing around at the bunting and decorations.

“Miss Hibble, will you see that all this rubbish is pulled down … carefully … and that mess down there is cleaned up.
Immediately, please.” Rose nodded efficiently, lifting a finger at one of the girls who stood behind her. The girl sprang to action, lifting a notebook and jotting down another item on a list that stretched down very far on the page.

“Mr. Stanton will be so glad you’re back,” Rose said to Miss Jesczenka under her breath. She gestured with her eyes to the well-fed man in the very nice suit who hung back from the group. He was tapping his foot and frowning, and kept consulting a pocket watch at increasingly frequent intervals. “There’s trouble.
New
trouble, I mean.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Miss Jesczenka said.

“Is Mr. Stanton in his office?” Emily asked, her hand going for the doorknob. Rose nodded seriously, subtly interposing herself between Emily and the object of her reach.

“But Miss Emily, he’s ever so busy! He’s in a meeting and mustn’t be disturbed.” Then, reverently, she opened the door herself and gestured Emily into the office’s book-lined vestibule. She gestured to an uncomfortable wooden chair. “If you have a seat, I’ll show you in when he’s finished.”

There was a steely quality in Rose’s hushed voice that surprised Emily. She sat down. Rose beamed, nodding approval, then went to introduce Miss Jesczenka to the well-dressed man. Emily did not catch his name, but she could hear a quality of heavy formality in his voice. Rose and Miss Jesczenka and the man spoke for a moment, then moved away from the door of the office, and then Emily could hear no more.

Emily sat alone, in the silence. From somewhere behind the walls of books came a creaking sound. It was like being on a rigged sailboat. She fancied she could see the walls bowing inward, books tilting floorward. Gripping the arm of the chair tightly with her good hand, she heard a loud crack and watched as a half dozen particularly thick volumes tumbled from a high shelf down to the floor. She jumped to her feet, hurrying toward the door of Stanton’s inner sanctum. She’d be damned if she was going to be smothered in an avalanche of books.

Quickly she opened the two large ebony doors that led to the inner office of the Sophos, and went in.

The last time she’d entered the office, she’d seen Zeno standing behind the desk, and Perun, the leader of the Sini Mira, sitting before it. This time, the scene was similar; a man stood behind the desk, and one in front of it. Only the characters in the tableau had shifted.

Stanton was standing behind the desk. His face was pale and drawn—with anger or exhaustion, she wasn’t sure which. It made her catch her breath; she had never seen him look so discomposed.

Before the desk stood one of Rose’s Admiration Leaguers, the sallow young man with anarchist eyes and an overbite. Emily remembered him; he’d been with Rose in the entry hall when Emily had been waiting for the carriage to take her to Central Park. Now he was staring at Stanton with adoring fervor, his hat held tightly between his fingers. He was speaking as Emily entered the room.

“… we don’t have to stop at taking these off the street, sir! We could teach the vendors who sell them a lesson. Make them think twice about—”

Emily caught a glimpse of something bright red on Stanton’s desk. When he looked up and saw her, he grabbed it and shoved it into a drawer with annoyed haste. The young man whirled, his hand going to something at his waist. Something dark. A gun, Emily realized.

“Emily,” Stanton said, with surprising calm. He gave the young man a look that made him duck his head and step back respectfully.