The Hidden Goddess (37 page)

After Perun left, Emily did receive a plate of
pelmeni
with
smetana
, pushed upon her by the woman he had called Irina Sidorovna—and it took only one bite to confirm that they were indeed delicious—creamy and oniony and dripping with rich meaty juice. But one bite was all Emily could manage, with Dmitri scowling at her. In the brooding silence, Emily’s mind filled with the screams of the dying, both remembered and imagined. She pushed the plate away and reached for the bottle of vodka, her hand trembling violently. Dmitri took it before she could, uncorked it, poured himself a glass. He looked at her hard. Then, sighing, he poured her a
glass as well. They drank together in silence. They both knew things could have gone very differently than they had, and that each of them could have done something better.

After they had finished half the bottle, Dmitri took her upstairs, to the restaurant’s top floor. The rooms were mostly used for storage, but one had been cleared for her use. It had a comfortable-looking bed spread with a colorful counterpane.

“There is water, so you can wash, and I will find you clean clothes and shoes,” Dmitri said. Emily looked down at her own bare, scratched feet. “You’ll be staying here for a while.”

“How long?” Emily sat down heavily on the bed. Climbing the stairs had made her realize just how much vodka she’d drunk.

“Until Perun can formulate his
plan
,” Dmitri spoke the last word with faint contempt.

“I should go back to the Stantons’,” Emily said. “Or at least send a message—”

“No,” Dmitri said. “Temple Warlocks killed two dozen of my men today, rescuing you. I think that’s enough.”

Emily bared her teeth at him. “You think I wanted it? I didn’t ask for any of this, Dmitri Alekseivitch.” She wasn’t sure why she had added his second name, but she remembered it was what Perun had called him. Dmitri winced when she spoke it.

“You were perhaps too young then to understand the meaning of a man’s patronymic, or too drunk now to respect it,” Dmitri said coldly, “but it is derived from the name of a man’s father. My father’s name was Aleksei.”

Emily looked up, finding the man’s brown eyes.

“Aleksei … Morozovich?”

“Reclaiming my father’s work and seeing it implemented is of great personal importance to me.” Dmitri spoke through clenched teeth. “As is killing every Warlock who has ever spent a single moment in the service of the Black Glass Goddess.” He bowed contemptuously as he opened the door to leave. “Sleep well, Emilia Vladimirovna.”

*   *   *

Emily did sleep, but not well, and when she woke again it was dark outside and her head throbbed horribly and her mouth tasted as if she’d been sucking on a rotten potato.

Well, here I am in the hands of the Sini Mira
, she thought, arm over her eyes to block out even the faint light of the low-burning lamp. Once it had been her worst nightmare, but she had discovered that nightmares could be much, much worse.

Even though Perun had given her so many answers, they did not balance against all her questions. And while she was very glad to have Komé back—she glanced at the side table to make sure the golden ball was still there—the old Witch was too busy growing roots to give her any answers. But, Emily realized suddenly, she didn’t need Komé’s answers. She could speak to Ososolyeh just as well as Komé ever could. Without even knowing it was happening, Emily had been growing into something new—just as Komé now was. Perhaps that had been the intention all along.

Now that she had learned more from Perun, perhaps Ososolyeh could show her the rest. Climbing out of bed, she tried the door. It was unlocked, which was a pleasant surprise. She was rather glad for the fact that her feet were still bare; it allowed her to move silently down the dark hallway.

She crept down three flights of stairs. At the bottom, the door to the restaurant’s kitchen was open, and light from it spilled into the hallway. Laid over the smell of food was the acrid stink of cigarette smoke. Quietly, she crept to the back door. It opened onto a tiny, trash-strewn yard, hemmed by tall brick buildings on all sides and piled high with empty wooden crates. There was a chopping block by the door, bright with blood; chicken heads were piled in a basket beside it.

Getting as far away from the smell of blood as she could, she went back to the corner of the yard where a few small trees and bushes straggled. Stripping quickly, she crept under a tall weedy bush, her fingers and toes feeling for the soft, moist earth beneath it. Within moments, as if the earth guessed her haste, she was sinking into the ground, soil sliding over her like a lover’s hands. Instead of fighting against it as she had before, she relaxed in the embrace, the sweet smell
of rot and clay and life filling her nostrils, soothing her aching body.

Basket of Secrets
. Ososolyeh cooed a resonant greeting, its eternity of memories thrumming through her like a heartbeat.

Emily breathed back, letting her body dissipate, letting her body expand into the vastness of the void, into the glowing bones of the world.

Tell me
, she prayed.
Tell me more
.

“Miss Edwards!”

The voice came from far away. There was the feeling of hands, but not the gentle soft caress of the earth. These were rough, hurried hands, digging at her, pulling her up like a root vegetable. Emily stirred, aware that she was well buried. Hands helped her sit up, brushed smothering dirt from her face. Then the sound of Dmitri’s voice, harsh.

“Miss Edwards, for God’s sake!”

She felt herself gathering back into herself, the threads of her human consciousness retracting from where they’d spread out in a thin, vibrant array. Dmitri knelt over her. A lantern glowed on the ground nearby.

“What are you doing?” He grimaced, averting his eyes from her mud-streaked nakedness.

“Getting answers,” she said softly. She felt as if she’d forgotten
how to speak. She hardly knew if she was speaking in Russian or English anymore. Maybe she was speaking some new language, the language of wood and water and leaves.

But it seemed he could understand her. He snatched her dress from where she’d discarded it and thrust it toward her with his face turned away. She could feel his disgust like a physical thing. She pulled the dress over her head slowly, still trying to remember how to move.

When her body was covered, Emily wrapped arms around herself and sat staring at the ground. “I lost my father, too, Dmitri Alekseivitch. A Warlock killed him to destroy the poison. I was very young. I watched the knife go into his chest. Again and again.” She looked up at Dmitri. “I didn’t tell Perun that.”

Dmitri looked down at her, his face harshly shadowed by the light of the lantern he held. After a long silence, he reached down to help her stand, and escorted her back to her room, locking the door behind her as he left.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Plan

Not surprisingly, the door was not unlocked again until the next morning, when Dmitri came to retrieve her.

“Perun’s got his plan,” Dmitri said. “And he’s ready to present it.”

This time he led her into the restaurant proper—a cheerful room crowded with dozens of heavy wooden tables covered with bright cloth and flowers arranged in colored bottles. Morning sunshine glowed through the closed wooden shutters. At one of the tables, Perun sat. Sitting next to him, straight and prim in a chestnut-colored dress, was Miss Jesczenka.

“Emily.” Miss Jesczenka stood quickly. She came over to where Emily stood next to Dmitri and took Emily’s hands in hers. The older woman’s gaze flew over her from crown to toe, taking in her dirty and disheveled appearance. “Are you all right?”

Emily wasn’t certain how to answer, so she said nothing.

Miss Jesczenka scrutinized Emily’s face, looked at the bandage on her throat. She put a worried hand on Emily’s forehead, as if suspecting a fever—as if her bearing witness to horrible death and tragedy were like a bout of influenza.

“Mr. Stanton,” Emily asked. “Is he all right?”

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Miss Jesczenka said. “You ran away from his mother’s house, left your ring … and she said you saw the book.” She paused, looking at Emily again, carefully. “As soon as I get back, I’ll let him know that you’re safe.”

“I told you, we mean no harm to Miss Edwards,” Perun said. One of his omnipresent cigarettes smoldered between his brown-stained fingers. “Shall we begin our discussion?”

Irina Sidorovna brought out a samovar of tea and a plate of cakes and a bowl of raspberry jam. She set these in the center of the table. Perun turned the small spigot on the samovar, poured tea into little cups, and pushed the saucers across the tablecloth toward the women. He stirred a large spoonful of raspberry jam into his own cup, his spoon making small tinkling sounds against the china. Emily tasted her tea; it was bitter and strong. She dipped a spoonful of jam into it, and the sweetness did indeed help.

“The Institute is grateful to you for helping Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka began, not even looking at her tea. “If the events truly happened as you have described them, then you have done us a great service.”

Perun chuckled. “Why should I lie, Miss Jesczenka?”

“There are many scenarios I can imagine in which lying would suit your purposes,” Miss Jesczenka said coolly. “But whether or not you are lying is immaterial. I am here to take Miss Edwards back to the Institute. Mr. Stanton very much desires her return.”

“I’m sure he does,” Perun said. “However, the Institute is not a safe place for her right now. Is it?”

Miss Jesczenka colored slightly. Perun sipped his tea, took a cake and examined it. He ate it in one bite.

“I have called you here to explain the situation, and to see if there is some possibility the Sini Mira and the Institute could do together what neither of us can do alone. It may surprise you to know that we had a very amenable understanding with Emeritus Zeno.”