The Hidden Goddess (9 page)

Dreadnought

Emily knocked on the door of the butter-yellow house, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. She felt rather bad for dirtying up the nice clean paint job with all the black slime and insect guts that covered her, but her ankle was throbbing from the steep climb up the hill. Behind her, on the sidewalk below, Dmitri waited silently. She’d given up telling him to shove off; it did no good.

After a few moments, the Haälbeck attendant, a girl named Dinah, opened the front door, staring at Emily in astonishment.

“What the—Miss Edwards?” She looked Emily up and down. “My gracious! Everyone’s been looking for you! You missed Mrs. Stanton’s lunch.”

Emily sighed, pushed herself away from the doorjamb.

“Good day, Miss Edwards,” Dmitri’s voice called up to her from the street. Emily turned just enough to see the brown man tip his hat before walking briskly away, hands tucked in his pockets. Dinah craned her neck over Emily’s shoulder, watching him go. She looked at Emily quizzically.

“Who was he, miss?”

“No one,” Emily said, limping into the house. “He was just here to protect me.”

“It’s lovely to see you, miss!” Emily followed Dinah’s crisp black-and-white-clad form through the neatly swept hallway toward the Haälbeck Room. “I can’t imagine how you came through earlier without me seeing you.”

“Well, I can be extremely sneaky,” Emily said.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not,” Dinah demurred, hiding a grin behind her hand. “What a thing to say.”

They came to the Haälbeck Room, and Emily was once again surprised at how empty it seemed. She remembered standing in this room when it had overflowed with stifling clutter—all of which apparently had gone with Mrs. Quincy when she’d been kicked to the curb. Only one thing remained: an important-looking picture of Emeritus Zeno, its frame decorated with bunting and silver paper. Emily scrutinized it, trying to find the face of the mild-mannered man she’d first known as old Ben in the face of the somewhat crazed-looking young priest. She finally decided that it was Zeno’s eyes that were most unchanged; she recognized that spark of single-minded, uncompromising determination. In Zeno as she knew him today, it was easily attributable to wisdom. In the eyes of the young priest, it seemed hardly indistinguishable from insanity.

Looking away from Zeno’s eyes, her gaze traveled to the bottom of the picture, where she noticed the date of the picture’s execution: 1741. The man in the picture was certainly in his thirties—that would make Zeno 175 years old now! She knew he was old, but she’d never imagined he was
that
old.

Dinah laid a slim hand on the Haälbeck door’s frame and unlocked it with a few soft words. She held the door open for Emily. Framed by its edges, Emily could see the Institute’s Haälbeck Room on the other side, murky and indistinct.

“Be sure to give Mr. Stanton my congratulations on his recent triumph over the Dark Sorcerer of Trieste,” Dinah said as Emily stepped through.

Emily had grown accustomed to making short hops by Haälbeck—there were hundreds of local doors in New York, greatly facilitating interurban travel. But traveling such a long distance by Haälbeck was like being stretched into the finest silken thread. There was a huge rushing and a feeling of speed, as if she were a waterfall tumbling down a million miles …

 … And then she pooled abruptly back into a water-shaped version of herself and stepped out of California and into the Haälbeck Room of the Mirabilis Institute of the Credomantic Arts in New York City.

It was a cozy, richly appointed parlor, filled with marbles and tapestries and the fragrance of blood-red orchids. Emily noticed that it was filled with something else, too.

The foot-tapping form of Miss Jesczenka.

Emily wondered how on earth the woman had known she was coming. She’d hoped to sneak back as quietly as she’d left—but Emily already knew there was going to be hell to pay, and she supposed there was no use allowing it to accrue interest.

“Welcome back, Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka said. She held a cut-crystal glass of iced lemon water in her hand, which she offered to Emily immediately. Emily took the glass, draining it in a protracted and unladylike guzzle. The long Haälbeck journey had left her feeling as if she’d just crossed an Arabian desert. Miss Jesczenka poured her another glass from a pitcher on a small side table.

“You missed Mrs. Stanton’s lunch,” Miss Jesczenka said. Her eyes roamed over Emily, lingering on the chunks of exploded cockroach innards.

Emily smiled brightly. “Did I?”

“Yes,” Miss Jesczenka said.

Miss Jesczenka took the glass from Emily after she’d drained it again, and placed it on a marble side table without making the slightest noise.

“Well, I can’t imagine she’ll mind all that much.” Emily attempted bravado. “Just a ‘little get-together,’ she said.”

“She invited a hundred people,” Miss Jesczenka said. “And two Astors.”

Emily sighed. She took a limping step forward.

“Are you injured?”

“Not in the least,” Emily lied again.

Miss Jesczenka was silent for a moment.

“When you did not return, I sent word to Mrs. Stanton that you had been seized with bewildering fits. I implied that you were wildly pounding on death’s door, demanding admittance.
I had to concoct quite a dire scenario to excuse your absence.”

Probably made the old hag’s day
, Emily thought. But instead of saying this, she smiled. “How clever of you.”

Miss Jesczenka did not smile back. “So, are you going to favor me with an explanation of why you went to California dressed in men’s clothing and came back covered with intestines?”

Emily was silent. She actually rather wished she could tell Miss Jesczenka about the cockroaches. For some reason, she thought the woman might find it amusing. Or not.

“I’ll go to my room and get cleaned up,” Emily said.

“That’s a very good idea,” Miss Jesczenka said, wrinkling her nose. “Mrs. Stanton may come by later to confirm that you’re on your deathbed. I trust you will be obliging enough to look three-quarters dead?”

“I shall have no problem playing the part,” Emily said, as honestly as if she were swearing on a stack of Bibles.

Once in her room, Emily stripped off her clothes and kicked them into a stinking pile. Someone would have to burn them.

Then she ran herself a well-earned bath. One thing she could say for the Institute—the plumbing was fantastic. The suite she had been given had all the most up-to-date features, including a bathroom with a giant white porcelain tub. She ran water gushing with steam, and as it ran, she unbuckled the straps that held her prosthetic in place, briskly rubbing the red welts where the leather had cut into her flesh. She laid the carved ivory hand on a table, carefully avoiding looking at the puckered stump of her arm.

Sliding into the warm water, she released a moan of pleasure that any well-bred observer would have found positively indecent. The heat felt particularly good on her sore ankle. She explored the abused joint with her fingers. It was still swollen, but with a little rest, it would be fine in a day or two.

It took a long time to get completely clean, for the insect innards had dried to an intractably sticky crust. When she’d finally gotten every bit off her skin and out of her hair, she
climbed out of the tub, pulled on fresh cotton underthings, and collapsed onto the wide white bed, feather softness and the smell of honeysuckle enfolding her.

She was snuggling deep into the sweet-smelling sheets when she felt something hard under the pillow. Reaching underneath, her fingers encountered something cool and smooth. Withdrawing it, she discovered that it was a student’s slate, the kind a small child would use to learn his alphabet. It was quite new-looking, framed in polished beech and painted with frolicking lambs. It had a little slot carved into the side that held a sharpened pencil. On the slate, in Stanton’s jagged cliff-peak handwriting, were the words:

MEET ME IN CENTRAL PARK. 4 P.M. URGENT. BRING THE SLATE
.

Emily looked at the clock on the mantel. It was three o’clock.

Groaning, she threw an arm over her eyes.

She hadn’t seen Stanton at all during the past week, not even for a minute. And he did say it was urgent. This could be her one opportunity before the Investment to tell him about her visit to California and the bottle of memories Pap had given her.

She lay there, feeling the rise and fall of her own chest. If only she could sleep for a few hours first. She was supposed to be on her deathbed with bewildering fits, after all. And what if Mrs. Stanton came by to gloat? Well, Miss Jesczenka would just have to think of something. Say that death’s door had finally opened, and Emily had stepped inside for a cup of tea. The worse the fate, the better Mrs. Stanton would like it.

Emily sat up. It was a feat of miraculous willpower. She took a deep breath and swung her feet out onto the floor.

The things I do for Dreadnought Stanton
, she thought once again.

She put herself into a suite of ladies’ clothing, certainly not daring to call Miss Jesczenka for help. The outfit was knife-pleat new and much fancier than anything she’d ever owned before; Emily was still trying to get used to the necessity of costuming herself for different social purposes. She’d had fewer dresses in her entire life than she was supposed to have for one season in New York, and having a different one for
every quarter of the day seemed ridiculous in the extreme. Still, Emily recognized the need for conformity to fashion’s whims, and thus had invested some of the money Mirabilis had paid her on a wardrobe appropriate to decent society.

Fumbling with a long silver buttonhook, Emily got herself fastened—at least buying new clothes had meant she could get them with the buttons up the front. This allowed her to dress herself, despite the handicap presented by her missing hand. It was just too tedious to have to stand around half naked, waiting for someone to do up your buttons.

This dress was of pistachio-green silk, deeply bustled and trimmed with black Dieppe lace and jet-beaded embroidery. It had a matching reticule and sunshade. With the addition of a little veiled hat and a pair of black gloves, Emily felt like an imported doll in a shop window.

Thus appointed, she snuck out of her room, looking back and forth down the hall to make sure Miss Jesczenka wasn’t lying in wait. She tiptoed downstairs to the Institute’s great entry hall. She’d have to get a carriage; she wasn’t going to walk to the park with her aching ankle, and certainly not in this getup. The admissions clerk in the entry hall could get her one of the Institute’s carriages discreetly; she’d quietly slipped him a double eagle a few weeks earlier on a similar occasion, and he’d shown himself more than willing to be bought.

Once it was clear that Miss Jesczenka was nowhere in the vicinity, Emily stopped skulking. Straightening her back, she came down one of the broad twin marble stairways and into the rotunda, domed in colored glass. It was designed to be maximally impressive, with thirty-foot ceilings and walls of gold-veined white marble, and everywhere, the fragrant blood-red orchids that were the Institute’s signature flower.

The entry hall was in a state of last-minute confusion, as decorators, florists, and caterers buzzed about, making arrangements for the Investment that was to be held the following night. Abandoned ladders rested against the walls, half-hung draperies of gold foil bunting hung drooping and limp. It was going to be quite a gala, Emily thought with some apprehension.

She went to the admissions desk and had a few low words with her well-bribed clerk; he nodded to her cheerfully. He hastened from behind the tall imposing admissions desk to pull out a chair for her, giving the seat an obsequious brush, though Emily had never seen a speck of dust in the Institute. He offered to fetch her some water, which she quietly declined. It was always like this, in clothes like these. Men offered her hands, arms, shoulders to lean on; they opened doors, they extinguished cigars, and always—most annoyingly—they stopped talking. Emily thought she could probably get used to being treated as if her body was a blown eggshell, but she doubted she could ever get used to being treated as if her head was as empty as one.

When all the nonsensical fiddling and showy chivalry had run its course, the carriage called, and the clerk returned to his desk, Emily noticed a group of people sitting in a cluster by the front door, chatting animatedly among themselves. They were a zealous-looking lot—a sallow young man with anarchist eyes and an overbite, an assortment of tightly wound females, and two gentlemen who seemed to be twins. They were under the command of a plump, pretty blond girl who looked once at Emily, then twice.

“Miss Emily?” The blonde’s dress was a profusion of ruffles and lace. Her brown eyes narrowed as she came over to where Emily was sitting, squinting to peer through the dark veil that Emily wore. Emily lifted it reluctantly, and the girl’s face became joyous. “Oh, it is you! How wonderful to see you up and about. I heard you were at death’s door. You missed Mrs. Stanton’s lunch!”

“Hello, Rose,” Emily said. She was far too tired for Rose’s twittering intensity at the moment.

Miss Rose Hibble was the president of the Dreadnought Stanton Admiration League, a group formed immediately after the publication of
The Man Who Saved Magic
, the pulp novel outlining Stanton’s astonishing adventures. The same book that Emily was not in, despite the fact that she’d played as large a role in the adventures as anyone. Even Rose herself had played a small part; Stanton had saved her life, and she’d abruptly fixed her tendency for hero worship upon him. In a
spasm of veneration, she’d followed him to New York, and used her secretarial degree from the Nevada Women’s College to get herself a position at a downtown brokerage. She’d then proceeded to form the Admiration League, which already boasted more than two hundred members, thanks entirely to Rose’s tireless organizational efforts.

“Mr. Stanton was supposed to speak to us today,” Rose said, a note of distress in her tone. “He was going to tell us how he defeated the Dark Sorcerer of Trieste!” She raised a well-thumbed book at Emily, showing her the brilliant cover of a new pulp novel, one Emily hadn’t seen yet. On it, Stanton’s idealized form could be seen trampling victoriously over a cringing man in a black cape.