The Hidden Goddess (5 page)
“But Miss Edwards,” she said finally, “Midsummer’s Eve is only three days away.”
As if Emily could forget. Stanton’s formal Investment ceremony as Sophos of the Institute was to be held on Midsummer’s Eve. It would be (if the number of florists, caterers, and photographers running around the Institute were any indication) an extravagantly grand affair, temporally surrounded by many smaller gatherings, fetes, and soirees—of which Mrs. Stanton’s forthcoming lunch was one.
“And Mrs. Stanton’s lunch is on Friday.” Miss Jesczenka intuited the drift of Emily’s thoughts precisely. “Can you imagine what would happen if you were to miss it?”
Emily said nothing. Some things were better left unimagined.
“Besides which, you still have a number of dress fittings and—”
“Yes, I know.” Emily pressed her lips together, staring out the window of the carriage as they traveled along Thirty-fourth Street. The remembered smell of blood and Exunge was still in her nose, and again she thought of Pap, the gentle old man who’d raised her from orphaned girlhood.
“Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka prompted softly. “Please, you must tell me what’s troubling you.”
Emily said nothing. She stared past Miss Jesczenka, chewing her lip. She had long since decided to tell no one at the Institute about her Cassandras. Ever since she’d made a direct magical connection to Ososolyeh—the entity the Indians revered as the great consciousness of the earth—the visions came to her at odd times: strange omens appearing in the movement of grasses, in the swirling of dust in a sunbeam, in the movements of ants.
But if the Institute knew about the Cassandras, they would never cease to annoy her about them. The connection Emily had with Ososolyeh was unprecedented and powerful, and the Institute had a habit of wanting to accrue unprecedented and powerful things unto itself. This she knew from experience. So she’d kept the whole matter quiet—even from Stanton.
If only she could speak to him! He’d be sure to have distinct opinions, the majority of which she’d probably disagree with. But she hadn’t even seen him in a week. He was in some kind of ritual seclusion before his Investment, probably learning secret handshakes and drinking beverages out of skulls.
She shook her head to clear the troublesome thoughts. Skulls and secret handshakes were of no use to her at the moment, and even Stanton might not be able to help her with the conundrum she faced. She couldn’t go home, but she had to. She stared out the window of the carriage resolutely, as if the answer might be found there.
While the answer was not to be found along Thirty-fourth Street, or even any of the avenues going uptown, Emily knew
what she had to do by the time they arrived back at the Institute. She followed Miss Jesczenka placidly as they climbed to the suite of rooms Emily had been given on the fourth floor, on the corner overlooking the back gardens and the ornate crystal-paned conservatory. The rooms had deep bay windows and paneling of polished black walnut. Rich Anhalt carpets and gilt mirrors and Chinese enameled pots with palms in them gleamed luxuriously. Miss Jesczenka threw open the windows in the hopes of catching a breeze.
“How hot it is this afternoon.” Miss Jesczenka frowned when no breeze presented itself for capture. “You seem quite tired, Miss Edwards. I’m sure you’ll feel better after some rest.” She paused. “Everything will be fine. You really mustn’t worry.”
Emily nodded, and after Miss Jesczenka left, she did lie down.
She lay on top of the silken covers, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling for a full five minutes, thoughtfully stroking the ivory of her prosthetic hand, feeling the cool smoothness of the carved fingers. She lay that way until she heard Miss Jesczenka’s feet move silently away from her door.
Then she jumped up, threw on boots and a bowler hat, and left for California.
CHAPTER TWO
An Unexpected Gift
Haälbeck doors were really the most convenient thing ever created, Emily thought as she snuck out of a butter-yellow house that sat atop Nob Hill. There were only two of the magical portals in San Francisco, but since one terminated in the butter-yellow house—which was owned by the Institute—it had been the work of an instant to slip through it to San Francisco. And since Mrs. Quincy—the head of the Institute’s San Francisco office who’d once resided in the house—had been dismissed in disgrace over gambling debts and other sundry malfeasances, Emily didn’t have to worry much about being seen.
The Institute’s door in New York, which was kept in a lavishly appointed room on the mansion’s second floor, was customarily kept locked. But Stanton had shown her the secret of opening it on one of the rare, pleasant days they’d been able to spend together.
“You never know when it might come in handy,” Stanton had said as he pressed hot kisses beneath her left ear. At the time, their visit to the Haälbeck Room had more to do with its convenient seclusion than its employment for practical tutelage. But Stanton never could pass by an opportunity to be pedantic, and that did come in handy sometimes.
Emily pulled the battered old bowler down over her eyes, glad that her hair was still short enough to pass for a man’s. She had changed into a sack suit that she always kept hidden at the bottom of her trunk—she’d purchased it in New York when it had become obvious that people generally took exception
to young ladies wandering around the streets on their own. Police officers could get downright huffy about it, so she’d adopted the ruse that had served her so well in the past. Disguised as a young man, she could move with ease and anonymity, and without every fool in the world thinking it necessary to fold down steps, open doors, or press her with annoying questions about what she was doing out alone.
It was still early in San Francisco, just after lunchtime, but the sky was heavy with overcast clouds and a choking smell like burning tar. Pausing at the top of Clay Street, she shaded her eyes and looked down over the city. She could see smoke rising from distant fires, and there was the sound of hand-cranked sirens and the occasional echoing pop of rifle shots.
Drawing a deep breath, she headed down Clay Street toward Market. Emily knew next to nothing about San Francisco, but she knew that if she could get to Market Street she could find Third Street, and if she could find Third Street she could find the Southern Pacific Depot. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and kept her head low, walking fast.
Getting to San Francisco had been the easy part; getting to Lost Pine would be harder. The little timber camp didn’t have a train station, much less a Haälbeck door, and it was almost 200 miles from San Francisco. But if she walked fast, she could make it to the depot in time to catch the evening east-bound. That would get her as far as Dutch Flat, which was less than twenty miles from Lost Pine; there she could rent a nag from one of the stables and be at Pap’s side by morning.
Walking through the streets, she was even more aware of the pronounced change in the atmosphere of the city. The streets were deserted, windows dark. Clusters of tired-looking soldiers in faded blue stood watchfully near crates of ammunition—marked “99% Pure Silver”—and shining pyramids of rifles, neatly stacked.
At Kearny Street, she came to a small park, shaded by tall maples and fenced with intricately wrought iron. Within the park, a huge bonfire was burning and stinking, sending billows of oily smoke into the already-overcast sky. Emily brought her sleeve to her nose against the horrible stench. They were burning dead Aberrancies. A half dozen military
wagons were lined up along Kearny Street, each one piled high with the bodies of slimy black dead things—creatures that had once been ants, insects, earthworms. Someone’s pet cat—now the size of a rowboat—took up one whole wagon. It lay stiff and slimy, red eyes glazed and limbs twisted.
Under the watch of a small detachment of soldiers, strong men in black-streaked overalls leaned on shovels, grimly tending the unnaturally colored blaze; a few women with handkerchiefs over their mouths watched through narrowed eyes. The flames leapt and spat, tinged purple and blue and sulphur-yellow.
“Your folks know you’re out, son?” Emily jumped as a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. The words were spoken by a kind-looking older man with long gray whiskers, wearing a blue Army frock coat and sash. From the crossed swords on his slouched hat, she could tell he was a captain of the U.S. Cavalry, but his uniform didn’t bear the special insignia of one of the Army’s Warlock divisions.
So much the better
, Emily thought; she didn’t have much use for the Army’s Warlock divisions. She gave him what she hoped was a boyish grin.
“I’m on my way to the Southern Pacific Depot,” Emily said, then turned to continue down Clay Street, hoping to forestall further questioning.
“Well, you’re going the wrong way!”
Emily scratched the back of her head sheepishly. “I am?”
“Yep. Nothin’ down that way but Aberrancies. I wouldn’t take another step along Clay without a rifle and a couple hundred rounds of silver. Now, you carry on along Kearny until you get to Market Street. Cross Market to Third, then go right along until you hit Townsend.” He paused. “You gettin’ out of the city?”
Emily nodded. She’d learned, when inhabiting men’s clothing, that the success of her impersonation hinged upon speaking as little as possible.
“Well, good luck to you.” The old soldier shook his head. “The Warlocks in my division say it’s going to get worse before it gets better. You watch your step.”
Emily tipped her hat to him gratefully and turned down
Kearny Street. It, too, had vastly changed since the last time she’d been there. Then it had been bustling with life and energy, horsecars and carriages and busy people hurrying to fascinating employments. The shop windows had been crammed with wares, and everything had rattled and gleamed. Now the street was deserted, save for the soldiers on every street corner, and devastation reigned. The windows were shuttered or boarded over; she was the only civilian pedestrian. She walked around an overturned wagon that had been smashed to flinders; the traces of black slime on the wood showed the author of its destruction.
As she was crossing Market Street, the earth rolled as if a great serpent were moving beneath it. She managed to make it across the street, tumbling against a telegraph pole for support, wrapping her good arm around it to keep herself upright. The macadam shifted and bucked, and a huge chunk of plaster ornament fell from a tall building nearby, carving a deep gash in the sidewalk, peppering her with sharp bits of rubble. She listened for the cracking sound she’d heard in her Cassandra, expecting next to smell the rotten stench of Black Exunge, but it did not come. That inevitability had been avoided. For now.
When the ground stopped moving and it seemed that all the head-splitting plaster that was going to fall had fallen, Emily hurried toward the depot. When she arrived there, she realized why all the streets had seemed deserted. Every man, woman, and child in San Francisco was here, milling around the station, surrounded by their belongings—trunks and suitcases, cardboard boxes tied with twine, cages with rabbits and chickens. And all of them wanted to go East.
Emily stared at the spectacle, heart sinking.
“You’ll never get a ticket.” The words, which came from her left, were like a physical manifestation of her own worried thoughts. “They’ve put on all the cars they have. Everything is sold out.”
The voice that spoke was tinged with a thick Russian accent. Emily turned, fixing the stranger with a distrustful gaze. It wasn’t fair, but she’d come to distrust Russian accents. But they were common enough in San Francisco, and this man
was remarkable in his unremarkableness. A bland early fortyish, he was of such regular height and build he seemed to have been stamped from a machine. And he was unrelentingly brown—brown hair, a neatly trimmed brown mustache and goatee.
“Do I know you?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“No, but I believe I can intuit your difficulty. You wish to purchase a ticket. And you will not be able to do so.”
Emily frowned, but the man carried on.
“However, I have a solution to the dilemma you are not yet even aware of having. I have a single ticket, which is useless to me. Would you like to have it?”
Narrowing her eyes, Emily employed a phrase she’d just recently learned in New York.
“What’s the catch?”
The brown man blinked at her.
“What does it mean?” he asked. “Catch?”
“Why would you let me have your ticket?” She pointed to a well-fed gentleman with a gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat. “That man, for instance, looks like he’d pay you a hundred dollars right now.” She turned out her empty pockets—not showing him, of course, the black silk Warlock’s purse that she kept tucked safely in the top of her boot. “Do I look like I have a hundred dollars?”
“No,” he said. “But you look as though you are in need of help. Take the ticket. You will not get another.”
“No, thank you,” Emily said. Never mind that she distrusted Russian accents; she distrusted unexpected largesse even more. She quickly made her way into the crowd, putting a thick buffer of human flesh between her and the stranger. What had his game been? Had he seen through her costume and assumed she was some kind of hussy who catered to odd whims? Or maybe he
hadn’t
seen through the costume, and thought she was a tender boy who could be bought for the price of passage.