The Hidden Goddess (17 page)

“But I thought I was being kept under wraps,” Emily puffed as she hurried to keep up. “I was told it was part of Mr. Fortissimus’ plans.”

“I could not comment on Mr. Fortissimus’ plans or lack thereof,” Miss Jesczenka said archly. “But I can say with absolute assurance that after tonight, whatever wraps you have been kept under will be off. There will be no end to the newspapers, journals, and ladies’ monthly digests that will be clamoring for information about you.”

Emily’s heart thudded dully behind its casing of silk and steel.

“Who, me? I can’t be in papers. I don’t have anything to say!”

“Having something to say is not a requirement for being in the papers, especially not for a lady,” Miss Jesczenka said. “As a matter of fact, they prefer it if you don’t. You need only be a pretty face in a pretty dress. The Institute will handle the rest.”

Just as it has handled everything else
, Emily thought as
they turned into a room that was usually used for classes. It was brightly lit; all the curtains had been drawn back, and the last brilliance of sunset streamed in through the tall panes of glass. A small studio area had been set up in one bright corner; velvet draperies hung behind a strangely shaped chair with one fat velvet-upholstered arm. The photographer and his assistants bustled around a large box camera, fussing with broad, flat glass plates.

The photographer posed Emily carefully, her head turned to one side and her ringed hand resting lightly on her opposite shoulder. Her gloved prosthetic was carefully left out of the shot.

“Smile pretty,” the man said as he ducked under a heavy black hood at the back of the camera. “And for God’s sake, don’t move.”

Emily realized, with a sudden flash of foreboding, that the direction was likely to summarize her entire mode of existence for quite some time to come.

At ten o’clock, after the photographs had been taken, Miss Jesczenka said that it was time to go down.

While the Investment ceremony was to be held in the Institute’s Great Trine Room, the reception that preceded it was to occur in the great hall—a soaring space with the magnificent dimensions of a cathedral. At one end, a wide marble staircase swept down from the broad mezzanine that ringed the hall. At the room’s far end stood two enormous black doors—the highly polished ebony guardians of the Great Trine Room.

The room was garlanded with swags of crimson and gold, and it was filled with a multitude of people—Emily knew the Institute had almost four thousand students, and that another thousand notables had been invited beyond that number. The air buzzed with conversation and energy—a brilliant contrast to the Grand Symposium, the last function Emily had attended here. Then there had only been a handful of participants, and the mood had been dark and ominous. But tonight the air itself seemed to sparkle, as if a million tiny fireflies had been released in the room. She tried to brush one away,
but it vanished as soon as she looked at it. The excitement and energy of it all buoyed Emily up, made her feel cheerful and strangely eager, as if it had suddenly become intensely clear that unimaginable wonders awaited her.

“It would be best if Mr. Stanton could take you down,” Miss Jesczenka murmured into Emily’s ear, “but we can go down together if—”

“There will be no need for that.” From behind them came Zeno’s grandfatherly tone. The little man offered Emily his arm. He was dressed in ornate robes of black silk brocade, embroidered in gold with figures that much resembled the figures seen on the doors of the Great Trine Room. He wore a small cap on his head, black velvet that sparkled with jewels and intricately wrought gold charms. “Miss Edwards, may I have the honor?”

Emily gave him her arm, and together they descended the wide marble staircase. The rich perfume of hundreds of flowers rose to meet them, the scent wafting up from the deep-red blooms on the orchid vines that twined up the walls, from blush-pink summer peonies and plump cream-colored roses massed in large silver vases.

A few people near the bottom of the staircase looked up as Emily and Zeno descended. Some put their heads together to comment; here and there were grins. Emily put on her most tranquil smile and tried to look like a cattle baron’s daughter.

“You look lovely, Miss Edwards,” Zeno said as they arrived on the floor and began making their way through the murmuring onlookers. “I hope the events of last evening did not disturb your rest?”

“Not in the least,” Emily said, acutely aware of a fresh desire to tell Zeno everything about the bottle of memories. But she kept her mouth shut and said nothing more as Zeno ushered her to the center of the great hall.

“Mr. Fortissimus did an exceptional job of arranging the event, don’t you think?” Zeno finally said, after some moments of silence had passed between them. She followed Zeno’s gaze to where Fortissimus stood in the center of a large group of people, holding court. He gestured around himself now and again, obviously detailing specifics of the
lavish decor. “You might wish to congratulate him on his accompishment.”

“That would be diplomatic of me, wouldn’t it?” Emily said. Zeno grinned up at her.

“You have made great strides, Miss Edwards,” he said. “I will be honored to stand next to you tonight in the Great Trine Room.”

Emily brought her brows together. “Stand next to me?”

“Didn’t they tell you?”

No one ever tells me anything
was Emily’s first choice of response, but she remembered what Miss Jesczenka had said about swimming with the current, and so restrained herself to inquiring politely: “Tell me what?”

“You will be participating in the Investment,” Zeno said. “Tonight will be your first public appearance as Mr. Stanton’s fiancée. You will not be called upon to do anything, don’t worry. Just stand with us as Mr. Stanton is Invested. Ah, Mr. Stanton. There you are!”

Emily looked up quickly as a flash of red caught her eye. A pair of gentlemen in dark evening dress parted to reveal Stanton, clad in robes of crimson brocade that were like Zeno’s, but infinitely richer, embroidered in some strange kind of floss that seemed to glow from within. He wore a high arched hat that, combined with his tallness, made him tower above everyone else in the room.

“Emily,” Stanton said as she was transferred from Zeno’s arm to his. His voice was formal, but he gave her arm a secret press of greeting. “Allow me to present you to Mr. Asphodel and Mr. Jenks, two prominent supporters of the Institute …”

And thus began a whirl of introductions and presentations, throughout which Emily smiled and murmured her pleasure. She met Schermerhorns and Schuylers, Schlesingers and Sinclairs. The names mushed together upon themselves like lumps in a bowl of exceptionally sibilant porridge; Emily was astonished that Stanton could keep them all straight. She concentrated intently as Stanton peppered her with name after name. She was actutely aware of the necessity to master the trick of remembering them, and fast. She started repeating people’s names back to them once they’d been presented
to her, as she’d noticed Stanton doing; she felt somewhat dimwitted doing so, but it did help her keep the names in her head for at least as long as she was talking to them. The presentations went on for hours, it seemed, with Stanton steering her from one clot of evening-dressed gentlemen to another.

They seemed to be walking toward another group of fat businessmen; the men lifted hands and smiled in Stanton’s direction, but then Stanton muttered something under his breath in Latin and the men’s faces went all confused. As Emily and Stanton walked right past them, she heard them commenting among themselves, “But I just saw him coming this way …”

Emily looked up at Stanton, and realized that his entire form had gone a bit spectral. She looked down at herself quickly and noticed that hers had, as well. Under their cloak of invisibility, or semivisibility, or whatever sorcellement Stanton had worked, they walked briskly toward a secluded alcove. Ducking inside, Stanton jerked the velvet curtain closed. Emily blinked, as if waking from a particularly odd dream.

“Impossible!” he blurted through clenched teeth, as his form solidified. “If I have to shake another sweaty, greasy hand—”

“What did you just do?” she asked, looking down at herself. She had regained her substantiality also. He grinned, laying a finger to the side of his nose.

“Zeno’s been teaching me some wonderful tricks,” Stanton said. “That one’s quite useful, don’t you agree?” Before Emily could agree, he had reached up and was scratching his scalp vigorously. “I only wish I’d thought of it sooner. This thing is murdering me!”

“It’s very imposing,” she said, gazing upward. The thick encrustation of gold embroidery had to add ten pounds to its weight.

“I have all those sixteenth-century engravers to thank for it,” Stanton said, replacing the hat on his head and adjusting it so that it would balance properly. “Elongated headgear has always symbolized heightened spirituality and power, as if
one could reach out to God with one’s hat. Think of bishops, archdeacons—”

“I’d rather not, thank you, especially not if you’re going to name them,” Emily said. “And to answer the question I’m sure you’d ask if you weren’t too busy thinking about hats, I am bearing up quite nobly. Though I wish those waiters would make their way closer to me once in a while.”

“That makes two of us,” Stanton said. He reached out from behind the curtain. She heard him issue a curt “excuse me” and when he ducked back, he held a whole silver platter of canapés. “I’m famished.”

Emily watched him demolish the decorative arrangement of lump crab and caviar on crackers. Stanton offered her a morsel, but she shook her head. Food was the last thing she wanted; she was more interested in the thin crystal flutes of champagne the waiters were offering. He cleaned off the plate quickly, even swallowing the decorative sprigs of parsley. Finally he set the platter on the ground and licked his fingers.

“I know this is awful. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not awful at all!” Emily said with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “It’s wonderful. Spectacular.”

“The Institute hasn’t had an Investment since Mirabilis assumed power thirty years ago,” Stanton said. “Fortissimus has outdone himself.”

“Zeno said I’m supposed to congratulate him,” Emily said.

“Oh, I’ll just bet he did,” Stanton snorted. “But maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea. He’s not entirely on my side yet, I’m afraid. That became quite apparent to me last night.”

“Oh yes.” Emily arched an eyebrow at him. “The ‘beefsteak.’ Were there many pretty girls there? How were their legs?”

Stanton blinked, then smiled broadly. “Why, Emily Edwards. You’re
jealous
! That’s adorable. Don’t worry, dearest, I didn’t have time to notice any pretty girls or their legs. I was too busy trying to fend off Fortissimus’ party bulldogs. They’re all hoping the Institute will contribute toward Tilden’s campaign, even though Fortissimus knows damn well we can’t afford to take sides. I spent the whole evening avoiding the
outstretched hands.” He paused, reflecting. “At least the steaks were good. Grilled them on shovels. I wouldn’t mind one right now.”

Emily reached up to touch his flushed face. Through the soft satin of her glove, Emily could feel how hot his skin was. Stanton caught her hand, pressed it to his lips.

“So you were able to speak to Zeno?” he said, bringing up his other hand to clasp hers. “What did he say?”

Emily looked away, at the velvet curtain that separated them from the clamoring crowd beyond.

“Yes, I saw him,” she said softly.

“Did you speak with Komé? Did she tell you anything?”

Emily blinked. No, she hadn’t! She’d forgotten, until that very moment, that she’d been meaning to. Last night, Zeno had gotten answers to all his questions, and Emily had gotten answers to none.

She let out a breath, shook her head.
Credomancers
.

“I didn’t get to speak to Komé. And I
didn’t
tell him about the Lethe Draught,” she added with pert emphasis.

“Why not?”

She bit her lip. She didn’t want to go into it all at the moment, not with thousands of people milling about just outside the curtain. “I didn’t want to ruin things before your Investment,” she said. “There will be time enough later.”

“But surely it’s important. He might have been able to advise you—”

“Surely he would have had a very decided opinion on the matter,” Emily interjected, a little sharply. “What if he’d wanted me to drink it right then? I didn’t want to be pressured to take a step that maybe I’m not ready to take. All right?”

She was aware that there was too much vehemence in her voice. She softened her tone. “You won’t tell him about it, will you?” she added. “Let’s just take things slowly.”

“Of course,” Stanton said. “Emeritus Zeno does have a way of convincing one to do things one would rather not.” He reached up and ruefully touched his hat. Emily stifled a laugh behind a gloved palm. Stanton looked at her, his eyes searching her face.

“Do you know, I haven’t had a moment to really look at you all evening.”

Emily stepped back as far as the confines of the alcove would allow and stretched her arms. He appraised her critically, rubbing his chin.

“You have the most wonderful throat,” he said, as if reaching a conclusion. “I am completely convinced that it’s the smoothest, creamiest, most delicious-looking throat I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“My
throat
?” Emily lifted her chin indignantly, no doubt showing her laudable throat to its best advantage. “I go through agonies of waist compression, and train dragging, and bustle balancing, and you compliment my
throat
? The one feature of my person that hasn’t been extensively fiddled around with?”

“I am very glad to hear that no one else has been fiddling around with your throat,” Stanton said, bending down carefully to place a series of warm kisses from her chin to her shoulder.

Emily shuddered pleasantly at the touch of his lips. She might have chaffed him a bit more, but it was difficult to speak with someone kissing—no, nibbling now, nibbling maddeningly at—her throat. Stanton’s ridiculous hat bumped her cheek, and she lifted a hand to keep it from falling. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and with the other he threw the offending haberdashery to the floor.