The Native Star Page 12

  The lobby was huge, high ceilinged, with marble columns around which palms in celadon pots were decoratively arranged. Acres of extravagantly flowered carpeting stretched from wall to mahogany-paneled wall. The richly colored expanse was dotted with velvet-covered circular couches and plush overstuffed banquettes, islands in a baroque sea. The coved ceiling was encrusted with gilt plaster. Gaslight blazed from cut-crystal chandeliers.

  Emily was suddenly acutely aware of how ridiculous she looked. Pap’s old denim pants peeked from beneath the hem of her skirt, her buffalo coat was matted and ripe from the soaking it had received two days before, and her white kid gloves had come to resemble the skin of a month-old corpse. Blushing, she thrust her hands deep into her pockets, trying to ignore the people in the lobby who were doing their best to stare without staring.

  She hung back while Stanton arranged for rooms. After making sure Emily had a bellman to see her up, Stanton went to arrange the stabling of the horses.

  “Doesn’t the hotel have stables?” Emily asked him.

  “It certainly does,” Stanton said, tipping his hat to her. And then he was gone.

  Throwing her saddlebags over her shoulder, Emily prepared to follow the neatly dressed bellman up to her room. But the fellow just stood there, looking uncomfortable. He had to clear his throat twice before she figured it out. She let the bags slide to the floor, and the bellman seized them happily.

  Of course, she scolded herself, as she followed him up. That’s what they’re for. Toting bags and carrying notes and busting in on guilty lovers and such. Emily cast her mind back over all the stories from Ladies’ Repository in which bellmen had played a part.

  The room was nice enough, with a lovely view of the bay, but it was the lavatory that fascinated Emily—right in the room itself! Emily had rarely seen water on tap, much less hot water. Fragrant soaps wrapped like little gifts sat on a side table and huge white towels were folded neatly on a nickel-plated rack above the steam register.

  After some fiddling, she managed to run herself a hot bath. Sliding into the claw-footed tub, she unbraided her long hair and let it float around her. The hot water, the warmth of the steam registers, and the lilac scent of the soap all conspired to make her feel extremely sleepy.

  She held up her right hand, lazily watching the light from the flickering gas jet shine through the stone. Strangely, the color of the stone seemed to have changed. She remembered it being as clear as a piece of blue glass, but now it seemed milkier, yellower, and it was flecked with little dark inclusions. She remembered Komé’s words … the stone is trying to speak to you, but you do not have the ears to hear, and it does not have the tongue to speak.

  She stared at the stone hard, trying to feel the message it contained, trying to feel if there was really a message at all. Finally she gave up, plunging her hand into the soapy water.

  After her bath she could have folded herself into the crisp white bed immediately, but she couldn’t let a whole tub of good hot water go to waste. She washed her chemise, petticoat, and stockings, hanging the items to dry over the steam register. When she was finished, she turned down the gas and slid between the smooth sheets, stark naked save for the silk pouch she always wore. She pulled the covers up around her chin, remembering what Stanton said about San Francisco burning down every ten years. She sincerely hoped the city wasn’t due for another big conflagration; being cast naked into the street would be almost as embarrassing as walking through the lobby of the Excelsior in a buffalo coat.

  At nine the next morning, Emily waited for Stanton in the palm-fronded lobby. Wearing her best poplin dress—which Mrs. Lyman had sewed for a trip Emily and Pap had taken to the Nevada State Fair a couple of years back, and which had sustained the rigors of travel admirably in the bottom of Emily’s canvas bag—she felt able to hold her chin up to all the finery that surrounded her. The dress had a tight bodice that buttoned up the front with jet-black buttons, close-fitting sleeves that terminated in little pleats of black satin at the wrists, and a narrowish, simple skirt. Flounces draped across the rump were Lost Pine’s nod to the bustle, which, according to Ladies’ Repository, “Dame fashion decreed as de rigueur for the well-turned-out miss.”

  When she finally saw Stanton walking toward her, she noticed that he, too, had shed his coating of trail dust. He was freshly barbered, and his suit had been neatly brushed and pressed. The black eye that Dag had given him back in Lost Pine had already faded to a pale streak of yellow that stretched across the top of his right cheekbone. He looked astonishingly stiff and sturdy, as if he were cut from pasteboard.

  “You look like a banker who never says yes to a loan,” she said.

  “And you look like a schoolmarm who never says yes to anything,” Stanton replied, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

  They walked out of the hotel onto Kearny Street. It teemed with activity, carriages parading up and down the cobblestoned street and horses shouldering their way along the thoroughfare. On both sides of the street, vast shimmering seas of plate glass framed unimaginable commercial glories. It was all Emily could do not to stop every five feet to stare at some novel treasure. One window, draped with velvets and satins, displayed an array of hats. Another window held a half dozen chalk heads, on which were arranged huge masses of gleaming hair. The window of Grandmother Myrna’s Mystic Emporium featured fabulously colored magical charms and talismans, including a swag of tiny lights, each no larger than Emily’s pinkie nail, sparkling in shifting colors of blue and gold and red. As Emily paused to stare at the charms in the window, the tiny lights dimmed and flickered, going dead as embers drenched in a bucket.

  Stanton put a hand firmly on her elbow and impelled her forward.

  “Come along, or we’ll have Grandmother Myrna to answer to,” he said. “Goodness knows how many magical applecarts you might knock over, walking through a commercial district with that stone in your hand.”

  They took a horse car to California Street—a broad avenue of imposing commercial buildings, monuments of shining white stone decorated with fluted colonnades, plaster ornaments, and heroic statuary. The building they stopped in front of was stark by comparison; its face was of smooth black marble, and only a collection of small, raised gold letters gave any indication of what a visitor might find behind its bright red door:

  Mirabilis Institute of the Credomantic Arts, San Francisco Extension Office.

  The lobby of the building was as simple and stylish as the exterior. High ceilinged, red walled, its only decoration was a long row of gold-framed portraits of sober-looking gentlemen. Emily looked at each of the dour faces as they passed. The sound of her heels clicking on the highly polished black marble floor seemed an insult to their collective dignity.

  They came to a small reception area, where a pale thin clerk sat hunched over a ledger book, making careful notes with an ink pen. When he heard Emily and Stanton approach, he looked up with odd apprehension.

  “Good morning.” Stanton presented a crisp white card, making sure the gold of his ring flashed in the young man’s face. “My name is Dreadnought Stanton. I am a Jefferson Chair, assigned to the eastern region of the state. I must see Professor Quincy on urgent business.”

  “I’m … I’m terribly sorry, but the professor is not in today.” The young clerk looked anxiously between Emily and Stanton. “Perhaps, Mr. Stanton, if you’d like to make an appointment to call early next week …”

  “Next week?” Stanton fixed the man with an imperious glare. Emily appreciated seeing it fixed on someone other than herself. “Next week is completely unacceptable.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanton,” the clerk stammered, “but Professor Quincy is not available.”

  “Indeed.” Stanton narrowed his eyes. “Urgent business on the coast, I take it?”

  The clerk looked miserable. He straightened his skinny black tie and glanced at Emily.

  “Mr. Stanton, really.”

  “Well?” Stanton pressed, his voice curt and im
patient.

  “Yes.” The young man whispered. “I’m afraid you’re correct.”

  Stanton hmphed disapprovingly and plopped his hat on his head. Then he took Emily’s arm and hurried her back along the hall through which they’d come. The staunch men in the portraits seemed to find their hasty retreat as unsatisfactory as their arrival.

  “What are we going to do?” Emily asked.

  “I’m going to find Professor Quincy.” Stanton opened the door onto the brightness of the street. “You’re going back to the hotel.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Stanton gave her a weary look.

  “Professor Quincy has an unfortunate predilection for faro. There are several establishments offering such diversions between Washington and Dupont streets, in the section of town commonly known as the Barbary Coast.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you most certainly are not.”

  “I am!”

  “It’s the worst sort of neighborhood. It’s no place for …”

  Emily set her jaw. “I told you before, I’m not luggage you can put on a shelf whenever you feel like it. I’ve been pawed by zombies and chased by an Aberrant raccoon. I can take anything that San Francisco has to dish out.”

  Stanton pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Without opening them, he said, in a clipped tone, “Nice ladies don’t visit the Barbary Coast.”

  She looked at him for a moment, folding her arms. “Mr. Stanton, you should know by now that I am anything but a nice lady.”

  “Miss Edwards, you are a much nicer lady than you like to pretend. All things considered.”

  “All things considered?” The persnickety little qualifier made Emily’s blood boil. “You’re insufferable, Mr. Stanton. I’m coming, and that’s that. Don’t make me get common.”

  “All right.” Stanton threw up his hands, looking furtively up and down the quiet street. It was obvious that he did not relish the thought of Emily getting common in front of his institute. When he spoke again, his voice was an annoyed hiss. “Forgive me for imagining you might want to preserve some shred of feminine reticence and delicacy. Come if you want. But don’t complain to me when you get some unflattering offers.”

  He hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in a low voice. Emily and Stanton rode for a great while in huffy silence, neither looking at the other.

  After a while they came to a neighborhood that did look exceedingly dubious. Clusters of rough-looking men clotted around corners, throwing dice or drinking from bottles. Threadbare old vagrants lay in muddy gutters, passed out or worse. Chinese porters hurried purposefully down dark alleyways, balancing heavy cloth-covered baskets on the ends of pliant bamboo poles. Emily caught sight of two fabulously dressed women walking along the sidewalk arm in arm. One was clad in a blue satin gown of extravagant cut and tailoring; the other wore a dress of deepest green, embroidered with sprays of pink and white cherry blossoms. As they walked they held their heads together in close conversation, smiling now and again, showing white teeth. Emily thought they looked very free and pleased with themselves.

  “Don’t stare at the prostitutes,” Stanton said curtly.

  “Oh, quit sulking.” Emily settled back in the seat. “If I didn’t have a well-developed spirit of adventure, I would never have gone up to the mine that night. You wouldn’t have this wonderful stone to present to your professors, and you probably would have been eaten by that raccoon.”

  “I shall endeavor to count my blessings,” Stanton sniffed.

  They rounded a corner, and Emily caught a glimpse of a scuffle. Two policemen were pushing four men into a large, box-shaped black carriage. The policemen wore gray uniforms with brass buttons, and on their chests gleamed brightly polished silver stars.

  She pressed her nose to the carriage window. Gesturing to Stanton, she pointed at the huge black carriage.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That’s a Black Maria,” Stanton said. “In New York we call them paddy wagons. Keep your eyes open, you’re sure to see plenty of them where we’re going.”

  The cab turned up Washington Street, then came to an abrupt halt.

  “This is as far as I go, mister,” the driver called back. Stanton paid him and handed Emily down into a swarming mass of debased humanity. There were shouts and catcalls, snatches of riotous song, girls offering to sell flowers or themselves without apparent preference.

  “We’ll try the Bull’s Run first. It’s just up the street.” They had to pick their way over a couple of exceedingly drunk veterans in tattered blue uniforms. One of them grabbed at Emily’s ankle, trying to feel up to her knee. She kicked him smartly and he laughed nastily at her.

  They passed a squat brick building, on which hung a half dozen large, inexpertly painted signs. They bore messages like: “Free meals for the hungry” and “Let all who want be fed” and “The Lord wants you to be happy.” Outside the door of the building there was a man in sober black standing on a wooden crate with a Bible in his hand. Emily could hear his words as they approached.

  “… foul sons of Baal and daughters of Lucifer the fallen! Witches and Warlocks, enchanters and sorcerers walk freely among our streets, thinking they can mock the Lord our God. But the Lord is not mocked, brothers, His swift judgment will be visited upon them. For are we not commanded, Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live! And does not the prophet Isaiah say, Woe to them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter … step inside, brother, step inside and be fed …”

  The last words were addressed to a grubby, emaciated man in tattered clothes. Emily’s interest was piqued. She wanted to hear more, but Stanton gave the street preacher a wide berth.

  “Did you hear that?” she murmured to Stanton. “Did you hear what he was saying?”

  “That is one of Brother Scharfe’s soup kitchens,” Stanton replied, under his breath. “And one of his street preachers to go with it. You can recognize them by the red crosses they wear around their necks. Stay away from them.”

  “Why? Who is Brother Scharfe?”

  “Brother Scharfe used to be a Baptist minister, but they were too free-thinking for his taste. He started his own sect, commonly called the Scharfians, and now enjoys quite a bit of national fame. He’s a ceaseless tourer of lecture circuits and revival meetings. He has established soup kitchens for the poor all over the United States.”

  “Well, that’s nice of him,” Emily said. Stanton grunted.

  “He uses them as stumping posts for the expounding of his radical theology. The Scharfians advocate a return to the good old days when sons of Baal and daughters of Lucifer were burned at the stake.” Stanton cast a furtive look back at the street preacher. “Scharfe has a great deal of support in many regions. A man can hardly declare himself a Warlock in parts of the South without fear of retribution.”

  Emily felt suddenly cold, remembering Mrs. Lyman’s words. She remembered the peculiar way that the scar tissue on Pap’s face looked like a honeycomb. She imagined the wood piled around his feet, the terror he must have felt. The thought made her feel ill.

  “But magic is perfectly natural!” Emily said. “Everyone knows there’s nothing evil about it. You said it yourself … magic is building America! What would the governments and businesses do without Warlocks?”

  “Hire Scharfians, I suppose,” Stanton said. “Ah, here we are. The Bull’s Run.”

  The Bull’s Run had a garish sign over the door (depicting an improbably endowed red bull in a state of arousal that was somewhat unsettling), but it was hardly the foul den of iniquity that Emily had expected. Rather, it was a neat, snug saloon with red velvet draperies and a variety of men at the bar who seemed, if not complete gentlemen, men to whom behaving gentlemanly at least remained an option. These men hardly looked up as Stanton and Emily walked in, and Stanton gave them no time to look; he hurried Emily throug
h the saloon toward an unobtrusive door at the rear. On the door hung a small card that read “Club Room.” A man sat stiffly on a chair near the door, chewing on an unlit cigar, watching them approach.

  “Games running?” Stanton was brisk.

  The man’s eyes narrowed, and then glanced inquiringly toward Emily.

  “Bring your sister for luck?”

  Stanton frowned at him. He slid an arm around Emily’s waist, jerked her close in a gesture that was apparently intended to suggest some form of pleasant intimacy. As Stanton’s was the lesser of the two insults, Emily took up the ruse. She licked her lips and let her eyelids droop suggestively.

  “Looks like she needs a nap.” The doorman continued to chew lazily on his cigar. With a grumble, Stanton rummaged in his pocket for a gold eagle. He flipped it at the man scornfully.

  “Swindled without even placing a bet,” he said as the doorman caught the gold in one hand and opened the door with the other.

  Descending a flight of narrow steps, they came into a low, hot room. Lit brilliantly with gas, it was furnished with dozens of long tables covered in green baize. The air was close and sticky, and the smell rank. There were perhaps two hundred men in the room, but there was little conversation, only the sound of clinking coin and the voices of the dealers, calling out the action of the games. Now and again there was a cry of despair or a shout of excitement. The cries of despair, Emily noticed, seemed more frequent in her general vicinity. The stone in her hand was probably upsetting money-luck spells right and left.

  “Monte, rouge et noir, diana, chuck-a-luck, poker dice …” Stanton pointed out the games to her in an undertone as he guided her through the room. “Professor Quincy used to stick to the more respectable casinos on Montgomery Street, but there was the matter of some unpaid debts. Now these are the only places that will admit her.”

  “Her?” Emily turned, her eyes wide. “It’s a her?”

  “Ah, there are the faro spreads. And there’s Professor Quincy.” Stanton gestured to a sharp, bony woman in a black silk dress that was encrusted in glimmering beadwork of cut jet. She wore black gloves and a small hat with a heavy veil that entirely covered her face. “Mrs. Henrietta Quincy. A somewhat unpleasant individual. I recommend you don’t talk much.”