The Native Star Page 40

  The fountain of light shot up, expanding like a reversed funnel as it rose, broad and thin and shimmering like the clouds of luminous stellar gas Emily remembered from the memories of Ososolyeh. The colors of it were so beautiful: resonant basso reds, deep echoing blues, shimmering, soaring yellows. The multihued light cloaked the sky in heartbreaking radiance.

  Then it began to rain.

  Coruscating drops of power sizzled down like tiny comets, phosphorescent glitters like dying fireflies that made the ground glow where they hit. The brilliant shower quickly doused the flames, clearing the smoke from the air, revealing Caul’s charred corpse. Kneeling, his fists were pressed against his forehead.

  Emily did not realize how silent it had become until the hollow clank of the empty chrysohaeme container resounded through the room. Emily’s eyes found Stanton’s. No longer wreathed in power, he looked thin and tired. He swayed, gave her a nod, then collapsed heavily to the floor.

  She went to him, falling to the ground beside him. Pain jolted through her as she reached to touch him with a hand that was no longer there.

  “Mr. Stanton,” she said. The raindrops of iridescent silver brilliance fell all around them, making the air glow with released power. The whole world around them shone like an illuminated manuscript, brilliant colors made precious with bright nacreous gems. The raindrops glowed in Stanton’s hair, leaving marks of light where they fell on his pale, upturned face.

  “Mr. Stanton?” she whispered, brushing drops of brilliance from his face. “Dreadnought?”

  He opened his eyes. They were entirely black, from lid to lid.

  “I like it better with the ‘dear’ after it,” he said, distantly.

  “Are you all right?” she breathed. “Please say you’ll be all right!”

  “Of course I’ll be all right,” he said. “Though I am a bit hungry.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Man Who Saved Magic

  Dreadnought Stanton stood proudly over the infamous sangrimancer, the blood fiend who clutched and scrabbled miserably at his feet—a wretched spectacle.

  “I die … yes, I die! For you have defeated me in all truth, and the great engines of evil that were at my command! And you have defeated me twice over, for you battled fairly against my methods, which were deceitful and dishonorable! Truly I lose to a better Warlock, and a better man!”

  And letting out a final, foul breath, the blood fiend reclined, expiring.

  “Such terrible dangers shall never again threaten our great nation!” Dreadnought Stanton said firmly, regarding the formidable enemy who lay dead at his feet. “The great goals of credomancy shall uphold the virtues of this land, the honor of its women, and the innocence of its youth!”

  Emily closed the book, repressing an almost unbearable urge to salute.

  The book was fresh from the presses of Mystic Truth Publishers. It had an eye-popping chromolithographed cover that featured Dreadnought Stanton boldly fending off rotting zombies, fearsome sangrimancers with blood dripping from the corners of their mouths, and leaping lions. Emily wasn’t sure where the lions had come in, but they certainly added excitement.

  The Man Who Saved Magic was the title, inscribed in powerful red letters. Emily made a mental note to send a copy to Rose. It would give the girl palpitations.

  She glanced at her new hand sitting on the book. It was so strange and yet so pretty; she often felt her eyes sneaking toward it. The prosthetic was made of ivory and silver. The fingers were long and slim, articulated with silver joints that bore elaborate scrolls of machine engraving. There were even sweetly carved pink nails. A smoothly molded cuff of silver, also scrolled with engraving and lined with peach-colored velvet, reached halfway up to her elbow.

  “Presented by the Witches’ Friendly Society, this First of June, 1876,” was scrolled along the edge of the cuff. “To Miss Emily Edwards, in honor of her signal accomplishment.”

  Next to it, her real hand seemed large and clumsy. But then again, her real hand was alive. She placed this living hand on a small golden ball that rested beside her on the windowsill. It was somewhat smaller than a croquet ball, decoratively engraved. It was called a rooting ball. Hermetically sealed, it contained a special nutrient fluid in which Komé’s acorn was suspended—it was hoped that the acorn would sprout and root so that it could be planted. Emily closed her eyes and felt for the spirit of Komé; the Holy Woman shifted comfortingly beneath Emily’s touch.

  “Dreaming the afternoon away, I see.” The loud voice came from the door. It was Miss Pendennis, dressed in visiting clothes: a dark dress with gloves and hat and reticule.

  “Just doing some improving reading.” Emily held up the book. “It’s quite thrilling. I had no idea Mr. Stanton did all those things! And I had no idea that I swooned quite so much, or that my name was ‘Faith Trueheart.’”

  Miss Pendennis raised an eyebrow.

  “Certainly you didn’t think they’d put Emily Edwards in the book,” she said. Then she sat down in a chair with a weary sigh.

  “Well, I’ve got news, since you obviously prefer reading trash to picking up a copy of Practitioners’ Daily.” Miss Pendennis settled herself, putting her large feet up on an ottoman. “They’ve finished tearing down the terramantic extraction plant in Charleston. Baugh’s Patent Magicks is no more. The threat to Ososolyeh, the great consciousness of the earth, is ended.”

  Emily liked the grand finality of Miss Pendennis’ statement. And while she was highly pleased that the threat to the great consciousness of the earth was ended, the first thing that crossed her mind was Lost Pine. Now that Baugh’s Patent Magicks was out of business for good, there was sure to be plenty of work waiting for her there.

  Miss Pendennis sighed with satisfaction. “All’s well that ends well.”

  “Didn’t end too well for Mirabilis,” Emily said.

  “Poor arrogant fool.” Miss Pendennis shook her head. “A victim of his own hubris, really. He was so supremely confident of his abilities. That’s a credomancer for you!”

  So confident of his abilities, he was willing to risk the lives of everyone around him to see his plans fulfilled, Emily thought. “How’s Mr. Tarnham?” she asked quietly.

  “Home in the bosom of his family, never to practice magic again.” Miss Pendennis shook her head. “They like him a whole lot better now that all he can do is stare at the wall and drool. Poor boy. He was so attached to that ferret.” She sighed heavily. “Maybe if they pray hard enough over him, he’ll be able to speak again someday.”

  Emily looked at her ivory hand. “I guess Caul wasn’t the only one with a ready supply of Sergeant Booths.”

  Miss Pendennis shook her head, letting the dark sentiment linger for a moment before dispelling it with a falsely bright tone.

  “Speaking of arrogant fools, I dropped in on the Stantons the other day.”

  Emily inclined her head. She did not look at Miss Pendennis.

  It had been nearly a month since Emily had seen Stanton last, on the pier in Charleston, the world around them drenched with the light of Ososolyeh’s released power. Before she’d stirred from the drowsy drugs they’d given her to relieve the pain of her amputation, Stanton had vanished from the hospital, whisked back to New York by Benedictus Zeno and a coterie of senior professors from the Institute. Emily was left to recuperate in the hot, muggy hospital in Charleston. A well-trained staff of efficient Witch Doctors had accelerated the healing of her amputated limb, and had cleansed her of the compulsion the Manipulator had hidden in her blood. She had written Stanton a letter to tell him that, as a matter of fact, she had found the live chickens and bone rattles very fascinating indeed. There had been no reply. After she’d left the hospital, she’d returned to New York to collect her twenty-thousand-dollar payment from the Institute. Emeritus Zeno—as he was respectfully called now—was extravagantly hospitable, drafting her a check with extreme haste, providing her the use of the Institute’s most lavish and uncomfortable suite, and o
ffering to help her with any travel arrangements she might wish to make. It all left Emily feeling distinctly that she was not wanted. So she’d gone to the Grand Central Depot and bought her train ticket back to San Francisco.

  “How is Mr. Stanton?” Emily asked softly.

  “Looking well, I guess.” Miss Pendennis shrugged. “Up and about. The senator has reporters and political cronies in at all hours to meet him. He’s a veritable attraction at the brownstone on Thirty-fourth; the senator might have to start selling tickets.” She paused, pulling off her gloves and reaching into her reticule. “Listen, Em. He asked me to give you this.”

  It was a slender envelope, inscribed with Stanton’s firm angular hand. It did not look promising.

  “Do you want me to …” Miss Pendennis started to rise.

  “No, don’t bother,” Emily said, unfolding it. “It’s short.”

  Dear Miss Edwards:

  Emeritus Zeno tells me that you are returning to California. I suppose you are going back to marry Mr. Hansen. I am glad for you. You are a brave and wonderful woman, and you deserve the joy and security of a long, settled marriage.

  I wish you every happiness,

  Dreadnought Stanton

  Insufferable.

  She folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Emily didn’t know her hand was trembling until Miss Pendennis laid a hand over it and stilled it.

  “Em, may I speak bluntly?”

  “I would be shocked if you didn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t make a good credomancer’s wife. You know it as well as I do. You’d be squinking him from noon to night. A credomancer can’t have a wife who’s always squinking him.” She paused. “If he were going to marry at all, which he wouldn’t because … Well, anyway, if he were going to marry, Stanton would require a wife who worshipped the ground he walked on, that’s all.”

  “That certainly does seem to leave me out of the running,” Emily said.

  “Never mind,” Miss Pendennis said briskly. “I’ve got something to get your mind off Warlocks. The Witches’ Friendly Society would like to book you on our upcoming lecture tour. I’m leaving next week, going all around the world. Why don’t you come with me? There are hundreds of women in the magical community who are dying to meet you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Emily said. “I’m going home.”

  There wasn’t much to pack for her trip, and when it came time to go, Emily went to find Benedictus Zeno to say good-bye. She knocked softly at the door of Mirabilis’ old office.

  A low-toned voice mumbled something that might have been “come in”; she opened the door.

  “Emeritus Zeno, the carriage is waiting, I just wanted to say—”

  She stopped abruptly, silenced by the look on Zeno’s face—a look of strange annoyance, as if the very act of her walking through the door was an affront.

  She’d never seen his face arranged in any manner other than smiling pleasantness. But, frowning, his face looked terrible and old and unsettling. It was so strange and unexpected that it took Emily a moment to recover. In that moment, she noticed that there was another man in the office with him.

  It was Stanton.

  The men were standing together; Stanton had his coat on and his hat in his hands.

  Emily and Stanton looked at each other. The last time she’d seen him in Charleston, his eyes and tongue had been black as a photographic negative. Now he looked neatly tailored and pressed, as if he’d just been unwrapped. He regarded her from what seemed a far greater distance than the few feet that separated them.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, flushing. She turned quickly to go.

  “No, Miss Edwards, wait a moment,” Zeno said. The look of annoyance had vanished quickly, but his voice bore a faint hint of exasperation. “Mr. Stanton is just leaving.”

  Emily studied the floor while Zeno and Stanton moved toward the door. It seemed to Emily that Stanton hesitated for a moment. At the hesitation, Zeno extended a hand and said firmly: “Good day, Mr. Stanton.”

  Stanton took Zeno’s hand and shook it resolutely.

  “Good day,” he said. Emily looked up in time to see his back as he hurried through the door, closing it behind himself softly.

  When he was gone, Zeno came to Emily, took both her hands, looked at her traveling costume.

  “Well, Miss Edwards,” he said softly. “All ready to go, I see.”

  “I’m sorry, Emeritus,” she said, uncertain why she felt so compelled to apologize. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Zeno nodded toward the door through which Stanton had left.

  “Mr. Stanton will be taking the position of Sophos, director of the Institute. He’s the only one who can, given the … unorthodox circumstances.” Zeno paused, regarding Emily with steady, calm eyes. “The role of Sophos will occupy every moment of his day, and every ounce of his energy. The Institute is perhaps the most influential credomantic establishment in the world, and he will serve as its Heart.”

  “He will do a wonderful job,” Emily said.

  “Yes. He will.” Zeno stared hard at Emily. Then he relaxed, a small benevolent smile creeping back over his lips. “Now then, when does your train leave?”

  “In a couple of hours,” Emily said. She felt suddenly despondent and out of place. The magnificence of Zeno’s office—the office that would be Stanton’s—was suddenly oppressive and horrible. She tucked her reticule tight under her arm, the impulse to flee strong and strange. “I suppose I should go.”

  Zeno took her hand, her living hand, and gave it a strengthening squeeze. The gesture had an immediate impact; she felt invigorated, brighter. She lifted her chin, drew a deep breath. She longed suddenly for the smell of pine.

  “Thank you for everything, my dear,” Zeno said. “You have done the world a great service. These troubling matters no longer concern you. Go home now. Go home and flourish.”

  Emily walked into the empty hall and took a deep breath. The sun came through the windows; the day was beautiful for traveling. She let the breath out. The carriage was waiting. She walked away from the office quickly, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

  She paused only a moment beneath the statue of the wise-looking goddess that held up the Veneficus Flame. She looked up. The flame was high and strong. Emily placed her hand on the statue and closed her eyes; she could feel the power of Ososolyeh thrumming beneath her fingertips.

  Forgive him.

  Emily’s heart fluttered. The words were as clear and sharp as if they had been spoken in her ear.

  “Miss Edwards?”

  It was Stanton’s voice.

  Emily opened her eyes slowly. She considered walking away until she could not hear his voice anymore. But she turned, looking at him. He was standing some distance from her, pinching the edge of his hat between his fingers.

  “Hello, Mr. Stanton.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly, as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say.

  “How is your hand?” he said finally.

  She lifted her arm. “Still gone.”

  Silence.

  “Penelope tells me you’re going back to Lost Pine,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  “On what?”

  “On making a wise choice.”

  She drew herself up and tried to look down her nose at him, but found it impossible given their difference in height.

  “You’re a very smart man, Mr. Stanton,” she said, “but you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

  He blinked at her.

  “Good-bye,” she said, turning to go.

  “Emily,” his voice mingled hesitancy and urgency in equal measure. “Wait.”

  She turned back, breathing out a little impatience.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you remember? On the train? I … made you a promise.”

  “You never promised me anything,” Emily said.

  “But I did,” Stanton said. “I promised I’d show you Central
Park.”

  “Leave it to a New Yorker to put a bunch of trees in one place and call it wonderful,” she said, as they looked over the huge expanse of open land dotted with swaying saplings. “I grew up in California, Mr. Stanton. I’ve seen plenty of trees.”

  “Those were California trees.” He lifted an eyebrow. “These are New York trees.” He offered her his arm. “Would you like to walk?”

  She took his arm. He was warm as always. Burning up from the inside. The last time she’d been this close to him, he’d been as cold as ice. The memory made her shudder.

  They went down a path that led under a long avenue of pink-blooming cherry trees. Little petals like flakes of fragrant snow drifted down around them with every stirring of wind.

  “Why are we here, Mr. Stanton?” she asked tiredly. “Must we continue this torture?”

  “I find the day rather pleasant,” he said.

  “Walking arm in arm with somebody you’ve got a deep affection for is pleasant,” Emily said. “Walking arm in arm with somebody you’ve got a deep unrequited affection for is torture.”

  “Your affection is not unrequited,” he said softly.

  “Really?” She bit the word. “You leave without saying good-bye. I send you a letter, and you don’t write back. And when you finally do write, it’s to congratulate me on going home to marry another man. How could I have failed to recognize such a bold and heartfelt declaration?”

  Stanton was silent, then he took a deep breath.

  “What do I have to offer you, Emily?” he said. “Ten years—or less? The fact that I’ll leave you young enough to make a pretty widow? You’ll be better off this way.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “Going back to Lost Pine. Going back to your lumber—to Mr. Hansen.”

  “I’m not going to marry Dag,” Emily said. “I don’t love him. If I did, I wouldn’t care if he was going to die tomorrow. I’d marry him and be glad for every moment. But I don’t love him. I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he said. “More than anything I’ve ever loved or could imagine loving. And that’s why I won’t let you be hurt.”