She shook her head and smiled at the neat horror of it, but her smile was small and bitter.
“Checkmate,” she whispered to herself.
Miss Jesczenka was right about one thing. A single day was not nearly enough to satisfactorily execute the coup de grâce of an intricate Talleyrand Maneuver. But it was all the time they had.
“The first thing is the press conference,” Miss Jesczenka said. Sitting at the makeshift desk with paper, pen, and ink, she wrote furiously as she spoke. Emily stood at her shoulder, watching the woman’s steel-nibbed pen move swiftly over the paper. Quite amazingly, Miss Jesczenka was writing a catering menu, an order for a dressmaker, and a list of names while she spoke. “We will hold it at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It’s the nicest in town, and I am good friends with the manager. He will see that we’re given the Imperial Suite. It’s got wonderful acoustics.” Miss Jesczenka paused momentarily, signed her name with a flourish, then lifted the piece of paper and wafted
it in the air to let the ink dry. She looked at Emily. “We will invite every newspaperman not in thrall to Fortissimus.”
Copies of all the morning newspapers were spread out before Miss Jesczenka. Emily reached over and pulled out
The New York Times
and scanned the headlines.
“Javanese Regent Declares Mass Evacuation of Batavia,” that morning’s headline read. “Aberrancies Swarm the City. Stadhuis Reported Destroyed.”
Emily sighed, pushing the paper back.
Temamauhti
’s inexorable march. But she had enough to worry about at the moment without adding Java to the list.
Miss Jesczenka turned a disdainful gaze on Dmitri, who was watching from his accustomed place by the door. “Dmitri!”
Dmitri lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Miss Jesczenka glanced at the paper, deemed it dry enough to fold and tuck into an envelope. She wrote a name and address on it and handed the envelope to him.
“See that it’s delivered immediately,” she said tersely. “And hurry back. I’ll have quite a lot more for you very soon.”
“I shall give it to one of my men,” Dmitri said pointedly, turning to step out of the room.
“Russians! There’s no getting rid of them,” Miss Jesczenka muttered under her breath. “For pity’s sake, I might as well be back in Poland.”
“So what’s going to happen at this press conference?” Emily asked.
Miss Jesczenka slid a fresh sheet of paper before herself, then dipped her pen into ink again.
“You, Miss Edwards, are going to put on a show like no one’s ever seen before.”
“I gathered that much,” Emily said, “but I don’t understand why anyone’s going to care. No one knows who I am. And if they do, their whole notion of me is built around a lie, that I’m some kind of cattle baron’s daughter. You said that we had to be truthful!”
“It wasn’t my idea to make you a cattle baron’s daughter,” Miss Jesczenka said, chewing the end of her pen thoughtfully. “And of course, Fortissimus engineered that ridiculous cover
story with just this kind of situation in mind. He’s always known just how powerful a weapon you could be, if someone took it in their mind to use you. So he made sure to hobble you well in advance.”
Emily lifted her hands in astonishment. “How far ahead do you people think?”
Miss Jesczenka smiled.
“It’s like chess, Miss Edwards. The current move is of no importance. It’s how the current move relates to the moves yet to come. And to answer your question, just for my own personal amusement, I’ve strategized your future out as far as the birth of your fifth child. After that, I’ll admit, it gets a bit hazy.”
Emily blinked at her. “Five?”
“As for no one knowing who you really are, it doesn’t matter all that much, really. Fortissimus hoped that in trying to live up to his cattle baron’s daughter story, you’d make some kind of hideous blunder. Once the truth about your background was revealed, you’d end up looking like a lying little gold digger, and you’d be nullified as a threat forever. He hoped, in short, that you’d cut your own throat. The tactic might have worked, if you’d gone around in society a bit more. But as you’ve done such a very good job of avoiding society, you’ve evaded his trap.” Miss Jesczenka gave Emily a little look that recalled her old exasperation about Mrs. Stanton’s lunch. Emily suddenly felt very pleased—quite undeservedly—with her own cleverness.
“Even if the Institute had been completely open and above-board about your background,” Miss Jesczenka continued, ignoring the self-satisfied look on Emily’s face, “that would have presented its own set of challenges. Ultimately, the specifics of
who
you are matter less than the truth of
what
you are.”
“And what am I?”
“You are a young woman. You are pretty, and when I’m done with you, you’ll be prettier still. And, most important, you are in love. Those are the ultimate truths that we will use to our advantage.”
Emily said nothing, but wrinkled her nose. Three such simple components. A young woman. Pretty. In love. Each individually might be said to have truth in it, she supposed. But there were so many caveats, so many shades of meaning and doubt and conflict in each one. Taken together, they added up to a truth so oversimplified and abstract as to be nearly meaningless. How could such a truth have any power in it at all?
“It’s a matter of symbology, Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka said, as if she could read the doubt on the curve of Emily’s brow. “You signify something that people treasure, an ideal that they cherish. That is what is important. That is why you will be able to play this role, and why you will succeed in it.”
“But it’s still not the
truth
,” Emily muttered. But if Miss Jesczenka heard, she did not comment.
“The good news is, your path has already been well prepared. You remember the photos that were taken before the Investment? They’ve proven as popular as I’d hoped they would be,” Miss Jesczenka said with some satisfaction. “You did not notice, but I placed a subtle glamour on you while I was helping you prepare. You have no idea how lovely you looked. I was quite proud of the effect.”
“I’ve seen the pictures,” Emily said. “I saw one in a shop window in the Bowery. They didn’t look like me at all, but the counterman said that they were selling well.”
“Excellent,” Miss Jesczenka said, and whether she was pleased that the pictures didn’t look like Emily or that they were selling well was hard to discern.
“You really did have this all planned out, didn’t you?” Emily looked closely at the woman.
“Someone had to keep a level head on their shoulders,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Zeno and Stanton were larking around like a couple of schoolboys, with all their credomancer’s assurance and bravado. It is a great weakness of credomancers, Miss Edwards. They often believe their own press.”
“You’re a credomancer, too,” Emily said.
“I’m also a woman. Failure, struggle, and doubt are my constant companions. They are not always pleasant, but they
inoculate me against overconfidence. As such, I would not trade them for all the arrogant bravado in the world.”
There was the sound of the key scraping in the lock, and the door opening. Emily pressed her lips together and Miss Jesczenka turned back to her writing desk, resuming her elegant scribbling.
Emily expected Dmitri to take his chair, but instead he came to stand behind Miss Jesczenka, arms crossed.
“Yes?” Miss Jesczenka said without turning.
“You’re going to present Miss Edwards to reporters at a press conference at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?”
“What of it?” Miss Jesczenka snapped, pen hovering briefly over the paper.
“Every Temple Warlock in the service of the Black Glass Goddess wants her dead,” Dmitri growled. “And you’re going to parade her around in front of reporters in a public place?”
Miss Jesczenka turned, fixed Dmitri with a blazing glare. “Well, that must be your lookout, mustn’t it? I can hardly arrange for Institute security if you aren’t going to let me contact them.”
Dmitri said nothing. His jaw flexed uneasily.
“If you will keep me informed as to the arrangements, I will see that there is sufficient security.”
He caught Emily’s gaze. And for the first time, instead of something disapproving, she thought she saw a warning.
Miss Jesczenka worked unflaggingly into the night. By the time the small clock on the table chimed 1 a.m., Emily sat drowsing in a chair, her body quiescent but her mind feverishly active. She was remembering everything Ososolyeh had shown her, rubbing vision against vision, trying to strike the meanest spark of understanding. The Temple, a cold terrifying place of bones and blood; the Black Glass Goddess, ancient and malicious; twelve men, cut to ribbons …
Why twelve?
she wondered. Twelve was such a strange number. Twelve astrological signs, twelve disciples, twelve dancing princesses—Emily abandoned the line of contemplation as it went from promising to preposterous.
I can give him one last chance
.
Emily shivered, remembering the horrible hunk of slimy flesh on which Zeno had died. What had Zeno’s dying thoughts meant? Him
who
? Perun? The sly white-haired Russian had said that he and Zeno had been friends, and Emily believed it; she had seen the real sadness in his eyes when she’d told him that Zeno was dead. But how could Zeno’s wasting the last bit of his strength on destroying that … thing, whatever it was, help Perun?
“Miss Edwards needs to rest,” Dmitri said, as if intuiting the frenzy of Emily’s thoughts. “I will escort her to her room.”
“Well, don’t be long about it,” Miss Jesczenka said, not looking up. “We’re working through the night, and I need you.”
With dull complaisance, Emily followed Dmitri. When they reached her room, he followed her in and closed the door behind himself.
“I want to speak with you,” he said brusquely, answering the question in her eyes. “There may not be another chance.”
Emily settled herself on the edge of the bed. Dmitri sat on a chair against the wall, his straight back pressed hard against the wood. He frowned for some moments before speaking, finally shaking his head in frustration.
“I am not a man of schemes, like Perun. Nor of language, like Zeno. But I am a man who listens. I am a man who hears.” He looked at the floor, at his feet on it. “I am a man who believes in good, and in evil.”
He drew a deep breath.
“I do not believe you are evil, Miss Edwards,” he said, glancing up at her. “Perhaps I have been too unkind. But after my father was murdered, I hated everyone who practiced magic. Everyone.” He sighed heavily. “It does not do to hate everyone. Only those who do wrong. Who do evil.”
Dmitri looked up at her, his face tight as a fist. “This man … Dreadnought Stanton. You love him very much?”
Emily drew a deep breath, her whole body tensing. She nodded, once.
Dmitri shook his head bleakly, as if he had just watched her put her signature to a confession of treason. “You have no idea what he is.”
“I know what he is,” Emily said.
“He is no better than a Temple Warlock. No better than the men who killed my father.”
“If you’re going to outline my fiancé’s errors to me, at least keep your facts straight,” Emily hissed. “Yes, he studied sangrimancy at the Maelstrom Academy—but he never had anything to do with the Temple.”
“The Temple draws Initiates from Erebus Academy cadets all the time,” Dmitri countered harshly. “Did you know that? No, I am sure you didn’t. Why should anyone tell you
that
?”
Emily bared her teeth.
“Why should you tell me?” she spat. “What do you want from me?”
“There’s a woman at the Erebus Academy,” Dmitri continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “She recruits young men to serve the Temple. She takes them as lovers if they please her. The General’s own wife, Alcmene Blotgate.”
Emily blew out a breath as if she’d been punched in the gut.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I want you to admit that he’s lied to you. Every time you turn around, you’re faced with another one of his lies. He wants you to love him for who he is not.” Dmitri’s voice filled her ears, hard and demanding. “I want you to understand that he doesn’t care if you’re hurt.”
“That’s not true.” Tears were standing in Emily’s eyes now. Seeing them glitter, Dmitri nodded with harsh satisfaction, as if they indicated awakening understanding.
“You will be hurt when he dies, will you not?” Dmitri said. “In ten years, five years? He will leave you a widow, your children orphans. He doesn’t
care
. If he did, he would have taken the cure from Zeno when he had the chance.”
Emily looked up, stricken.
“There is no cure.”
“He could have been cured anytime.” Dmitri spoke the words with relish. “Anytime before Zeno was kidnapped. That was what Perun was speaking of, only he was too gentle
to make you face the truth.” Dmitri stood, stalking the length of the room, fists balled. “Zeno spoke of it once. An old custom called Touching the Evil. It takes nothing more than a coin, a touch-piece of silver. Your fiancé could have asked the blessing of his Sophos, and his illness would have been lifted.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Like
that
.”
“I don’t believe it,” Emily whispered.
“Of course, the cure comes at a cost. All magical channels in a man’s body must be fused, closed permanently. It would leave him unable to work magic. But I suppose that would be too much to ask. I suppose you’re not worth such a great sacrifice. And anyway, it’s too late now. Zeno is dead, and your fiancé’s fate is sealed. And he never told you.”
Dmitri stood in silence for a long time, looking down at her. Tears spilled down Emily’s cheeks, and she wiped them away angrily.
“Leave me alone,” she said finally. “Just … go away.”
Dmitri did not move for a long time. When he did, he came to stand next to her. He put a hand on her shoulder, let it rest there for a moment.
“I am sorry, Emilia Vladimirovna,” he said softly. “I really am very sorry.”
Emily lifted her head. She didn’t know if she intended to strike him or scream at him. But she could do neither, for Dmitri was already at the door, and in an instant he was gone.