watching as dawn stretched pink fingers over the land.
The Sini Mira were Eradicationists who wanted to bring a halt to the use of magic and replace it with the advancements of science. She’d run across the shadowy consortium of Russian scientists once too many times for her liking.
She remembered her encounter with them in Chicago. She particularly remembered their leader, the ice-white man who called himself Perun.
I can tell you where you came from, Miss Lyakhova. Who you really are
.
His voice, like exhaled smoke.
The most puzzling thing was that Komé—the Indian Witch who had transferred her spirit into an acorn—had told Emily that she should go with them. But why would Komé want her to go with Eradicationists who had hired a brutal bounty hunter to capture her?
Emily jolted wide awake as the train rattled over some connections. The image of the white-blond man danced behind her retinas. She touched the bottle in her pocket, satisfying herself that it was still there. She needed to speak with Komé. She needed to know what the Holy Woman knew.
But just as Stanton had been commandeered by the Institute, so had Komé—and even more completely. It had been determined that her spirit could not survive long in an acorn, so Emeritus Zeno had the nut placed into a rooting ball—a hermetically sealed device filled with nutrient fluid. It was hoped that the acorn would sprout and grow, and Komé’s spirit could survive in a new form.
It seemed an excellent plan—the least they could do for the Witch who had given her body to speak for the consciousness of the earth. But more than once, Emily had found herself wondering whom the actions were truly intended to benefit. Emeritus Zeno now kept the rooting ball on his person at all times and was so zealous in his protection of it that one mightsuspect that he had ulterior motives—motives other than Komé’s future health and happiness.
Oh, surely not
, Emily thought. Benedictus Zeno, father of modern credomancy, Emeritus Master of the Institute, having ulterior motives? Impossible!
But as she laid her head back against the cool glass, she recalled the words Professor Mirabilis had always repeated, like a mantra:
Nothing’s impossible
.
When Emily reached the depot, the summer sun had risen, washing the buildings of white limestone and red brick with the bright promise of a hot day to come. Emily tried to find a cab to take her to the butter-yellow house, but there were none to be had. She sighed heavily, aware suddenly of just how bone-weary she was. She was sure to be a delight at Mother Stanton’s lunch. She’d have to fight to keep from falling facedown into the terrapin soup. Pounding down exhaustion, she started jogging along Third Street.
At Market, she glanced up at the large clock atop the Chronicle building: 8:15 a.m. That meant it was already 11:15 in New York. It would be a tight squeeze, but by heck, she could still make it! Twenty minutes up to the butter-yellow house … a half hour from the Institute to Mrs. Stanton’s … of course, she’d have to change first … She looked down at herself. She was smudged with grime and her hair was oily and limp from having been stuffed under a bowler hat for a day and a half. She looked like she’d just stepped out of California. All right, so she’d be a little late to Mrs. Stanton’s lunch.
Fashionably late
, she suggested to herself hopefully.
The rumble under her feet started small—small enough that it could be mistaken for one of the hundreds of small temblors that Emily had already grown accustomed to. But it kept shaking, growing in thunderous intensity. This was a big one, Emily realized with sudden dread. The buildings around her seemed to sway; terra-cotta crashed down around her. She hurried to the middle of the street to avoid the falling debris, stumbling as the earth bucked like a wild horse. Then, there it was, the sound from her Cassandra—the horrible tearing, the
The Sini Mira were Eradicationists who wanted to bring a halt to the use of magic and replace it with the advancements of science. She’d run across the shadowy consortium of Russian scientists once too many times for her liking.
She remembered her encounter with them in Chicago. She particularly remembered their leader, the ice-white man who called himself Perun.
I can tell you where you came from, Miss Lyakhova. Who you really are
.
His voice, like exhaled smoke.
The most puzzling thing was that Komé—the Indian Witch who had transferred her spirit into an acorn—had told Emily that she should go with them. But why would Komé want her to go with Eradicationists who had hired a brutal bounty hunter to capture her?
Emily jolted wide awake as the train rattled over some connections. The image of the white-blond man danced behind her retinas. She touched the bottle in her pocket, satisfying herself that it was still there. She needed to speak with Komé. She needed to know what the Holy Woman knew.
But just as Stanton had been commandeered by the Institute, so had Komé—and even more completely. It had been determined that her spirit could not survive long in an acorn, so Emeritus Zeno had the nut placed into a rooting ball—a hermetically sealed device filled with nutrient fluid. It was hoped that the acorn would sprout and grow, and Komé’s spirit could survive in a new form.
It seemed an excellent plan—the least they could do for the Witch who had given her body to speak for the consciousness of the earth. But more than once, Emily had found herself wondering whom the actions were truly intended to benefit. Emeritus Zeno now kept the rooting ball on his person at all times and was so zealous in his protection of it that one mightsuspect that he had ulterior motives—motives other than Komé’s future health and happiness.
Oh, surely not
, Emily thought. Benedictus Zeno, father of modern credomancy, Emeritus Master of the Institute, having ulterior motives? Impossible!
But as she laid her head back against the cool glass, she recalled the words Professor Mirabilis had always repeated, like a mantra:
Nothing’s impossible
.
When Emily reached the depot, the summer sun had risen, washing the buildings of white limestone and red brick with the bright promise of a hot day to come. Emily tried to find a cab to take her to the butter-yellow house, but there were none to be had. She sighed heavily, aware suddenly of just how bone-weary she was. She was sure to be a delight at Mother Stanton’s lunch. She’d have to fight to keep from falling facedown into the terrapin soup. Pounding down exhaustion, she started jogging along Third Street.
At Market, she glanced up at the large clock atop the Chronicle building: 8:15 a.m. That meant it was already 11:15 in New York. It would be a tight squeeze, but by heck, she could still make it! Twenty minutes up to the butter-yellow house … a half hour from the Institute to Mrs. Stanton’s … of course, she’d have to change first … She looked down at herself. She was smudged with grime and her hair was oily and limp from having been stuffed under a bowler hat for a day and a half. She looked like she’d just stepped out of California. All right, so she’d be a little late to Mrs. Stanton’s lunch.
Fashionably late
, she suggested to herself hopefully.
The rumble under her feet started small—small enough that it could be mistaken for one of the hundreds of small temblors that Emily had already grown accustomed to. But it kept shaking, growing in thunderous intensity. This was a big one, Emily realized with sudden dread. The buildings around her seemed to sway; terra-cotta crashed down around her. She hurried to the middle of the street to avoid the falling debris, stumbling as the earth bucked like a wild horse. Then, there it was, the sound from her Cassandra—the horrible tearing, the
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