to fully exploit the … opportunities … that his close association makes possible.”
“Surely you’re not saying he should use his father’s connections to get ahead?” Emily lifted her eyebrows. “That’s … well, that’s just dishonest! He wouldn’t stoop to that. I know that much about him.”
Mirabilis looked at her for a long time without speaking. He blinked, then stared at her some more. Finally, he drew in a deep breath.
“You know, Miss Edwards,” he said finally, “you really must see Central Park while you’re in our fair city. It’s got some amazing attractions.”
But Emily didn’t have a chance to voice her opinion on the attractions of Central Park, because at that moment the train gave a lurch and slowed to a stop. Emily glanced out the window, glimpsed the marble colonnades of a soaring train station rising up around them. Mirabilis smiled.
“Ah,” he said. “Here we are. Welcome to New York.”
They arrived at the Institute at that peculiar moment of afternoon when sunlight is soft and heavy as beaten gold, and Emily found herself wondering if perhaps the professor hadn’t planned it that way. She couldn’t imagine a more spectacular or awe-inspiring sight than the palatial Mirabilis Institute.
Fired by the diffuse golden sunlight, the rambling four-story mansion of frosted white marble looked as if it had been poured rather than constructed. The windows were dazzling sheets of magma; the colonnade of slender pillars sentinels of flame. As Emily stepped out of the carriage into the broad porte cochere, she steeled herself against expected heat, but the air was cool and spring-sweet, heady with the perfume of fat, grapelike clusters of exuberant wisteria.
Astonishingly, the inside of the Institute was even grander than the outside. Everything glimmered with high polish: gold, black, red. Masses of crimson orchids nodded in jewel-toned pots cradled in frothy ormolu. Embroidered silk shone against ghostlike marble walls. And everywhere, mirrors winked oblique reflections, like eyes furtively watching one’s back.
But despite all the grandeur, Emily could not stop looking at Mirabilis. Within the Institute’s walls, he seemed to expand, the edges of him becoming softer yet more powerfully distinct. It was as if he’d grown six inches and shed twenty years. She could imagine him belonging nowhere else.
In the exact center of the high-ceilinged foyer, an elderly serving man waited to receive them. He wore a gray coat that bore the Institute’s ornate shield.
“The Institute is pleased at your return, Sophos.” The old man recited the words with grave formality.
Brusquely, Mirabilis handed off his coat, hat, and gloves. The serving man bowed respectfully as he took them. He seemed about to say something, but Mirabilis stopped the words in his mouth with a lifted hand.
“Thank you, Ben.” His eyes shone keenly, his voice rich and resonant as polished amber. “Miss Edwards, you deserve a rest. But first, there is an experiment I’d like to perform. Will you come with—”
“Japheth Mirabilis!” A loud female voice echoed against the high ceiling.
Both Emily and Mirabilis turned. A large woman was storming toward them, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor. She was block shaped, with shining black hair and wide-set eyes. She wore a rustling dress of dark green silk, elaborately draped and extravagantly bustled. Her little hat had a frothy black ostrich feather that cuddled against her forehead.
“What is she doing here?” Mirabilis muttered sidelong to Ben.
“She arrived before I received the message not to admit anyone,” Ben replied softly. “And after the message came, she refused to leave.”
“The Witches’ Friendly Society has jurisdiction here!” the woman brayed, pointing an accusing finger at Emily. “You have no right to hold her!”
“What is she talking about?” Emily asked.
“My name is Penelope Pendennis,” the woman said briskly, handing Emily a card but not taking her eyes off Mirabilis. “Witches’ Friendly Society. I’m here to serve as your representative.”
“My what?” Emily asked, looking at the card. It featured three female hands clasped together.
“The Witches’ Friendly Society is a national trade union,” Mirabilis said wearily. “For the protection of American Witches.”
“As resolved at the United States Mantic Conference in Cincinnati in 1874, we have the right to be involved in all matters concerning the protection of the rights of—”
“Yes, yes,” Mirabilis barked. “I don’t dispute your claim. I just don’t know how on earth you … females … find out about these things!”
“What is this all about?” Emily asked.
“I am here to protect you.” The woman’s eyes were pyro-clastic in their intensity. “We have heard about your situation. As your representative, I can