“Don’t bother with that garbage,” Miss Pendennis said, shaking out the dress. “You can’t expect the truth from any of the metropolitan newspapers. They’re all credomantic tools nowadays.” As a replacement, she handed Emily a copy of Practitioners’ Daily.
“Journal of record for the American magic user,” Miss Pendennis said. “Generally trustworthy. Can’t go wrong with it.”
Practitioners’ Daily had far fewer engravings than the other papers, and far more printing. One headline, however, was very large:
“Antonio Pietro Grimaldi, Notorious Manipulator, Taken into Custody by Philadelphia Police.”
“That Grimaldi’s a loathsome scoundrel,” Miss Pendennis offered. She had laid the dress across the bed, and was back on her knees, digging through the trunk. “There are a lot of people in the magical community who will be pleased to see him brought to justice!”
“Mr. Stanton was under a compulsion from Grimaldi,” Emily said.
“So I heard. One of the few pieces of information I was able to drag out of Mirabilis this morning. Dreadnought was furious at being sent off. He thought he was safe, with Grimaldi in custody and all … but I suppose Mirabilis was taking no chances.”
“Taking no chances?”
“Can you imagine the damage that might have been done if Dreadnought had come back to the Institute while the compulsion was still active?” Miss Pendennis clucked absently as she compared two equally uncomfortable-looking corsets.
“But the Institute is Mirabilis’ fortress,” Emily said quietly. Her head was beginning to ache. “Surely a compulsion would not work within the Institute.”
“Direct cellular subjugation to a hostile Warlock must never be taken lightly,” Miss Pendennis said gravely, as if she’d just delivered a common aphorism. Then she stood, her arms overflowing with petticoats and other silken things. She dropped these on the bed with an airy floof.
“All right. First off, if you’re going to go through with this ‘Precedent’ Mirabilis intends to set, you must at all costs avoid being seen as someone the Warlocks can trifle with.” Miss Pendennis pointed to the dress she’d laid out on the bed. It was a shimmering fantasy of heavy shot silk, its folds gleaming every shade of purple from dark aubergine to brilliant violet. There was enough fabric in the skirt alone to make Emily three dresses. “That dress is a Worth. From Paris. That dress they will not trifle with.”
“Why should anyone want to trifle with me?” Emily regarded the garment. “I’m a practitioner, just like them.”
“Oh, Miss Edwards! You do have something to learn!” Miss Pendennis chuckled grimly. “Modern magic is a gentleman’s game, like playing the stock market, or smoking cigars, or driving fast little carriages. Men do. Women don’t.”
“What are you talking about? Women have always been Witches!”
“Women have always been whores, too,” Miss Pendennis said pointedly. “Warlocks tolerate nice women of good family and independent means who dabble in the supernatural arts. When it’s a lady like me or that awful Mrs. Quincy you encountered in San Francisco, they dismiss it as an eccentricity, like writing poems or keeping two dozen cats. But honest working women who practice Witchcraft for a living? For money? That’s a whole different kettle of fish. Strictly skycladdische.”
Emily narrowed her eyes.
“I’ve been called that,” Emily said, her throat dry. “Skycladdische.”
“Of course you have,” Miss Pendennis frowned. “Though I hope Dreadnought wasn’t crass enough …”
“No,” Emily said quickly. “Caul. And Tarnham.”
“Tarnham? That rotten little worm!” Miss Pendennis pursed her lips disapprovingly. “So conflicted he has to carry around a familiar. Pathetic.”
“I didn’t know credomancers kept familiars,” Emily said. “Do you mean the ferret?”
“Practitioners who can’t resolve deep emotional conflicts about their mantic powers use familiars as a crutch,” Miss Pendennis explained. “Tarnham’s family is hellfire-and-brimstone Baptist. Tough to escape an upbringing like that. Deep down, he believes he should burn at the stake. So the ferret is his partner in crime. By bonding his power to the animal, he can believe that it’s the animal that’s evil, not him. It keeps him sane … though in his case, that’s a relative term.”
Emily pondered this. Then she looked at Miss Pendennis warily.
“So, what does it mean? Skycladdische?”
“It’s German. It translates simply as skyclad-one. Skyclad is an old term for nakedness—the state in which many common spells are performed. Of course, it’s not the nakedness per se that’s the problem, it’s what the nakedness leads to.”
“What it leads to?”
“Licentiousness and lust! Depravity! The Witch as seducer of men and eater of their organs of generation! The Witch as unprincipled opportunist who will not scruple at sacrificing her very