magical traditions. It is not a forum for rehashing your internecine squabbles.”
“Fine,” Heusler said. “Then let’s have a look at the goddamn stone. That’s what we came for.”
“Fair enough.” Mirabilis reached into his pocket and withdrew the Otherwhere Marble, holding it up to glint softly in the half-light. “Gentlemen, Miss Edwards’ hand—with the stone embedded in the palm—is within this marble, safely protected.”
“What is that, some kind of magical orb?” Rocheblave asked.
“Never you mind,” Mirabilis said, as he motioned Emily to a place outside the circle of chairs, where they were out of sight of the group.
“The sangrimancers have no understanding of the technology involved,” he whispered. “It’s the only thing that protects you. Understand?” He tapped the marble against the Boundary Cuff three times, in the same particular rhythm he’d used before. Then he tucked the marble into his pocket and took her elbow, guiding her back into the circle.
Emily extended her hand to the sangrimancers. Rocheblave and Heusler examined it closely, then Caul stepped forward. She’d forgotten how big he was; he towered over her like a mountain, solid and menacing. Taking her hand, he squeezed it until she almost cried out.
“S-s-skycladdische,” he whispered.
“Hemacolludinatious,” she hissed back.
Caul put his head close to her ear, close enough that she wondered if he was going to bite it. “I’m going to enjoy b-b-bleeding you,” he said. “S-s-sooner than you think …”
“Captain Caul!” Mirabilis barked. Caul straightened and let Emily’s hand drop. Quickly, Mirabilis clasped the Boundary Cuff around Emily’s wrist again.
“Now. You have all been briefed on how the stone came into the possession of Miss Edwards, the strange properties it has exhibited, and the vast quantity of power it contains. It is my belief that the Mantic Anastomosis has shed this power for a reason,” Mirabilis said. “That the appearance of the stone is the result of greater depredations—depredations hidden and unseen.” Mirabilis’ eyes roamed each of the three sangrimancers in turn.
“That theory supposes that the Mantic Anastomosis is capable of conscious action,” Rocheblave sneered coolly. “I’d expect that kind of crackpot baloney from a dirt Witch, but from you, Mirabilis?”
“I cultivate an open mind, Mr. Rocheblave,” Mirabilis said. “I am sure you’ll agree that there is much about the Mantic Anastomosis we do not understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand,” Rocheblave countered. “It’s a pile of rock. Nothing more.”
“You’re wrong,” Emily snapped at him. “It’s alive. It thinks, it dreams. I know. I’ve seen it.”
Heusler and Rocheblave exchanged scornful smiles.
“Like I said,” Rocheblave said. “Crackpot baloney from a dirt Witch.”
“Why, you …” Miss Pendennis looked on the verge of charging the self-satisfied sangrimancer, captain of industry or no. But Mirabilis’ next words stayed her.
“Regardless of your prejudices, Mr. Rocheblave, I would like us all to hear the testimony of the third animantic colleague—Komé, a Miwok Indian Holy Woman.”
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” Heusler said. “Where exactly is this third animantic colleague, this Indian Holy Woman?”
“She is in Miss Edwards’ possession,” Mirabilis said. “Her spirit is currently encapsulated within an acorn. The woman performed a spiritual transfer so that she could stay with the stone. She claims to serve as an interpreter for it.”
“An interpreter? For a rock?” Rocheblave barked a humorless laugh. “Is this a joke? Do you really think you’re going to sell me on a fraud so obviously self-serving? Your redskin squaw will say whatever that dirt Witch—or you, more likely—has told her to say.” Rocheblave leapt to his feet. “I can’t believe I wasted my time with this nonsense.”
“How do you propose we contact this Holy Woman?” Heusler asked, bringing his hand down to rest on his leg. His thumb stroked the fabric of his trousers lazily.
“We will contact her through a group séance,” Mirabilis said. “You will each be in direct contact with her. You will each be able to perceive, for yourselves, the genuineness of her claims.”
There was a challenging silence. With a grumble, Rocheblave settled back into his chair, and Heusler shrugged with resignation, the kind of shrug a skeptic would give before a game of three-card monte. “It’s your Grand Symposium, Mirabilis.”
Mirabilis gestured to Emily.
“Miss Edwards, will you bring out the nut?”
Emily reached down inside her dress and pulled the silk pouch from where it was nestled. She ignored Heusler’s snide stage-mutter: “And I was worried about her stockings. I wonder what else she has down that dress!”
Emily retrieved the acorn and held it loosely in the palm of her hand, showing it around to the participants.