“Good day,” he said. Emily looked up in time to see his back as he hurried through the door, closing it behind himself softly.
When he was gone, Zeno came to Emily, took both her hands, looked at her traveling costume.
“Well, Miss Edwards,” he said softly. “All ready to go, I see.”
“I’m sorry, Emeritus,” she said, uncertain why she felt so compelled to apologize. “I’m terribly sorry.”
Zeno nodded toward the door through which Stanton had left.
“Mr. Stanton will be taking the position of Sophos, director of the Institute. He’s the only one who can, given the … unorthodox circumstances.” Zeno paused, regarding Emily with steady, calm eyes. “The role of Sophos will occupy every moment of his day, and every ounce of his energy. The Institute is perhaps the most influential credomantic establishment in the world, and he will serve as its Heart.”
“He will do a wonderful job,” Emily said.
“Yes. He will.” Zeno stared hard at Emily. Then he relaxed, a small benevolent smile creeping back over his lips. “Now then, when does your train leave?”
“In a couple of hours,” Emily said. She felt suddenly despondent and out of place. The magnificence of Zeno’s office—the office that would be Stanton’s—was suddenly oppressive and horrible. She tucked her reticule tight under her arm, the impulse to flee strong and strange. “I suppose I should go.”
Zeno took her hand, her living hand, and gave it a strengthening squeeze. The gesture had an immediate impact; she felt invigorated, brighter. She lifted her chin, drew a deep breath. She longed suddenly for the smell of pine.
“Thank you for everything, my dear,” Zeno said. “You have done the world a great service. These troubling matters no longer concern you. Go home now. Go home and flourish.”
Emily walked into the empty hall and took a deep breath. The sun came through the windows; the day was beautiful for traveling. She let the breath out. The carriage was waiting. She walked away from the office quickly, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
She paused only a moment beneath the statue of the wise-looking goddess that held up the Veneficus Flame. She looked up. The flame was high and strong. Emily placed her hand on the statue and closed her eyes; she could feel the power of Ososolyeh thrumming beneath her fingertips.
Forgive him.
Emily’s heart fluttered. The words were as clear and sharp as if they had been spoken in her ear.
“Miss Edwards?”
It was Stanton’s voice.
Emily opened her eyes slowly. She considered walking away until she could not hear his voice anymore. But she turned, looking at him. He was standing some distance from her, pinching the edge of his hat between his fingers.
“Hello, Mr. Stanton.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly, as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say.
“How is your hand?” he said finally.
She lifted her arm. “Still gone.”
Silence.
“Penelope tells me you’re going back to Lost Pine,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“On what?”
“On making a wise choice.”
She drew herself up and tried to look down her nose at him, but found it impossible given their difference in height.
“You’re a very smart man, Mr. Stanton,” she said, “but you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
He blinked at her.
“Good-bye,” she said, turning to go.
“Emily,” his voice mingled hesitancy and urgency in equal measure. “Wait.”
She turned back, breathing out a little impatience.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember? On the train? I … made you a promise.”
“You never promised me anything,” Emily said.
“But I did,” Stanton said. “I promised I’d show you Central Park.”
“Leave it to a New Yorker to put a bunch of trees in one place and call it wonderful,” she said, as they looked over the huge expanse of open land dotted with swaying saplings. “I grew up in California, Mr. Stanton. I’ve seen plenty of trees.”
“Those were California trees.” He lifted an eyebrow. “These are New York trees.” He offered her his arm. “Would you like to walk?”
She took his arm. He was warm as always. Burning up from the inside. The last time she’d been this close to him, he’d been as cold as ice. The memory made her shudder.
They went down a path that led under a long avenue of pink-blooming cherry trees. Little petals like flakes of fragrant snow drifted down around them with every stirring of wind.
“Why are we here, Mr. Stanton?” she asked tiredly. “Must we continue this torture?”
“I find the day rather pleasant,” he said.
“Walking arm in arm with somebody you’ve got a deep affection