fallen right into it, but travel was a grimy business. On her way to fetch some hot water, chipped china pitcher in hand, she passed two women. Their heads were held close together in intense, private conversation. She caught a snippet as they passed:
“… at least, that’s what the men downstairs were saying.”
“To think we were going to take that very road! But the train will be able to get through, won’t it?”
“They say the train is the only safe route to Sacramento until the government troops arrive …”
And then the women passed out of earshot, and Emily was left to stare after them. She was still thinking about their conversation as she carried her pitcher of hot water back up to her room and washed her hands and face in the basin. She smoothed her hair, and then she went and knocked on Stanton’s door. He opened it a parsimonious crack, eyeing her warily.
“Take me down to dinner,” she said.
“Allow me to acquaint you with the word ‘please.’ It’s all the rage in the better social circles. And if you’re hungry, have dinner brought up to your room.”
“There’s news afoot. Something about the roads not being safe, and government troops being dispatched. I want to know what’s going on.”
“I’ll ask around later,” Stanton said.
“Come on, Dreadnought dear.” Emily attempted to mimic a sisterly wheedle. When that failed, she tried to push the door open. Stanton pushed back with surprising force. After a moment, Emily gave up with a stomp of her foot. “Listen, I won’t be treated like luggage. You can’t just stow me in a room and forget about me. I want to know what’s going on! If we’re going to ride through Sacramento on those beasts of yours, I want to know what’s wrong with the roads.”
“Fine,” Stanton sighed. “I am a bit peckish. But please remember, Miss Edwards—you’re supposed to be impersonating my sister. So far we must seem about as fraternally matched as the cuckoo and the nightingale.”
“I’ve always thought the cuckoo a rather clever bird,” Emily said thoughtfully, as she led the way downstairs. “I mean, they know how to get things done, don’t they?”
Stanton did not answer, but busied himself with straightening his tie.
Downstairs, they were given a place at the common dining table. Men were drinking by the fire, talking low among themselves. A woman brought them plates of food, and Emily was surprised to find that Stanton was “a bit peckish” kind of like the Pacific Ocean was a neat little puddle. She watched him eat a whole roasted chicken, a serving bowl of buttered potatoes, a jar of pickles, and a dozen biscuits with butter and jam.
“Travel takes it out of you, I see,” she commented, as she watched him pour a pint of heavy cream over half an apple pie.
“A Warlock has to maintain his reserves of energy.”
“Where do you put it all? You’re skinny as a rail!”
He gave her a look that indicated he deemed such discussion presumptuous. He’d already given Emily that look exactly eleven times that day. She’d kept count.
“I have an unusual metabolism,” he said, but Emily had already lost interest in Stanton’s metabolism. She was watching the men by the fire. Their discussion had become intense, with the words “roads” and “military” rising above the din.
“Go find out what they’re talking about!” she whispered fiercely, elbowing Stanton in the ribs. He frowned down at her.
“I’m digesting,” he said, shifting a little farther away from her.
“Digest faster,” Emily said. “Unless you want your sister wading into the middle of a bunch of ruffians!”
He was clearly appalled, though he tried unsuccessfully to hide it. She seized the advantage.
“Or how’d you like it if ‘Euphemia’ called out for a shot of whiskey, neat?”
Stanton rubbed his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m trying to eradicate the image of my eldest sister bolting a shot of whiskey. I’m sure the headache will clear presently.”
“Then for the sake of your aching head, I won’t ask you to imagine Euphemia climbing up on the table to sing the one about ‘Madcap Molly, Maid of the Million-Dollar Mine.’”
Stanton shuddered. He dropped his napkin on the table. “All right. I’ll go and glean whatever limited information they might possess. Just finish your dinner and please stay quiet.”
Over her coffee, Emily watched as Stanton went to the bar. He purchased a cigar, then installed himself by the fire, busying himself with the little movements of smoking: clipping the cigar end, piercing it, lighting it