for trouble, but it was just Stanton. He came in, shaking water off his coat.
“I’m sorry, Miss Edwards, but we’ll have to share. It’s a foul night, and I have no intention of sleeping outside after the day I’ve had.”
“Suit yourself.” Emily made her voice diffident, certainly not wanting to reveal her relief that Stanton would be nearby. “I can’t sleep anyway.”
“Then you won’t mind a little light?” Stanton took a small spirit lantern from his saddlebag. She heard him snap his fingers and mutter, “Flamma.”
The wick of the spirit lantern burst into brilliant flame. He shook his head, his eyes narrowing with thought.
“You were yards away from me today, and the stone sucked up the magic like a sponge. But here you are not two feet from me, and I can summon flames.”
“Something forced my hand up to catch the magic. I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d tried.”
“I have a theory as to why,” Stanton said.
“Of course you do.” Emily sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“Remember I said there was a distance correlation? That is, the farther away you are from the source of the magic, the less likely the stone is to grab onto it? I believe there’s also a force correlation. The greater the force of the magic, the more the stone seeks to absorb it.”
“So, the more powerful the spell, the more likely the stone is to suck it up?” Emily said.
“Evidence seems to support it,” Stanton said. As he spoke, he took out the telescoping blade he had used earlier in the day. The segmented blade, when fully extended, was about three feet long and brilliantly shiny. Using his handkerchief, Stanton began cleaning it.
“Nice little knife,” she said. “Carry it around to peel apples, do you?”
“It’s called a misprision blade,” Stanton said, squinting along its edge. “Useful for many things. But you can’t let them get dirty. They might fail to open at an inopportune time.”
There was a pause in the chanting outside. Emily relished the sweet sound of rain echoing in silence. But within moments the chanting resumed, now to the accompaniment of drums.
“They’re still dancing?” Emily said, sounding more snappish than she would have liked. “In the rain?”
“They’ve moved into the earth lodge.” Stanton wiped a speck from the bright metal. “You really are afraid of these people, aren’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Emily said.
“I would think you might have some sympathy for them. Driven from place to place to make room for wheat and sheep. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit unfair?”
“Well, what use are they making of the land?” Emily said. “They don’t farm, or ranch.”
“Sometimes I wonder if everything must always have a use,” Stanton said.
“Well, as far as I can see, Indians don’t.”
“Is that your considered opinion, Miss Edwards?” Stanton’s tone was chilly. “I suppose you agree with President Grant, that the Indians should be relocated and reeducated? Dressed in suits and made to be useful?” He gave the blade a fierce swipe with the cloth. “Or perhaps your opinions run closer to those of Little Phil Sheridan, who only likes Indians when they’re dead?”
“Spoken like a sanctimonious easterner,” she hissed. “I’m perfectly aware that you think everyone on this side of the Great Divide is ignorant and unfair and reckless to boot. But your ‘friends’ have shown themselves perfectly capable of giving as bad as they get. I’m sure you’ve never seen that side of them, Mr. Stanton.”
“And you have?” Stanton’s voice was derisive.
“Yes,” Emily spat fiercely, “I have.”
Then she was silent for a long moment, confused by her own sudden vehemence.
Why on earth had she said that?
Surprising as an easterner like Stanton would probably find it, Emily hadn’t seen many Indians in her life in Lost Pine. And the handful she had encountered, she’d given a wide berth to. She’d certainly never been harmed or even threatened by an Indian. And yet … there was something in the back of her mind, calling insistently to her, demanding to be remembered.
It was like watching a strange glimmer of light move in a well of complete blackness. She was silent, watching the distant brilliance as it grew and expanded into a memory—a memory she’d never had before.
“Miss Edwards?” Stanton’s voice prompted, but she hardly heard it. She was staring at the rough dirt floor, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was looking through it at the memories welling up behind her eyes …
A late summer night.
The plains, brooding dark beyond borders of moonlight.