Sleeping next to her mother’s warm body under a heavy wool coat. The sound of calls—Indian calls, urgent and terrifying. The clop of unshod hooves on hard-packed clay soil. Her mother scrambling to her feet, screaming. Running.
“My mother,” Emily said in a monotone, narrating the strange images as they bloomed within her brain. “I was with my mother. We were traveling across the country. I was very young, and they chased us. Braves in paint. They were yelling at her, calling her names. They were angry at her.”
Emily held onto the memory, clung to it tightly. She looked at her mother’s face, trying to fix an image of it, but for some reason, all she could see were her mother’s eyes, glowing and glossy with fear.
“She was terrified,” Emily whispered. “We got away from them, but I don’t know how. They had horses. They could have caught us and killed us if they wanted to. Maybe they just wanted us to go away.” She paused, the sting of remembered tears making her eyes ache. “They didn’t have any call to scare her like that.”
Stanton collapsed the misprision blade. The soft click of it broke Emily’s concentration. The images scattered like blown leaves.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Stanton said. He tucked the knife away, and was silent for a moment before speaking again. “But why in heaven’s name was she traveling across the country with a child, alone?”
Emily shrugged, shaking her head.
“I don’t know,” she said. She had only the mysterious words her mother had spoken to the timber-camp workers …
She wrinkled her brow, looked at Stanton.
“Have you ever heard of something called the Cynic Mirror?”
“The Cynic Mirror?”
“They were the last words my mother ever spoke. She said, ‘We must get to the Cynic Mirror.’”
“I’ve never heard of an item by that name,” Stanton said. “But there are many arcane objects for which no records are kept.”
“Oh,” Emily said, her brows knit.
“If you’d like, once our business in San Francisco is completed, I could take you around to the public Hall of Records. Perhaps you might be able to find out more about the name Lyakhov, or this ‘Cynic Mirror’ you’re looking for.”
Emily looked at him, unexpected hope rising in her chest.
“You think I might be able to find something?”
“The city maintains excellent records,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to stop there anyway. They recently installed a clever new information storage system that uses tiny interdimensional windows to store records safely off-site. Very useful for a city that manages to go up in flames every ten years or so. At least it would be worth a look.”
“Yes.” Emily sat up straight. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. Thank you, Mr. Stanton.”
“Least I can do,” he said as he wrapped himself in his blanket. Then he blew out the spirit lamp, and darkness enfolded them—a darkness heavy with the sounds of chanting and rain.
The next morning the clouds had parted and brilliant sunshine illuminated a perfect blue sky. The horses were brought, saddled and frisky. Despite Emily’s suspicions of the day before, the animals were in good working order; the man in the black felt hat had even repaired Stanton’s slashed reins with clever knots.
Before riding out, they went to pay parting respects to Komé. And indeed, when they came to the longhouse, Komé was standing before it to watch them go. But this was a Komé terribly changed. Gone was the cheerful, vibrant, animated Maien; this old, old woman swayed unsteadily, even though she was clutching her feather-tipped staff with one hand and leaning on Lawa with the other. Her skin was a haggard yellow-pale, the tattoos dark and drastic. There were harsh purple smudges beneath her eyes.
“She must have overexerted herself last night,” Stanton said, his voice low. Emily wondered if the tormented spirit of the raccoon had been worth it.
Stanton lifted a salutational hand as they rode past, and it was clear that he expected that formal gesture to serve as a farewell. He looked somewhat surprised, therefore, when Komé called out to him, a guttural croak, and began hobbling toward them with a jerk and a stagger, as if her feet could not find the ground. Stanton pulled his horse up quickly, as if he was afraid the large animal might trample the small, suddenly fragile-seeming old woman.
The Maien came to Emily’s side, looked up at her for a long time. Emily stared down at her. Her eyes, once glittering as topaz, now seemed dull and distant. Dull