As they came into the town proper, the main road narrowed to a crowded swath of hard-packed dirt flanked by thriving industry: livestock pens and machinery works and woodlots. Romulus and Remus shied at rumbling drayage carts and the shouts of the heavy men who drove them. The road ended at the waterfront, where dozens of wooden ware houses crowded onto San Francisco Bay, cantilevered over the water on spindly stilts.
It was late in the day, but they found they could still make the last ferry. As Stanton purchased tickets, Emily stood on the wharf, holding the horses and looking out over the bay. It was the largest expanse of water she’d ever seen. Flat and gray, it reflected the shifting color of the sky. There were clouds moving swiftly in from the ocean, fat white clouds that promised rain farther inland. Through the clouds, shafts of sunlight cut down and made places on the water shine with a silver dollar’s brilliance.
“Come along, ferry’s this way.” Stanton came up behind her, tickets in hand. He took the reins and clucked to the horses to follow; their hooves were a hollow drumbeat on the wooden pier.
The ferry’s interior was lush, with heavily varnished woodwork and shiny brass fittings. They passed the area at the back of the boat where the Chinese rode; Emily glimpsed blue coats and braided queues. In the boat’s main passenger area there were only white faces—farmers holding battered hats in their rough, dirt-stained hands; miners chewing tobacco, arms crossed; flashily dressed men and women in fabulous colors, laughing too loudly.
Stanton led her right through the parlor room into another room, one filled with tables.
“Hungry?” he asked. She shook her head. “It is suppertime; you’ve eaten hardly anything since we left Auburn. You have to keep your strength up, you know.”
She shook her head again. She’d never thought of it before, but the very idea of food was absurd. How ridiculous eating was. For some reason, it seemed she remembered another way, an older and more satisfying way, pulling sustenance from a hot hidden core within herself, through veins that pulsed with fire …
She toyed idly with these strange thoughts as she watched Stanton place an order with a passing waiter. Again, he paid from the black silk purse.
“How does that work?” Emily asked, cradling her chin in her palm, glad for the distraction. “It’s always got money in it, but I never see you put any in.”
“It’s a Warlock’s Purse.” Stanton showed it to her but didn’t let her touch it. It was indeed empty.
“It’s a service offered by some of the larger banks in the East.” Stanton tucked it back into his pocket. “It’s directly connected to my account in New York. I am able to withdraw the money I need, yet there is never any loose gold in it to tempt pickpockets. If a thief were to get ahold of it, he would not be able to access any of my funds.”
The waiter delivered Stanton’s order—two large roast beef sandwiches, a piece of thickly frosted chocolate cake, a cup of hot coffee, and a glass of cold milk. Stanton pushed the milk to Emily.
“Here,” he said. “Milk is very restorative.”
“I didn’t know I needed restoring,” Emily said, taking the glass.
Stanton reached for the cake; as he did so, his sleeve brushed the fork off the plate and it clattered to the floor. Out of habit, Emily muttered, “A man will come to visit.”
“What?”
“If a fork do fall, a man will call.”
Stanton smiled to himself as he reached down to retrieve the fork.
“Well, that’s what it means!” she said hotly.
“Yes, I’m familiar with the superstition.” Stanton wiped the fork with his napkin. “Rhyming house-magic is just so quaint, that’s all.”
“What do you have against rhymes, anyway?” Emily leaned forward. She very much did not like being called quaint.
“Not a thing,” Stanton said, sinking his fork into the cake.
“I’m sure you prefer Latin, so you can sound educated and sophisticated.”
“There happen to be several very good reasons for casting spells in Latin,” Stanton said.
“Why? I suppose it’s some fabulously powerful language?”
“Ask a man on the street what a spell is supposed to sound like, and he will either make up a rhyme or babble some imaginary version of Latin at you.” He raised a finger. “But ask that man which spell he believes to be more powerful, and he will choose the spell in Latin. The stereotype has become ingrained in the Western consciousness over many