glare. Emily appreciated seeing it fixed on someone other than herself. “Next week is completely unacceptable.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanton,” the clerk stammered, “but Professor Quincy is not available.”
“Indeed.” Stanton narrowed his eyes. “Urgent business on the coast, I take it?”
The clerk looked miserable. He straightened his skinny black tie and glanced at Emily.
“Mr. Stanton, really.”
“Well?” Stanton pressed, his voice curt and impatient.
“Yes.” The young man whispered. “I’m afraid you’re correct.”
Stanton hmphed disapprovingly and plopped his hat on his head. Then he took Emily’s arm and hurried her back along the hall through which they’d come. The staunch men in the portraits seemed to find their hasty retreat as unsatisfactory as their arrival.
“What are we going to do?” Emily asked.
“I’m going to find Professor Quincy.” Stanton opened the door onto the brightness of the street. “You’re going back to the hotel.”
“Excuse me?”
Stanton gave her a weary look.
“Professor Quincy has an unfortunate predilection for faro. There are several establishments offering such diversions between Washington and Dupont streets, in the section of town commonly known as the Barbary Coast.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you most certainly are not.”
“I am!”
“It’s the worst sort of neighborhood. It’s no place for …”
Emily set her jaw. “I told you before, I’m not luggage you can put on a shelf whenever you feel like it. I’ve been pawed by zombies and chased by an Aberrant raccoon. I can take anything that San Francisco has to dish out.”
Stanton pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Without opening them, he said, in a clipped tone, “Nice ladies don’t visit the Barbary Coast.”
She looked at him for a moment, folding her arms. “Mr. Stanton, you should know by now that I am anything but a nice lady.”
“Miss Edwards, you are a much nicer lady than you like to pretend. All things considered.”
“All things considered?” The persnickety little qualifier made Emily’s blood boil. “You’re insufferable, Mr. Stanton. I’m coming, and that’s that. Don’t make me get common.”
“All right.” Stanton threw up his hands, looking furtively up and down the quiet street. It was obvious that he did not relish the thought of Emily getting common in front of his institute. When he spoke again, his voice was an annoyed hiss. “Forgive me for imagining you might want to preserve some shred of feminine reticence and delicacy. Come if you want. But don’t complain to me when you get some unflattering offers.”
He hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in a low voice. Emily and Stanton rode for a great while in huffy silence, neither looking at the other.
After a while they came to a neighborhood that did look exceedingly dubious. Clusters of rough-looking men clotted around corners, throwing dice or drinking from bottles. Threadbare old vagrants lay in muddy gutters, passed out or worse. Chinese porters hurried purposefully down dark alleyways, balancing heavy cloth-covered baskets on the ends of pliant bamboo poles. Emily caught sight of two fabulously dressed women walking along the sidewalk arm in arm. One was clad in a blue satin gown of extravagant cut and tailoring; the other wore a dress of deepest green, embroidered with sprays of pink and white cherry blossoms. As they walked they held their heads together in close conversation, smiling now and again, showing white teeth. Emily thought they looked very free and pleased with themselves.
“Don’t stare at the prostitutes,” Stanton said curtly.
“Oh, quit sulking.” Emily settled back in the seat. “If I didn’t have a well-developed spirit of adventure, I would never have gone up to the mine that night. You wouldn’t have this wonderful stone to present to your professors, and you probably would have been eaten by that raccoon.”
“I shall endeavor to count my blessings,” Stanton sniffed.
They rounded a corner, and Emily caught a glimpse of a scuffle. Two policemen were pushing four men into a large, box-shaped black carriage. The policemen wore gray uniforms with brass buttons, and on their chests gleamed brightly polished silver stars.
She pressed her nose to the carriage window. Gesturing to Stanton, she pointed at the huge black carriage.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“That’s a Black Maria,” Stanton said. “In New York we call them paddy wagons. Keep your eyes open, you’re sure to see plenty of them where we’re going.”
The cab turned up Washington Street, then came to an abrupt halt.
“This is as far as I go, mister,” the driver called back. Stanton paid him and handed Emily down into a swarming mass of debased humanity. There were shouts