like she needs a nap.” The doorman continued to chew lazily on his cigar. With a grumble, Stanton rummaged in his pocket for a gold eagle. He flipped it at the man scornfully.
“Swindled without even placing a bet,” he said as the doorman caught the gold in one hand and opened the door with the other.
Descending a flight of narrow steps, they came into a low, hot room. Lit brilliantly with gas, it was furnished with dozens of long tables covered in green baize. The air was close and sticky, and the smell rank. There were perhaps two hundred men in the room, but there was little conversation, only the sound of clinking coin and the voices of the dealers, calling out the action of the games. Now and again there was a cry of despair or a shout of excitement. The cries of despair, Emily noticed, seemed more frequent in her general vicinity. The stone in her hand was probably upsetting money-luck spells right and left.
“Monte, rouge et noir, diana, chuck-a-luck, poker dice …” Stanton pointed out the games to her in an undertone as he guided her through the room. “Professor Quincy used to stick to the more respectable casinos on Montgomery Street, but there was the matter of some unpaid debts. Now these are the only places that will admit her.”
“Her?” Emily turned, her eyes wide. “It’s a her?”
“Ah, there are the faro spreads. And there’s Professor Quincy.” Stanton gestured to a sharp, bony woman in a black silk dress that was encrusted in glimmering beadwork of cut jet. She wore black gloves and a small hat with a heavy veil that entirely covered her face. “Mrs. Henrietta Quincy. A somewhat unpleasant individual. I recommend you don’t talk much.”
Stanton touched Mrs. Quincy on the shoulder. The woman jerked around angrily and lifted her veil. Her elderly face was pinched and papery, and she had thin, suspicious lips.
The instant Emily saw the old woman’s face, something strange happened. She heard chanting. Very distant, as if it were coming from outside the building somewhere, but chanting … the kind she’d heard in the Miwok village. Emily’s heart leapt unpleasantly, and she turned her head from side to side, trying to locate the sound. But as soon as she moved, the chanting was gone. She shuddered, blinked. It was probably all the cigar smoke.
“Dreadnought Stanton?” Mrs. Quincy was saying. “For pity’s sake, I thought you were off in the mountains somewhere. Good place for you, too. Nice and cool.”
“I have returned, ma’am.” He examined the bets she had on the table. “You’re spread rather thin.”
“Leave the gambling to experts,” Mrs. Quincy snapped, and turned to push in another bet, very obviously for spite. The action of the game moved quickly, and within a moment, the money was swept away. With an unpleasant sniff, she rose and jerked her bead-fringed black shawl around her shoulders. She walked away from the table, leaving Stanton and Emily to follow in her wake.
“Well, make it quick, young man. Why are you here?”
“I have come across a very interesting anomaly,” Stanton said as they trotted to keep up. “I wanted to bring it to the Institute’s attention immediately.”
Mrs. Quincy tossed a glare in Emily’s direction.
“Who is she?”
“Miss Emily Edwards. She is the anomaly.”
Mrs. Quincy stopped short and looked Emily up and down.
“How nice for her.”
Mrs. Quincy gestured them to a small withdrawing cove off the main room. Sitting, she opened a black lace fan and waved it vigorously beneath her chin, muttering ill-temperedly.
“Just when my luck was about to turn, too.” She jabbed the fan at Stanton. “Boy, this better be good, or by my dead husband’s ears I swear I’ll—”
“Show her, Miss Edwards.”
Emily drew the soiled kid glove from her right hand and held out her palm to Mrs. Quincy. Mrs. Quincy blinked, fan stilling. She leaned forward, her eyes wide. The arrangement of her face when astonished was particularly unattractive.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered. She looked up at Emily, and then at Stanton.
“I believe it’s a specimen of Native Star,” Stanton said, summarizing their adventures with admirable brevity. While he spoke, Mrs. Quincy held Emily’s hand and turned it over and again in the flickering half-light.
“Well done, Mr. Stanton,” she murmured when Stanton had finished his précis. “Maybe you will come to something, burned and all.” Emily noticed a flicker of distaste pass over Stanton’s face when Mrs. Quincy used the word “burned.”
“I’ll have my carriage take you back to my house.” Mrs. Quincy gestured