a houseman to call for her driver. “The mysteries of this stone must be explored.”
“That’s very generous,” Stanton said, “but won’t you come with us?”
“I’ll be along later,” Mrs. Quincy said. “I have a few more things to see to here.” Her eyes were already drifting back to the faro tables.
“Things to see to indeed,” Stanton muttered later as they were riding in Mrs. Quincy’s splendid barouche. “Incorrigible.”
“What did she mean, ‘burned’?”
“Never mind,” Stanton said sharply. “The important thing is that we’ve made it.” He stretched, leaning back against the plush seat of the carriage. “Believe it or not, it’s a load off my mind. Now, at least, I have the full structure of the Institute to help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Help me deal with you.” He put a great deal more emphasis on the word than Emily thought strictly necessary. She contemplated sticking her tongue out at him, but refrained. Then she, too, leaned back, enjoying the comfortable softness of the seats. “Why would anyone gamble with a Witch, anyway?”
“Did you see how much she was losing? They line up to take her money.”
“But she’s a Witch! Why does she let them win?”
“Well, aside from the fact that using magic to win at cards would be cheating …” Stanton gave Emily an all-too-familiar look of reproach, “Witches and Warlocks have no advantage in casinos like that. Everyone’s got a luck charm or a money spell or a something to hamper his opponents. The mantic atmosphere gets so cluttered that everything cancels everything else out.”
Emily glanced out the window, saw that they were passing the street preacher they’d seen earlier. She could not hear his words, but his mouth was moving vehemently.
“Oh, and by the way,” Stanton said, “don’t call her a Witch. Most female practitioners prefer the more delicate sorcière.”
“Everyone always just called me a Witch,” Emily said.
Stanton did not comment.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Man Calls
Mrs. Quincy’s house was built into the side of a steep hill. It was an imposing structure, tall and square and butter yellow, frosted on every surface with decorative scrolls and fretwork. The inside of the house, into which they were shown by a maid in starched black and white, was as fussy as the outside. The sitting room was crammed with knickknacks and whatnots, shells and painted fans and brightly colored paper umbrellas and dozens of enameled pots containing a small jungle of trailing plants.
“Now what are we supposed to do?” Emily asked, feeling stifled by the politeness of clutter.
“We behave like civilized people.” Stanton sank into a leather wingback with a contented sigh.
Emily sat on a slippery horsehair couch, trying not to disarrange the embroidered pillows or the carefully draped antimacassars. Stanton took up a newspaper that bore the ornate scrolling masthead, Practitioners’ Daily, and unfolded it across his lap. A box full of cigars sat next to his chair; he took one and gave it an appreciative sniff before lighting it.
“I thought gentlemen weren’t supposed to smoke in front of ladies,” Emily said.
Stanton choked, coughing heartily.
“I want to smoke a cigar, and suddenly you’re a lady?” He snapped his newspaper at her quite meaningfully. “If you wish me to refrain from smoking in your presence, Miss Edwards, you’ll have to come up with a better reason than your frail femininity.”
With a sniff, Emily let her eyes drift aimlessly around the room. On the marble mantelpiece, lustrous purple and blue peacock feathers sprouted from an alabaster vase. Pretty, but everyone knew peacock feathers inside a house drew bad luck. Her eyes traveled over pictures of foreign lands in polished silver frames, loudly ticking clocks (who needed five clocks in one room?), and everywhere doilies. Just being in a room with all those doilies made Emily tired.
On the wall was an important-looking picture. The frame was adorned with draped bunting and decoratively cut silver paper. The important-looking picture was of an important-looking man. Emily scrutinized him. He was stiff and unsmiling. He had wide staring eyes and looked rather crazy. At first, Emily thought that it must be the late Mr. Quincy, but then she saw that he wore the high stiff collar of a priest.
“Who’s that?”
Stanton did not even glance up from behind his paper. “That is a picture of Benedictus Zeno, the father of modern credomancy.”
“A priest?”
“Excommunicated,” Stanton said. “Rome was not pleased.”
Emily looked at Benedictus Zeno’s face for another moment, then stood up. She went to stand directly before Stanton. With her gloved hand, she delicately folded down the top of his paper.