them were sitting in the parlor engaged in a close and heated conversation. Emily caught Stanton’s last sentence: “I honestly can’t say I understand your reluctance …” and then they parted, both frowning, as she came into the room.
“Well, good evening, my dear Miss Edwards!” Mrs. Quincy rose, extending her hands to Emily. Her aspect was entirely changed. Though still dressed in unbroken glittering black, her brusqueness and unpleasantness had vanished, and she was now surprisingly jocund. “I trust you were able to rest a bit after your long journey? Mr. Stanton has been telling me more about your amazing adventures.”
“I feel very rested, thank you,” Emily said.
“What charming earbobs,” Mrs. Quincy purred, lifting her index finger to touch one of Emily’s earrings. “The purple amethysts match the dewy violet of your eyes so nicely.”
Emily glanced at Stanton, unsure of what to make of such a comment. He shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you,” Emily said finally, sitting down and folding her hands in her lap.
Then, before any other words could be spoken, there was a rapping from behind the ornate Haälbeck door. Stanton gave Mrs. Quincy an inquiring glance.
“We shall have a fourth for dinner.” Mrs. Quincy smiled. “I telegraphed him this afternoon. He graciously consented to join us this evening.”
She laid a hand on the frame of the door, muttering a few unintelligible words. Then, reaching for the carved doorknob, she opened the magic door. Emily blinked. It no longer opened onto a papered wall, but onto a hazy room. The features of the room were mostly indistinct, but Emily could see a large chair of brown leather on which was draped a black-fringed shawl.
The features of the half-seen room faded in a blaze of bluish-pink light as a man in a brown suit stepped through the door, hat in hand. He was an imposing figure. Well past middle age, he retained the straight back and bulkiness of what must have been an extremely powerful youth. He wore his iron-gray hair close-clipped, as if to balance the excessively voluminous, white-streaked muttonchops that flared from his cheeks.
“Ah, Mr. Cruickshank,” Mrs. Quincy said. “How wonderful of you to come. Mr. Andrew Cruickshank, this is Mr. Dreadnought Stanton. He’s one of the Institute’s Jefferson Chairs. And this is Miss Emily Edwards, the girl I mentioned in the telegram.”
Cruickshank shook Stanton’s hand briskly and nodded to Emily.
“Mr. Cruickshank is an occult geologist,” Mrs. Quincy said. “He is currently working with some large mining concerns in Panama City. I thought he might be able to shed some light on this anomaly.”
“If I might see the object in question?” he asked. Pulling off the glove, Emily laid her right hand in Cruickshank’s massive palm. His hand was warm and strong and surprisingly smooth for a man who worked for a mining concern in Panama City. He turned Emily’s hand over, examining how the stone protruded from both sides.
“Incredible,” he said in a voice so flat that Emily wondered if he was being sarcastic. She was about to ask him what an occult geologist was when Dinah came into the room and murmured something in Mrs. Quincy’s ear.
“Ah, dinner is ready,” Mrs. Quincy said. “Shall we go in?”
Emily had never had such a dinner. The board was laden to groaning with roast beef, fresh fish, chicken, and veal. There were three kinds of potatoes and two varieties of raised bread; there was fresh asparagus in hollandaise sauce and new lettuce dressed with vinegar and sugar. Stanton tucked in with zeal, but Emily hardly got a chance to eat a mouthful, as she was occupied answering a barrage of rapid-fire questions from Mrs. Quincy and Mr. Cruickshank. Mr. Cruickshank was particularly interested in Besim’s Cassandra. He kept returning to it with uncomfortable questions.
“How did you know that this Besim fellow was telling the truth? Not a very reliable source. It seems strange that you would go up to a mine in the middle of the night because some drunk dervish told you to.”
“Miss Edwards is a Witch,” Stanton interjected, spooning more potatoes onto his plate. “And a very capable one. She is perfectly able to tell the difference between a false prognostication and a real one.”
Emily gave Stanton a grateful look, but he was far too interested in his potatoes to notice it.
“You’re a Witch?” Mrs. Quincy’s eyes widened and she glared at Stanton. “But why didn’t you tell us? That’s likely to be important!” She looked at Emily. “What kind of magic do you practice, my dear?”
Emily