… well, of responsibility, I suppose. The commonplace morals and ethics that guide us in our human lives become meaningless. In the most extreme cases, an emancipated spirit may lose all sense of right and wrong and become a Manipulator.”
“A what?”
“A Manipulator is an emancipated spirit that transfers itself from body to body, heedless of the damage it causes to the vessels it inhabits. They are the worst kind of criminals. They are, thankfully, quite rare.”
“So Komé is stuck in an acorn,” Emily said, “because leaving it could cause her to lose her humanity?”
“Close enough,” Stanton said.
Emily sighed. “Since we’ve dispensed with propriety for the moment, why don’t you dig that whiskey back out?” If her head was going to be addled anyway, at least the addling could be of a more pleasant variety.
“I don’t think we’ve dispensed with propriety quite that far.” Stanton looked down at her. “Sleep will help more. And you might be able to do that more comfortably if you put your head on my shoulder.”
Emily doubted the offer would be extended twice, so she laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
“Sangrimancers willing to kill us to get the stone,” she said. “Indian holy women willing to die for it. I’m beginning to think, Mr. Stanton, that this stupid mineral is more important than either of us guessed.”
“I believe you’re right, Miss Edwards.” Stanton leaned his head back against the tree and tilted his hat down over his brow. But he did not close his eyes, not until long after.
When Emily woke again, the first thing she was aware of was how cold she was. Her cheek was pillowed against the rough horse blanket. Stanton was sitting on a broad shelf of granite a little ways off.
He had put handfuls of grain into his hat and was watching Romulus and Remus nose each other aside trying to get at it. She had never imagined he could look so sad. She did not move, afraid of making the moment worse by intruding on it.
But then his gaze stole over to where she lay. When he saw that she was awake, his face hardened with familiar guard.
“Good morning,” he said briskly. “Sleep well?”
“I dreamed about acorns and sangrimancers all night,” Emily yawned, as if she’d just opened her eyes. She stretched her stiff muscles. “I rather wish you’d let me have the whiskey instead.”
“Before we get on the road, I want to try something. I want to try to contact Komé.” He paused. “We’ll conduct a séance.”
“We can’t do a séance,” Emily said. “The stone won’t let us.”
“A séance is very small magic, and we know that the stone is less likely to absorb small magic. Furthermore, Komé seems to have the ability to mitigate the stone’s interference—after all, she sent you the vision about Caul and Mrs. Quincy. If we reach out, maybe she’ll reach back.”
Emily was silent. There were so many questions she wanted answers to, it was worth a try. Wiping her hands on the back of her trousers, she came to sit across from Stanton, who shifted to make space.
“I’ve never done a séance before,” Emily said.
“And I don’t suppose you’ve ever done any power work either …” He caught himself and softened his tone. “Have you?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Well, it’s simple. Put your hands over mine, without touching.” He extended his hands toward her palm-side up. Emily let her fingertips hover a few inches above his, felt the warmth radiating up from his skin. “The aim is to run the power in a circuit between your hands and mine.”
“Oh, healing hands!” Emily said. “We used healing hands to knit broken bones and such.”
Stanton nodded. “But instead of directing your will to knit a broken bone, concentrate on your memories of Komé … the way she looked, the way she moved. Concentrate on making her absolutely real in your mind.”
“All right,” Emily said. She remembered Komé’s small plump body, her face like a dried apple, the tattoos on her chin, her luminous sparkling eyes.
A glow started around Stanton’s fingers, and the stone in her hand tingled with warmth. And almost instantly, Emily could hear the Maien’s cracking-old voice, chanting low and cadent.
Emotion washed over her. Flashing memories of Komé’s life splashed on her skin like warm raindrops, each drop a moment of the woman’s existence. Smoke and mud, laughing children, laboring women. Death and anger, happiness and despair. And love. Love for the broken child whose feet had been set