Free The Hidden Goddess by M K Hobson Page A

quizzically.
    “Who was he, miss?”
    “No one,” Emily said, limping into the house. “He was just here to protect me.”
    “It’s lovely to see you, miss!” Emily followed Dinah’s crisp black-and-white-clad form through the neatly swept hallway toward the Haälbeck Room. “I can’t imagine how you came through earlier without me seeing you.”
    “Well, I can be extremely sneaky,” Emily said.
    “Oh, I’m sure you’re not,” Dinah demurred, hiding a grin behind her hand. “What a thing to say.”
    They came to the Haälbeck Room, and Emily was once again surprised at how empty it seemed. She remembered standing in this room when it had overflowed with stifling clutter—all of which apparently had gone with Mrs. Quincy when she’d been kicked to the curb. Only one thing remained: an important-looking picture of Emeritus Zeno, its frame decorated with bunting and silver paper. Emily scrutinized it, trying to find the face of the mild-mannered man she’d first known as old Ben in the face of the somewhat crazed-looking young priest. She finally decided that it was Zeno’s eyes that were most unchanged; she recognized that spark of single-minded, uncompromising determination. In Zeno as she knew him today, it was easily attributable to wisdom. In the eyes of the young priest, it seemed hardly indistinguishable from insanity.
    Looking away from Zeno’s eyes, her gaze traveled to the bottom of the picture, where she noticed the date of the picture’s execution: 1741. The man in the picture was certainly in his thirties—that would make Zeno 175 years old now! She knew he was old, but she’d never imagined he was
that
old.
    Dinah laid a slim hand on the Haälbeck door’s frame and unlocked it with a few soft words. She held the door open for Emily. Framed by its edges, Emily could see the Institute’s Haälbeck Room on the other side, murky and indistinct.
    “Be sure to give Mr. Stanton my congratulations on his recent triumph over the Dark Sorcerer of Trieste,” Dinah said as Emily stepped through.
    Emily had grown accustomed to making short hops by Haälbeck—there were hundreds of local doors in New York, greatly facilitating interurban travel. But traveling such a long distance by Haälbeck was like being stretched into the finest silken thread. There was a huge rushing and a feeling of speed, as if she were a waterfall tumbling down a million miles …
     … And then she pooled abruptly back into a water-shaped version of herself and stepped out of California and into the Haälbeck Room of the Mirabilis Institute of the Credomantic Arts in New York City.
    It was a cozy, richly appointed parlor, filled with marbles and tapestries and the fragrance of blood-red orchids. Emily noticed that it was filled with something else, too.
    The foot-tapping form of Miss Jesczenka.
    Emily wondered how on earth the woman had known she was coming. She’d hoped to sneak back as quietly as she’d left—but Emily already knew there was going to be hell to pay, and she supposed there was no use allowing it to accrue interest.
    “Welcome back, Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka said. She held a cut-crystal glass of iced lemon water in her hand, which she offered to Emily immediately. Emily took the glass, draining it in a protracted and unladylike guzzle. The long Haälbeck journey had left her feeling as if she’d just crossed an Arabian desert. Miss Jesczenka poured her another glass from a pitcher on a small side table.
    “You missed Mrs. Stanton’s lunch,” Miss Jesczenka said. Her eyes roamed over Emily, lingering on the chunks of exploded cockroach innards.
    Emily smiled brightly. “Did I?”
    “Yes,” Miss Jesczenka said.
    Miss Jesczenka took the glass from Emily after she’d drained it again, and placed it on a marble side table without making the slightest noise.
    “Well, I can’t imagine she’ll mind all that much.” Emily attempted bravado. “Just a ‘little get-together,’ she