Free The Hidden Goddess by M K Hobson Page B

said.”
    “She invited a hundred people,” Miss Jesczenka said. “And two Astors.”
    Emily sighed. She took a limping step forward.
    “Are you injured?”
    “Not in the least,” Emily lied again.
    Miss Jesczenka was silent for a moment.
    “When you did not return, I sent word to Mrs. Stanton that you had been seized with bewildering fits. I implied that you were wildly pounding on death’s door, demanding admittance.I had to concoct quite a dire scenario to excuse your absence.”
    Probably made the old hag’s day
, Emily thought. But instead of saying this, she smiled. “How clever of you.”
    Miss Jesczenka did not smile back. “So, are you going to favor me with an explanation of why you went to California dressed in men’s clothing and came back covered with intestines?”
    Emily was silent. She actually rather wished she could tell Miss Jesczenka about the cockroaches. For some reason, she thought the woman might find it amusing. Or not.
    “I’ll go to my room and get cleaned up,” Emily said.
    “That’s a very good idea,” Miss Jesczenka said, wrinkling her nose. “Mrs. Stanton may come by later to confirm that you’re on your deathbed. I trust you will be obliging enough to look three-quarters dead?”
    “I shall have no problem playing the part,” Emily said, as honestly as if she were swearing on a stack of Bibles.
    Once in her room, Emily stripped off her clothes and kicked them into a stinking pile. Someone would have to burn them.
    Then she ran herself a well-earned bath. One thing she could say for the Institute—the plumbing was fantastic. The suite she had been given had all the most up-to-date features, including a bathroom with a giant white porcelain tub. She ran water gushing with steam, and as it ran, she unbuckled the straps that held her prosthetic in place, briskly rubbing the red welts where the leather had cut into her flesh. She laid the carved ivory hand on a table, carefully avoiding looking at the puckered stump of her arm.
    Sliding into the warm water, she released a moan of pleasure that any well-bred observer would have found positively indecent. The heat felt particularly good on her sore ankle. She explored the abused joint with her fingers. It was still swollen, but with a little rest, it would be fine in a day or two.
    It took a long time to get completely clean, for the insect innards had dried to an intractably sticky crust. When she’d finally gotten every bit off her skin and out of her hair, sheclimbed out of the tub, pulled on fresh cotton underthings, and collapsed onto the wide white bed, feather softness and the smell of honeysuckle enfolding her.
    She was snuggling deep into the sweet-smelling sheets when she felt something hard under the pillow. Reaching underneath, her fingers encountered something cool and smooth. Withdrawing it, she discovered that it was a student’s slate, the kind a small child would use to learn his alphabet. It was quite new-looking, framed in polished beech and painted with frolicking lambs. It had a little slot carved into the side that held a sharpened pencil. On the slate, in Stanton’s jagged cliff-peak handwriting, were the words:
    MEET ME IN CENTRAL PARK. 4 P.M. URGENT. BRING THE SLATE .
    Emily looked at the clock on the mantel. It was three o’clock.
    Groaning, she threw an arm over her eyes.
    She hadn’t seen Stanton at all during the past week, not even for a minute. And he did say it was urgent. This could be her one opportunity before the Investment to tell him about her visit to California and the bottle of memories Pap had given her.
    She lay there, feeling the rise and fall of her own chest. If only she could sleep for a few hours first. She was supposed to be on her deathbed with bewildering fits, after all. And what if Mrs. Stanton came by to gloat? Well, Miss Jesczenka would just have to think of something. Say that death’s door had finally opened, and Emily had stepped inside for a cup of tea. The worse