the rocker by the fire, Mrs. Lyman snored. Emily lowered her voice to keep from waking the old woman. “I have to get back to New York.”
Emily thought about telling Pap about the hideous anticipated lunch with her future mother-in-law, but decided to leave him with a more inspiring image. “Mr. Stanton is being rewarded with a special position at his Institute. There’s going to be a big ceremony. He wants me there.”
“Oh, well, if
Stanton
wants you …” Pap whispered good-naturedly, chucking her under the chin. He was silent a long time. His face became thoughtful, almost the way it looked when he scryed something. “He’s a complicated knot, Emily. Be careful how you untie him. You’re a hothead. All on the surface. You’ll always say too much and at the wrong time, too. But your Mr. Stanton … he’s all underneath. Like a fish deep underwater. He’ll keep secrets.”
Emily pressed her lips together, shivering despite the extreme warmth of the room. She’d already found out how closely Stanton could keep secrets. Like failing to tell her that he’d once studied to be a sangrimancer, a blood sorcerer. And when she had found out, he’d refused to speak of it more, as if life could be sectioned into neat post-office boxes that could be closed with finality, at will. Emily knew it wasn’t so, but she wondered what it would take to get Stanton to believe it.
“That bottle, Em …” Pap’s voice broke through her thoughts. “If you do drink it—and I ain’t sayin’ you should, but if you do—don’t drink it all at once. And don’t drink italone. You tell him he has to be there with you. Mr. Stanton. He’ll watch over you, and fix it all up if I’ve got it wrong. You promise?”
“I promise,” Emily said.
Emily rode the poor rented nag hard down the mountain, making good time to Dutch Flat. She hitched the tired beast outside the shut-tight livery, then sat on the platform waiting for the midnight train. She tipped her hat down over her eyes, blocking out the yellowish light from the lantern that hung from the platform’s wooden rafters.
She drew out the blue bottle from her inside coat pocket. It was heavy and warm from her body. She held it up in her left hand, letting the lantern light shine through it.
She searched backward in her mind as far as she could go. She’d never remembered much from her childhood, but then, she didn’t know that people were supposed to. Sometimes flashes of memory would come to her, but they would pass and leave no trace, like a leaf thrown in a running stream. The only things she remembered with any clarity revolved around Pap’s cabin: gathering up a handful of pinecones when she was very small, and bringing them to him with great seriousness. She remembered cold winters and brilliant springs, mud on boots and the smell of wood smoke. But before she’d come to Pap’s … nothing.
She opened her eyes again, and the bottle was still in her hand. It was disappointing, as if a wish she didn’t know she’d made hadn’t come true. She felt angry—not at Pap, but that such a decision should exist to be made. Angry that she didn’t know what to do. She wanted the memories. She wanted to know about her mother, and what had happened to drive her to such desperate straits. But she
didn’t
want the memories just exactly as much. Memories changed a person. What if she didn’t like the person she became after she drank the contents of that little blue bottle? What if
Stanton
didn’t like the person she became?
She dozed during the train ride to San Francisco; there were plenty of empty seats going into the city, so she could put her feet up. Just outside of Sacramento, she heard someonein a seat nearby speaking Russian. She looked up in alarm, eyes searching wildly, but it was only an old woman in a headscarf parceling out a picnic breakfast to a pair of leg-swinging children. Emily relaxed, but only slightly. She laid her head against the glass,
Emily thought about telling Pap about the hideous anticipated lunch with her future mother-in-law, but decided to leave him with a more inspiring image. “Mr. Stanton is being rewarded with a special position at his Institute. There’s going to be a big ceremony. He wants me there.”
“Oh, well, if
Stanton
wants you …” Pap whispered good-naturedly, chucking her under the chin. He was silent a long time. His face became thoughtful, almost the way it looked when he scryed something. “He’s a complicated knot, Emily. Be careful how you untie him. You’re a hothead. All on the surface. You’ll always say too much and at the wrong time, too. But your Mr. Stanton … he’s all underneath. Like a fish deep underwater. He’ll keep secrets.”
Emily pressed her lips together, shivering despite the extreme warmth of the room. She’d already found out how closely Stanton could keep secrets. Like failing to tell her that he’d once studied to be a sangrimancer, a blood sorcerer. And when she had found out, he’d refused to speak of it more, as if life could be sectioned into neat post-office boxes that could be closed with finality, at will. Emily knew it wasn’t so, but she wondered what it would take to get Stanton to believe it.
“That bottle, Em …” Pap’s voice broke through her thoughts. “If you do drink it—and I ain’t sayin’ you should, but if you do—don’t drink it all at once. And don’t drink italone. You tell him he has to be there with you. Mr. Stanton. He’ll watch over you, and fix it all up if I’ve got it wrong. You promise?”
“I promise,” Emily said.
Emily rode the poor rented nag hard down the mountain, making good time to Dutch Flat. She hitched the tired beast outside the shut-tight livery, then sat on the platform waiting for the midnight train. She tipped her hat down over her eyes, blocking out the yellowish light from the lantern that hung from the platform’s wooden rafters.
She drew out the blue bottle from her inside coat pocket. It was heavy and warm from her body. She held it up in her left hand, letting the lantern light shine through it.
She searched backward in her mind as far as she could go. She’d never remembered much from her childhood, but then, she didn’t know that people were supposed to. Sometimes flashes of memory would come to her, but they would pass and leave no trace, like a leaf thrown in a running stream. The only things she remembered with any clarity revolved around Pap’s cabin: gathering up a handful of pinecones when she was very small, and bringing them to him with great seriousness. She remembered cold winters and brilliant springs, mud on boots and the smell of wood smoke. But before she’d come to Pap’s … nothing.
She opened her eyes again, and the bottle was still in her hand. It was disappointing, as if a wish she didn’t know she’d made hadn’t come true. She felt angry—not at Pap, but that such a decision should exist to be made. Angry that she didn’t know what to do. She wanted the memories. She wanted to know about her mother, and what had happened to drive her to such desperate straits. But she
didn’t
want the memories just exactly as much. Memories changed a person. What if she didn’t like the person she became after she drank the contents of that little blue bottle? What if
Stanton
didn’t like the person she became?
She dozed during the train ride to San Francisco; there were plenty of empty seats going into the city, so she could put her feet up. Just outside of Sacramento, she heard someonein a seat nearby speaking Russian. She looked up in alarm, eyes searching wildly, but it was only an old woman in a headscarf parceling out a picnic breakfast to a pair of leg-swinging children. Emily relaxed, but only slightly. She laid her head against the glass,
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