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journeyed to Sunday picnics in wagons teamed by iron-­shackled pookas.
    Geomancy, however, was a rare skill among ­people and relied upon kermanite, an even rarer crystal that acted as a supreme electrical capacitor. Wardens absorbed the earth’s energy from earthquakes and then channeled their power into kermanite, which was then installed in all varieties of machine. No other battery could keep airships aloft.
    Kermanite had stimulated the Roman Empire two millennia past; now it was the manifest destiny of the Unified Pacific to govern the world, thanks in no small part to geomancers.
    Ingrid poured coffee into Warden Kealoha’s cup. He grunted his gratitude.
    A few seats down, Warden Thornton twirled his teacup in his hands, his lips frowning along with his imperial mustache. She caught his eye, but he jerked his head in a negative. He had been brooding for the past few days, probably due to more dire news from India.
    She refilled an adept’s mug just as he bellowed, “Airship fares will be lower to that part of Europe! No one will want to fly near an eruption! We can charter a flight—­”
    â€œAnd for that very reason, any sensible pilot would charge more,” said Senior Warden Antonelli with a blatant eye roll.
    The earth shifted. It was the tiniest twitch, like the tickle of a gnat landing on her skin—­not even enough to coax a blue sheen to rise from the ground. The men, unshod as they were, showed no response. These were supposed to be the most gifted wardens west of the Rockies. In nearby classrooms, they cultivated the next generation of geomancers, but no barefoot boys trampled onto the lawn to absorb energy either.
    Women weren’t supposed to be geomancers, but Ingrid was, and a damn better one than any of these men.
    Earth magic was considered a hereditary trait among men, like baldness or an affinity for foul-­smelling cigars. But then, women weren’t supposed to do anything as well as men. No, Ingrid shouldn’t be interested in reading, or learning, or anything that—­heaven forbid—­involved thinking. It was the dawn of the twentieth century, and given her skirts and complexion, she should be content to carry laundry for the rest of her life.
    She carried something else instead: power.
    The night before, Ingrid had fallen asleep in the first-­floor library—­Mr. Sakaguchi would launch into a tirade if he knew—­and early in the morning an earthquake occurred. The energy coursed through her, hot and heady, like the time one of the adepts kissed her in a broom closet.
    Hours later, power continued to course beneath her skin. Here she was, more sensitive to the earth than any warden, even with her feet stuffed in shoes. Shoes!
    She squeezed the handle of her pitcher. Beneath the pressure of her anger, the ceramic cracked with a delicate tink. A foot nudged her below the table. She knew without looking that it was Mr. Sakaguchi. He would notice, as closely as he watched her.
    Ingrid pasted on a smile. Not a very pretty smile, judging by the quick jerk of his head. She tried to dampen her constipated grimace as she softened her grip on the pitcher.
    If Ingrid had to be a clandestine geomancer for the rest of her life, she’d probably explode—­and to Mr. Sakaguchi’s chagrin, that might be literal, and at the cost of several windows or dishware sets. Ingrid ached for the earth’s vibrations to break out her skin in goose bumps and create eddies of heat along the length of her legs. She wanted—­
    â€œDa-­drat,” she muttered, almost cursing aloud. She was around old men too often, picking up their language and other bad habits. Heaven forbid she start growing a mustache.
    She pulled a rag from her waist to mop up spilled coffee. Mr. Antonelli shot her a frown as he paused while clipping his fingernails. She wished she could stick her tongue out at him, like when she was little, even if the