Petra settled back into her chair, and into the comfort of an old habit: believing the worst of John Dee.
20
A Letter for the Prince
ASTROPHIL WAS NOT CONVINCED. “It is not logical,” he said once they had returned to Petra’s room. “Why would Dee poison the West?”
“Do we have to go over this again?” Petra said, exasperated. “Thorn scryed Agatha until she lost her mind. Dee wanted revenge. Makes sense to me.”
“Only because you have always hated John Dee.”
“And see how right I was? He’s a murderer.”
“Thorn scryed Agatha almost two decades ago,” Astrophil pointed out. “Why would Dee poison him now when, despite however Dee might have felt, he and Thorn were able to work together for years on the queen’s council?”
Petra shrugged. “Dee’s patient. Like a snake under a rock. He was probably just waiting for the best moment to strike.”
“Then why is it that when Walsingham was convinced that Thorn died of heart failure, Dee revealed that quicksilver had killed him? If Dee had murdered Thorn, he would want everyone to believe the death was natural, just as Francis Walsingham claimed it was.”
Petra was silent.
“And then there’s Dee’s wager with you,” Astrophil continued. “Why would he encourage you to discover Thorn’s killer if he himself did it?”
Petra had already thought about this. “Dee’s arrogant, and has a twisted sense of humor. He’s betting I won’t be able to figure it out, and he can watch and laugh while I try.”
“I hope you are not right, Petra, because if you go to him and say you have won the wager, and that he killed Gabriel Thorn, Dee will not send you on your merry way to Bohemia. Whoever killed one man is not likely to think twice about hurting you to protect his secret. If Dee poisoned Thorn, it would be better for you not to know. And you certainly should not reveal that you suspect him.”
Petra promised, “I’ll be careful.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Sarcasm is beneath you, Astro.”
The spider sighed and shook his head.
Petra said, “Maybe my idea doesn’t make perfect sense. Maybe it’s not totally logical that Dee killed Thorn. But Dee says and does weird things. The only thing you can know for sure about Dee is that you can never know anything for sure.”
“Well,” said Astrophil, “that much is true.”
THE SERVANT PLUCKED up his courage. It was not an easy thing to interrupt Prince Rodolfo’s dinner, especially if he had chosen to eat alone. “Please, Your Highness.” He offered the tray, which bore a letter. “This just arrived. It was delivered with the utmost urgency. It is from your contact in England.”
“Ah.” The prince accepted the letter and then waved it at the servant, as if fanning away a bad smell.
The servant scuttled out the door. Then the prince took a knife from the dining set and eagerly broke the wax seal.
Your Royal Highness,
I bear exciting news: the Mercator Globes do exist, and I am certain that one of them, the Celestial Globe, is here in London. I regret to say that I have not yet discovered its exact location, but I believe I am close.
Two men stood in my way: Gabriel Thorn and Robert Cotton. They are now gone. Cotton was in possession of the globe. I have a record saying that he purchased it from a North African merchant. Unfortunately, Cotton hid it. Forgive me, Your Highness, but he died before I finished questioning him. I am confident, however, that Cotton must have left some clue to the globe’s whereabouts. Cotton loved his books and antiquities, and publicly declared on many occasions that he wished all of his possessions to go to the queen of England after his death. A wish, however, is not quite a legal will, and I do have some time before the state seizes Cotton’s house and all the items within it, for the authorities must wait several months in case an heir presents himself. In the meantime, I search for some note Cotton might have made, or some casual word he might have dropped, about where he hid the globe. You know my great ability to uncover secret information.
I have heard that you seek a Bohemian girl, Petra Kronos. It may interest you to know that she is in this very city.
The prince folded the letter.
“I am going to England,” he whispered to himself.
21
The Left Hand
PETRA PLAYED WITH the end of her braid, tightly drawn back from her face and neck. Was it possible for one’s ears to feel naked? She looked at Kit and longed for the familiar touch of Astrophil’s tin legs.
Petra had graduated to using a dagger in her left hand in addition to the sword in her right. During their last several meetings, Kit had grown irritated—he always seemed on the verge of anger lately—that she used her left hand so infrequently. Petra knew she could expect Kit to attack her left side. That would mean bruises for her and frustration for them both.
So she wasn’t wholly surprised when Kit began by saying, “Once upon a time there were a limited number of moves in swordplay. The parry-and-riposte. The bind. The coupe. The cruise. The feint. I seem, however, to have developed a new technique, which is the art of giving a warning rap with the flat of the blade when a cut would be in order. I’m not sure what to call this move, but I could name it after you, Petra, since your sloppiness gives me so many opportunities to practice it.”
Today there was a mean edge in Kit’s voice.
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” he continued. “I think I’ve mastered it by now, though I confess I find it boring.”
If Astrophil were here, he’d warn Petra that Kit expected her to make a move that was aggressive and backed by wounded pride. So she gave Kit what he was waiting for—in order to deliver something else. She lunged into a continuous attack, which he countered with evident disappointment. But then, having exaggerated her attack, Petra suddenly fell back, twisted her sword under his, and slapped his ribs with her blade.
Kit winced and smiled at the same time.
As they continued, Petra let her mind drift, which is exactly what Kit always told her not to do. She relaxed into a state that was almost like dreaming, and she thought that she could sense where Kit’s blade could go. She couldn’t predict its movements, but she felt herself reacting to his parries and thrusts effortlessly, and perfectly.
Then Kit caught her by surprise. She had come to know his fighting style. It was light and nimble, so Petra wasn’t ready for brute strength. His sword hit hers in a blunt push. This move was like arm wrestling—pure force used to shove an opponent’s blade away for a deadly thrust.
His sword rasped against hers, sliding closer. Petra held against him, but this couldn’t last. Feeling her wrist tremble, Petra decided to push back—with her magic, not her arm. She focused on the line where their blades crossed, and felt power surge through metal. She shoved at Kit’s sword.
There was a sharp, metallic squeal. The tip of Kit’s blade sheared off and dropped to the floor.
Astonished, Petra did nothing to stop her sword as it swung wide, leaving her open for attack. In a split second, she realized several things: Kit’s blade was sweeping toward her face, his eyes were wide with horror, and a broken sword is very sharp.
She jerked her left hand up, and her dagger crashed against Kit’s blade just before it struck her. Her arm shook from the blow. Both she and Kit dropped their weapons, and Petra saw someone’s blood spatter.
Oh, she realized. It was hers.
“Petra!” Kit’s face was white. “Are you all right?” He reached for her left hand, and then she saw the cut across the back of her wrist, where the broken edge of Kit’s sword had skimmed over her dagger. “I’m so sorry!”
Now she felt the pain. But it wasn’t bad, and the drops of blood were small. “It’s just a cut. It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not!” Kit pushed her onto a bench and flung open a chest. He pulled out a cloth bandage and rushed to kneel next to her. Quickly, he bandaged her wrist.
He was
almost frantic, which, Petra thought, was kind of funny, considering that fencing is supposed to be all about slicing people up. “Kit, it doesn’t hurt that much. I know you didn’t mean to do it.”
“But I’ve tried so hard to be careful!”
“It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.” Petra paused. “Why am I consoling you when I’m the one bleeding?”
He chuckled weakly.
“Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later,” she said. “We use real weapons.”
“That’s just it! We’re not supposed to be doing that. You’re a beginner, and we should be fencing with practice swords made of wood. I told Dee. I told him, and he wouldn’t listen. He insisted we use metal!”
At this, Petra stood, remembering that this whole situation had come about because she had used magic, and had broken Kit’s sword. She walked over to where the metal tip, about three inches long, lay on the floor. She picked it up.
“Nothing like this has happened to me before.” Kit inspected his sword. “There must have been a flaw in the blade.”
“I suppose so.” Petra looked at the piece of metal in her palm. Then, because she didn’t know what else to do with it, she put it in her pocket.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kit said abruptly.
“Where to?”
“Anywhere.”
HE WAS SILENT as they walked, which was fine with Petra because she had a lot of things to think about, beginning with this new turn her magical ability had taken. And then there was the fact that Kit had gotten so upset over a little cut. Was it wrong for this to please her?
She stole a glance at Kit—and promptly stepped in a puddle. So this is spring in London, she thought, annoyed. Mud and water. In Okno, the buds on the trees would be curled into little fists. In London, there were no trees. The sky was pale, the streets dirty.
Petra didn’t recognize this part of town. It was west of Cheapside, she knew. The buildings were small, close, and shabby. The people were much the same.
Kit muttered, “I don’t get it. What’s Dee playing at?”
“What do you mean?”
“For starters, why does he want you to learn fencing?”
“My father . . . gave me a sword. Dee thought I should learn how to use it. And I wanted to.”
“Why?”
Petra’s voice was low. “I thought I might be good at it.”
“You are,” he said. “You’re a natural. Sometimes I can’t believe you haven’t been practicing for years.” He looked at her. “I think I know another reason why you take our lessons so seriously.”
She felt a leap of fear. Could he know about the Gristleki? About how, even after five months in London, she had nightmares, and felt the burning touch of gray skin? She hadn’t quite realized—not until this moment—that she was still deeply afraid of them, and that learning how to fence had helped keep that terror under control.
“It’s because of your father,” Kit continued gently. “I can tell that you miss him. Dee said that he died recently.”
“But—”
“I’m an orphan, too. It doesn’t bother me. Not really. My parents died from the pox when I was a baby. I don’t even remember them. But if I had something of theirs, like your father’s sword, I’d want to use it, too.”
“Listen.” She stopped in her tracks, and Kit halted by her side. “My father is not dead.”
“But then, why did Dee say . . . ?” He bit his lip. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. I’m terrible when it comes to minding my own business.”
Petra decided to make it his business. In a rush, she said, “I’m not English, I’m Bohemian. My father was kidnapped by Prince Rodolfo’s monsters. I would have been, too, if Dee hadn’t stuck his nose in. He rescued me, if that’s what you want to call it, and I’m trapped here. If I try to escape, he’ll track me down with the help of his daughters. I guess you know what they can do.”
Kit nodded, a little stunned.
“I made a wager with Dee,” Petra continued. “If I can solve the mystery of who killed Gabriel Thorn, I can go home, and Dee will give me information about my father.”
Slowly, Kit said, “Why would you make a bet about Thorn’s death? What does he have to do with you?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered, and told him about summoning Ariel, and everything she had said.
“So,” Kit replied, “on the basis of the mutterings of an air spirit, you think that Thorn’s death has something to do with you, and something to do with Robert Cotton.”
Put like that, it sounded very unlikely. But Petra set her jaw and said, “Yes. And I think Dee might have poisoned Thorn.”
Kit’s eyebrows shot up, so Petra explained. To her relief, Kit didn’t attack her idea like Astrophil had. He merely said, “That’s interesting.” Then he seemed to struggle over a decision. When he spoke, his tone was tentative. “Petra . . . how do you know that your father is really still alive?”
It was as if Kit had struck her. She reeled, and for a moment, not one single thing in the world made sense. Panic flooded through her as she realized something she had never allowed herself to consider fully: Dee had told her that her father was alive, but he was telling anyone who would listen that Petra was an orphan. Dee was lying. The question was, to whom?
Kit touched her shoulder, his face full of concern. “Petra?”
She took a shaky breath. “He’s alive. He has to be.” She had to believe this, or nothing she did in London would have any meaning.
Kit nodded, but still looked worried. “You shouldn’t have told me about all of this. Secret-keeping isn’t my strong suit.”
“You won’t tell anyone.”
“No,” he agreed fervently. “I won’t. I promise.”
“Besides, we’re hundreds of miles from Bohemia. No one here is going to care where I’m from or who I am.”
“That’s not true.”
Kit’s eyes were just a bit warmer when he said this. Petra was searching for a way to respond when his head snapped up. He took a look at his surroundings and frowned. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“Why not?” Petra glanced around. She had seen worse in Prague. “Where’s ‘here’?”
“I wasn’t thinking . . . I was walking home without realizing it. This isn’t a nice part of London.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“It’s too close to the Liberties.”
“Really? Where there are no laws?”
“Yes, and a lot of thieves and other people of poor character.”
“Thieves can be fun.”
“Petra, you are a strange girl.”
“I want to see the Liberties. Let’s go,” she urged.
He shook his head. “I’m not taking you.”
“I’ll go by myself, then,” she replied, irritated.
“You don’t know where you’re going.”
“I’ll wander until I find it. You said we’re not far.”
“Some other time, please?” he begged. “Haven’t I endangered you enough for one day? Anyway, I have an idea, and it will take us to Friday Street, not the Liberties.”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“And I will succeed. You mentioned the possibility of some connection between Thorn’s murder and the decidedly more gruesome death of Robert Cotton.”
“Did you know Cotton?”
“No, but I know somebody who might know somebody who might have known him.”
“Hmph.” Petra narrowed her eyes.
“That was a very doubtful ‘hmph.’ You don’t believe me? You think the connection is too weak to pursue? If you had been trained in espionage, you would know to investigate all possibilities.”
“Well, I’m not a spy.”
“Then it’s a good thing I can be one for you. Though, Petra . . . helping you is against my best interest.”
She paused. “Why?”
“I don’t want you to go home,” he said simply.
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Her pulse jumped, and before she knew what she was doing, she kissed him. Her lips grazed across his so quickly, so barely, and so awkwardly that when she leaned back she wasn’t sure she hadn’t just daydreamed this. But then she knew. She knew, because her lips were tingling and she dreaded Kit’s reaction almost as much as she feared the Gristleki.
He stood frozen. Then he twisted his thin mouth. Confusion flitted across his face.
Not good, not good, Petra thought in dismay.
He began, “I thought—” Kit didn’t say what he had thought, but in the sudden glow of his smile, Petra understood that he cared for her, she had ignored him, he had been hurt, and what mattered now was that he was reaching for her.
This time their kiss was not brief.
22
Mermaid Tavern
WHAT ABOUT FRIDAY STREET?” Petra finally asked. “Hmm?” Kit’s finger traced the long scar on her neck. She shivered.
“Friday Street,” she said. “Thorn. Dee. Cotton. Murder. Remember?”
“No.”
“Kit.”
“Sorry.” He took a step back, and damp spring air rushed between them. He glanced away from Petra. When he looked back, his angular features were composed and alert. “We”—he curled her hand in his—“are going to the Mermaid Tavern.”
THERE WAS NOTHING remotely mermaidlike about the tavern, aside from the sign of a fish-tailed woman whose scales were flakes of peeling paint. Inside, the floor smelled of spilled ale. There were no proper tables, only booths with low panels erected between them to give people privacy. Petra watched as two men in adjoining booths slid away the panel dividing them and leaned across the opening to whisper.
Kit scanned the room. “He’s not here,” he said. “We’ll have to wait.”
Petra crossed her arms. “I—”
“Yes, I know. You hate waiting. But there’s no help for it. Let’s sit. He’ll turn up. He always does.”