The Cabinet of Wonders

  “I don’t think we can wait until then,” Petra said darkly. “Father was so sure that the prince wouldn’t be able to figure out how to make the clock work the way he wants it to. Father said that it would always be just a beautiful time-telling device and nothing more. But the way Dee was talking, you’d think that Prince Rodolfo is inches away from discovering my father’s secret.”

  “Maybe you should believe your da.”

  “I do believe him,” she spluttered. “Do you think I want to follow Dee’s orders? I’d rather listen to my father. My father told me that the clock isn’t my concern. And it isn’t. It shouldn’t be. I don’t care what happens to it.” But her last words sounded like a lie Petra was desperately trying to believe.

  Neel cocked his head and gave her a half smile.

  “Fine,” she admitted. “Maybe I care.”

  “I bet the prince can’t make the clock work the way he wants to anyway. There’s a Lovari tale …”

  “Neel, don’t you think it’s a little cold for fairy tales?” It had grown dark. Petra’s teeth chattered, her stomach growled for dinner, and snow gathered at their feet.

  “Oh, I do not know,” Astrophil interjected. “I am not so cold.”

  “Of course you’re not, you’re made of metal!”

  “It’s a quick tale,” Neel promised. “There once was a Lovari named Camlo, and he was a fiddler like no other. He carved himself a fine fiddle. It was smooth and curved and strung with twangy strings. It made a music that was wild and free, and folks from all over would come to listen. Well, one day he was fiddling in the forest and the devil came up. He was right pleased by the music, and he fell to thinking that if he had Camlo’s fiddle, everyone on earth would want to hear him play. So the devil said, ‘Give me that there fiddle, man.’ And Camlo said, cool as anything, ‘I’m not in the habit of giving my best things away.’ So the devil said, “I’ll give you plenty of gold.’ ‘Well, how much?’ said Camlo. ‘As much as in all the Ganges,’ said the devil.”

  “The Ganges?”

  “It is a river in India,” said Astrophil.

  “So the devil showed him the Ganges and how the water sparkled with gold. It shimmered like a thousand little suns. And the devil pulled out that Ganges gold and stuffed Camlo’s pockets. He filled a big wheelbarrow full of it. Camlo said, ‘Mister Devil, you got yourself a deal.’ He handed over the fiddle, though he loved it so, and walked off to enjoy being rich.

  “The devil was keen to start impressing people with his music, so he tuned up and began to play. But imagine his surprise when no one paid him any mind! He played and played but folks just ignored him. So he hunted down Camlo. ‘Your blasted fiddle doesn’t work!’ the devil cried. ‘It works just fine,’ said Camlo. ‘I can’t make it play the way you can! You’ve tricked me somehow!’ raged the devil. ‘Well, of course,’ said Camlo. ’I sold you my fiddle, but I didn’t sell you my soul with it.’”

  Petra stood silent. The snow swirled. She said, “Tell that to John Dee.”

  23

  The Lion and the Salamander

  IMPOSSIBLE!” Iris hissed. She brought the parchment close to her spectacles, then held it at arm’s length. “Absurd!” The paper began to smoke in her fingers.

  A young boy dressed in the red and gold suit of a page shifted his feet nervously. He looked at Petra. He looked at the door. He gave a little cough.

  “You!” Iris scowled at him. “What are you still doing here? Get out!”

  The page jumped and made a beeline for the door.

  The letter in Iris’s hand disintegrated, but not before Petra saw the wax seal that had been stamped on it. It was a coat of arms showing a salamander, a lion rampant, and a sword. Petra had a good idea of what the letter said.

  “And you.” Iris turned to Petra. “Is your name Viera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so before? And don’t tell me it’s because you were too shy. I won’t believe you. Well? Why?” “You never asked me.”

  “Hmph.” The corner of her mouth seemed to lift, but Petra immediately doubted what she had seen when Iris continued to speak. “It’s suspicious, you see, when a servant works for me for several weeks and doesn’t let slip so much as a word about herself—about where she’s from, what her family’s like, why she reads so well, and why she knows details about the most arcane kinds of metals and minerals.” “What’s arcane mean?”

  “It’s too late to play the innocent with me, young lady!” Iris pounded the worktable. “Arcane” means—Later, Astro!

  “I don’t suppose you could tell me why Prince Rodolfo would send me a letter volunteering to take an assistant named Viera off my hands?”

  “Is that what the letter said?” Petra pretended to be confused. “I can’t imagine why the prince would be interested in me.”

  “Nor can I.” Iris frowned. “You realize, of course, that Prince Rodolfo changes servants about as often as he changes his gloves. You’ll have a short career working for him. He likes to hire and fire servants, not keep them.”

  He does more than fire them, Petra thought grimly. She wondered if Iris really had no idea about the true fate of the prince’s chambermaids.

  Iris no longer seemed irked, just puzzled. “Perhaps he is trying to punish me. But why? Rodolfinium was a success.” She muttered to herself, ignoring Petra and pacing the room. “Could the Krumlovs have …? No, that doesn’t make any sense either. And I have about as much interest in political intrigues as I do in the spawning season of frogs. Perhaps it’s those silver eyes of his …”

  Petra was suddenly alert.

  “… he makes such odd decisions when he wears them, as if he’s not wholly himself. I wonder where he got them to begin with … who made them … who—” Iris stared into Petra’s eyes.

  Oh, no, said Astrophil.

  “Ah,” said Iris.

  Petra began to wipe her hands, but the brown juice from the henna paste she had been making wouldn’t come off. “I don’t suppose I have a choice, though, do I?” She tried to speak calmly.

  “No, you don’t.”

  Petra glanced around, instinctively looking for something to pack up and take with her, just like when she left her family at the Sign of the Compass, and when she left Lucie and Pavel at the inn. But there was nothing here that belonged to her. So she let her hands fall. “Goodbye, Iris,” she said awkwardly. “I liked working for you. I really did.”

  Iris didn’t say anything until Petra was opening the door. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me what your last name is, hmm?”

  Petra turned around.

  “Oh, forget it. I don’t particularly feel like making you tell a lie. It gives one such a sense of dissatisfaction.”

  PETRA SCREWED HER belladonna-black eyes shut in nervousness and opened them again. She took a deep breath, and stared at the double door that soared in the shape of two trees, one pine and one oak. At the base of the pine tree was a sitting lion with green glowing eyes, keeping guard. There was a hole in the trunk of the oak tree, one that blazed with a small, real fire. A green-eyed salamander was curled up in the flames. Petra wondered how the small blaze could burn in the wood without setting the entire door on fire. The last detail of this magnificent entrance to the prince’s quarters was a silver line that split the pine from the oak, showing an upright sword whose hilt formed a handle for each door.

  “Should I knock?” Petra whispered to herself.

  The salamander blinked.

  “State your purpose,” growled the lion.

  “I’m,” Petra stammered, “I’m Prince Rodolfo’s new servant.”

  “His Highness’s new servant, we are sure you mean.” “Yes. Right. His Highness’s.”

  “Very well. We assume you have some documentation to present.”

  “Documentation? Like … a letter? One was sent to my mistress, but it got burned up.”

  The lion sprung the claws of his left hand and peered at them, idly.

/>   “My mistress is—was—Countess December. She has an acid problem. Sometimes she destroys things. Accidentally, of course.”

  The lion and the salamander exchanged a look. Some sort of communication seemed to pass between them.

  “And what manner of servant are you?” asked the lion.

  “What manner?”

  “His Highness has many servants, who do many things. What are you to do?”

  “Um, clean. I think.”

  “Name?”

  “Viera.”

  The salamander disappeared from its nest of flames. After a brief moment, it reappeared. “Enter,” it said.

  The silver sword split down its center, and both doors swung open.

  Petra faced a long, dark, windowless hallway. Green brassica lamps lined each side, glowing dimly as if under water. The carpet was red and so thick that it seemed to be made of fur. Petra’s feet sank as the red plush came up to her ankles. Walking forward felt as if she were slogging through mud. She was wondering if the carpet was indeed made from some animal’s pelt and, if so, what kind of animal it could be, when the hallway opened into a vast chamber.

  Here the carpet bloomed into a network of elaborate hunting scenes. With arrows, spears, and swords, men on horses were chasing down boars, foxes, quail, and even mythical beasts like unicorns and griffins. Seven doors flanked the chamber. Birch logs burned in the fireplace, the heart of the fire glowing blue amid shreds of orange flame. There was no furniture, save a large wooden throne in the center of the room. The throne was empty. Prince Rodolfo stood before an enormous, many-paned window, watching the sparse snow sift down.

  Petra meant to be silent. She meant to wait for the prince to notice her. But then she happened to glance at the ceiling and gasped.

  The heads of countless men and women were staring down at her.

  At the sound of Petra’s stifled cry, the prince turned around. He examined her. “Do not worry, they are made of wood.”

  He advanced. His velvet robes were dyed a color Petra quickly recognized as Tyrian purple. The color, made from a spiny snail shell, looked like clotted blood. The cuffs and hem of the robe were trimmed with the rough gray fur of a wolf.

  You had better bow, Petra.

  Though disliking herself for doing it, she obeyed the spider and sank into a deep curtsy.

  “Rise.”

  She looked up, and her father’s eyes flickered over her face. Prince Rodolfo sat, and pondered why he felt so kindly toward this young girl. “They are the heads of the former rulers of Bohemia,” he explained. “Quite gruesome, are they not, even if they are made of wood? Someday I, too, will look down from the ceiling. Between you and me, I do not look forward to that day.” He smiled.

  Petra was taken aback. Was the prince trying to be friendly?

  “Much here is not what it seems. That window, for instance, is not real.”

  “But isn’t it actually snowing outside, Your Highness?”

  “Indeed it is. But the window is really bewitched rock. Watch.” He pulled a gold coin from a pocket and flung it at the window. There was no crack or shatter, but a mere thunk as the coin hit a windowpane and fell to the carpet. He let the coin rest there. “There can be no real windows in my chambers, for reasons of security. Which brings me to the subject of my presence and yours. I interview every one of my personal servants—my valets, my pages, and my chambermaids. I am forced to do this, because some servants have proven to be … disloyal.” His face did not grow angry. It emptied itself of any expression.

  Petra. Astrophil tapped her head.

  “You don’t have to worry about that with me, Your Highness.” She took a deep breath and dragged out the next few words: “I am devoted to Your Highness.”

  He nodded, pleased. He sat in his throne. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Petra spun a story of country life. She was an orphan, she explained, from the hills.

  “You are quite all alone, then?”

  She nodded.

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  She nodded.

  “You need not look so sad. I assure you that having siblings is overrated. And if you miss having a family, Salamander Castle offers you hundreds of mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers.”

  Petra remained silent, unsure how to respond when he looked so earnest.

  He studied her. He was perplexed. Why were the Kronos eyes so interested in this girl? She possessed no special beauty. She seemed like every other servant girl in the castle—except, perhaps, less afraid. Nevertheless he had to admit there was something intriguing, and also … familiar, about her, as if he had encountered her face many times before. But where? Perhaps she reminded him of a work of art … No. Prince Rodolfo dismissed that idea. The girl’s face was too common to remind him of anything in his collection.

  “These seven doors”—he gestured at the sides of the room—“lead to seven different rooms. There is only one door you will be allowed to open, and only one room that you may enter. That room is my study, which you will clean. Can you read?”

  She hesitated, then gave him the answer he seemed to expect:

  “No.”

  “Can you guess which door leads to my office? I will give you a treat if you can.”

  Petra was not sure she wanted whatever “treat” Prince Rodolfo would give her. But as she looked around the room, it became utterly clear to her which door led to his office, even though every door was identical and plain. She simply knew what the right answer was. She pointed to that door with a confidence that might not have been wise.

  Prince Rodolfo was startled, though he did his best to hide it. “Why, well spotted!” The silver eyes glinted. “There is one door that leads to a room I value most of all. Can you guess which door that is?”

  Again, a feeling of certainty stole over Petra. She started to raise her hand when Astrophil commanded with alarm: Point to whichever one you think he values least, Petra!

  She did.

  The prince noticeably relaxed. “Our conversation is nearly concluded. I am to attend a meeting in a few minutes. I need to … change. You will wait here. When I have left my chamber you will remain, and clean my study.”

  She nodded.

  The prince rose from his throne and walked slowly to the very door that Petra would have marked as the one most important to him. He withdrew a large key with complicated swirls and squiggles of metal, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

  When he emerged a few moments later, the gaze he directed toward Petra was no longer silver, but an ordinary dark brown.

  She couldn’t help herself. “Your Highness … your eyes …”

  “Yes. As I said, much here is not what it seems. I am attending a meeting of the Tribunal of the Lion’s Paw, and my other eyes are distracting.”

  Her father’s eyes were a plaything to Prince Rodolfo, Petra realized. They were something to change his vision of the world, to amuse him.

  “I promised you a reward.” He held out something spherical. It was an orange. Oranges were the prince’s favorite fruit. He always peeled them himself, and took some pleasure in tearing the bright skin away to expose the soft wedges within. He liked the spray of tiny citrus beads, he liked the tangy taste, and above all he liked that an orange is a fruit to be eaten piece by piece. If he came across a pebble-sized seed, he would swallow it rather than spit it out, even if he was alone.

  This orange, however, was not meant to be eaten. It was studded all over with cloves that were stuck into the fruit like nails.

  Petra accepted the orange. She forced herself to curtsy again. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  He peered at her. To his own eyes, the girl looked like nothing, nothing at all. “You are quite a mystery.”

  She was silent.

  “Luckily for you, I enjoy mysteries.” He smiled, like the young man he was, like someone entertained.

  As Petra walked away from the prince’s chambers, an unfinished thought swam at the back of h
er mind, wriggling away like a slippery minnow. Petra grasped at it. Even if stealing and wearing her father’s eyes seemed to be just a game to the prince, he must have wanted them very badly. Petra wondered why she was so certain of this. Then she realized something so obvious, yet so unthinkable that she had never before considered it: the prince must have undergone the same painful operation he ordered to be performed on her father. The prince had done it willingly. He had had his own eyes gouged out and enspelled so that he could trade them for another’s.

  Petra was stunned. What kind of person would do that?

  24

  Bad News

  PETRA SAT AT THE EDGE of the wooden bench, gripping the towel around her and watching the young women climb out of the large bath. She listened to their laughter and the slap of wet feet on stone. None of the other girls waiting for their turn in the bath sat next to her. They crowded together at the other end of the bench like pigeons. Petra peered around the bathing room one more time for Susana. She was nowhere to be seen. Even Astrophil had abandoned her, asking to be left in a corner of the dormitory. Spiders do not need baths, he had said.

  “Hey, Poxy!” Dana called. Sadie followed closely behind her. Their faces glowed from the bath. Dana gently tugged Petra’s ponytail. “Your hair has grown.”

  “Poxy?” Petra was confused, and then remembered how she had explained away her unconventional short hair during her first week at Salamander Castle. She claimed to have had the pox. It seemed so long ago that she had told that lie. “Listen, Dana,” she began, choosing her words carefully. Dana was Sadie’s friend, and she was friendly to Petra. But that did not mean she was Petra’s friend. “I know that I’m overwhelmingly popular here, and that nothing can make a dent in the long line of people who want to be my friend, but could you maybe not call me names like ‘Poxy’? Because somehow it’s not appealing to have a nickname that’s a disease.”

  Dana giggled. “I’m sorry. But your hair has grown, and gotten darker, glossy. I was trying to pay you a compliment.”