Maid of Wonder (12 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

For the record, falling isn't so difficult. Landing, however,
hurts
.

I manage to tuck my legs beneath me and curl into a tight ball as I near the ground, then roll over and lurch upright again. I move to wrench my skirts down from around my waist, but before I can begin working on the first knot, two strong arms yank me up against the wall.

“Stand fast,” Jane speaks into my ear. “He's leaning out the window. He cannot see us, but your shift is as white as snow. Don't let it catch the light.”

I force myself to keep my eyes down, working the knots with quick hands until my gown descends again around my ankles. “Your slippers and underclothes are in the bag,” Jane whispers, and I notice her rucksack as I hear a shutter bang into place above us.

My eyes widen as I realize the truth. “You saw me?”

“Only by chance,” Jane says. “You were gone too long, and it was as good an excuse as any to roam the castle looking for you. I'd just chanced out into the Upper Ward when I heard the page call your name. I followed you both, then
lingered outside the chapel and watched who left.” Her voice goes flat. “One of the watchers was a woman,” she said. “Elizabeth, by her walk.”

I nod. “I suspected as much.”

“By the time she was safely gone, the man you were chasing was up the wall, with you hard on his heels, and I figured I'd never reach you in time to be of any use.” She pauses, looking skyward. “He has not returned to the window. Best that you put on your blasted underskirts before anyone sees us out here.”

She stands just far enough away from the wall to shelter me, and helps me free the farthingale from her rucksack, where she has ruthlessly stuffed it. Once I have pulled it on and secured it, she reaches down for her sack and folds it into a tight package that she tucks under one arm. Together we move forward, two proper young ladies taking a late-night walk around the Quadrangle. Our heads are together, like any simpering maids, but our conversation is quiet and tense.

“Those were Dee's chambers, where you were hanging,” Jane says. “But who was the boy? He looks like one of the scientists, but they all look alike to me.”

“Marcus Quinn,” I say. “He was with me in the chapel as well. He saw the whole thing.”

“Was there anything to see? You held your own, did you not?”

I shrug. “I passed the trials of holy artifacts without anything going up in smoke, and I defended myself most prettily, if I do say. But I don't believe I'm done with these men.”

“Mm. So why send this Quinn? What does Dee gain from having him follow you?”

I shake my head. I wonder the same thing—and it's not as if there were no danger involved. Marcus Quinn risked life and limb to get—what? Confirmation that I would not set a holy book on fire? “Dee's own questioning was not so long ago,” I muse. “Perhaps that memory weighs upon him?”

“Perhaps,” Jane says, though she does not sound convinced. I am not either. By all accounts Dee remains fast friends with his accusers. Whatever method they used to question him four years ago, it could not have been too harsh.

I do not for a moment suspect I will be treated with similar care.

“Whatever he wanted to learn, I've learned something as well.” I pause, considering my view into Dee's window. “Dee has a scrying table.”

Jane cocks a glance at me. “A what?”

“You know the stone I use to focus my thoughts and hone my visions? Imagine a table carved with symbols and shapes, almost like a map to a distant country. He has that in his chamber. He was using it to . . . to talk to someone, I think.”

“Someone.” Jane's voice is as cool as the winter sea. “Someone like who?”

“Someone like an angel, I suspect.” I draw in an unsteady breath, hoping she will not think me mad, and hasten on. “Whoever it was, it spoke through Marcus, and its words were clear. It warned Dee that there was someone at the window. Dee immediately looked up, and that's when I dropped.”

“How do you know it wasn't Marcus who told him you were hanging there?”

I shake my head. “It wasn't Marcus talking. I'm sure of that.”

Jane grunts, and we continue on in silence, the sight of Marcus's glassy gaze and slack face shimmering in my mind's eye. Is that what I look like when I affix my eyes upon my scrying stone? No wonder Beatrice and the occasional guard have been so distressed by my trances. My body must look like an emptied sack, a doll without its stuffing.

Fortunately, Jane has never been one for idle conversation, and she gives me the silence I desperately need as we make our way back into the finally quieting castle. Despite the impossible jumble of emotions I have for Marcus Quinn—outrage, curiosity, confusion—he is not my main concern. My visions are. And I cannot deny the truth I feel in the messages the angels have given me this night. Not one death but two. First, a man in his prime who goes from laughing confidence to a dreadful stillness in his bed, attended by none other than Walsingham . . . and then the Queen.

The Queen.

I turn that second, gruesome image over again in my mind. Her dress—it is like nothing I have ever seen on Elizabeth, black and gold and shot through with pearls. The ground on which she has collapsed is bright white except for that curious black cross, but she is not dressed in a fur-lined cloak, which surely she would be if it were wintertide, unless perhaps she came upon that field but suddenly, rushing forth from a castle or carriage. Her body has not been pierced by any blade, and yet the sight of her lying dead on the ground has a violence all its own, as if she somehow were dashing
forward and then tripped upon the hard earth. Is her death an accident that can be forestalled? Or a devious murder, already set in motion?

More than ever, I feel that time is running out.

I must speak to both Walsingham and the Queen at first light. Not to assure my success at the convocation of seers (though of course that weighs heavily on my mind) but to give them both due warning. If Walsingham's friend currently resides in Windsor Castle, then his life is in terrible danger. Still, there may yet be time to save him. As for the Queen . . . if death is to come for her this wintertide, the Maids of Honor shall be prepared. And if my dark vision of her is simply one future among many, then I must be careful in how I present it to her. No one wants to learn they are marked for death, after all. Least of all Elizabeth.

By the time Jane and I reach the doors to our chambers, the clock is chiming nine bells, but my day is far from done. In three short hours there are yet more troubling questions to be answered, when I come face-to-face at last with Marcus Quinn, in Saint George's Hall.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The corridors of Windsor Castle often seem like miniature rooms, stretching around the Quadrangle of the Upper Ward like three sides of a square. I expect Marcus will reach Saint George's Hall by traveling through the castle from the Visitors Apartments, where all of Dee's men are staying, as well as Nostradamus. I, however, am approaching the hall from a different direction entirely.

Beneath it.

During the summer, when my fellow spies and I were asked to discover who was causing strange disturbances in the court, Meg and Jane stumbled upon a secret held by the old stones of the castle: hidden passages between and beneath many of the most important rooms, passages that extend throughout all of the wards and into the dungeons below. We don't know what purpose these corridors were originally intended to serve, but they have already proven their value to us—getting us through the castle secretly, and allowing us to spy on members of the court as needed.

Now I take one of the main arteries of this underground
labyrinth, the one that ends in a secret panel that opens up into Saint George's Hall. I slip into the hall and move aside the large drape we have dragged over the panel area for additional secrecy, should any of us have the misfortune of popping into the chamber when it is already occupied. One of the first things you learn as a spy—you keep your advantages to yourself. If any of the court realizes that Windsor Castle is riddled with a labyrinth of passageways, we will never get any proper spying done.

The air in the hall is still, musty. No one comes into this place other than the occasional servant intent on storing away some piece of broken furniture or torn tapestry. As I move through the chamber, my eyes already accustomed to the gloom after my walk in the hidden passage, I wonder at the piles of forgotten treasures our Queen has had neither the time nor the interest to review. Any one of these elegantly carved benches or richly embroidered bolts of cloth would fetch enough coin to feed a family for a full year, and yet here they sit.

I purse my lips, wondering if I, too, will join these relics in Saint George's Hall one day. A seer whose visions have lost their bright luster.

“Sophia.” The voice is quiet and sure, the word not a question. I turn to regard Marcus as he moves through the cluttered hall. His walk is steady, though the light from the high windows is barely enough for him to pick his way through the shrouded art and the stacked furniture.

I do not approach Marcus, however. I've seen too much this evening to rush blindly forward yet again.

Marcus seems to sense my uneasiness, and he stops a few paces away from me, testing a sturdy chest before leaning his weight upon it. “I did not think I would find you here,” he says.

“What might have kept me?” I ask. “The Questioners you watched at the chapel? The fall from the window outside Dee's chamber? Or merely my disappointment that it took you less than a single night to lose my trust completely?”

Though my words are sharp, Marcus chuckles and stands tall again. “I thought that was you following me. The guards in this palace are impressive, but big. You were as quick as an angel.”

More than you can possibly understand.
I recall my Sight-sharpened speed along the rooftop pathway around Windsor Castle. What other gifts might the angels provide me, if I gained their trust? My eyes sting in remembered pain.
And at what cost?

“But you deserve, at the very least, an explanation,” Marcus says. “I would give that to you, though I would prefer not to shout it across the room.”

I thin my lips. “We are quite alone here. Pray speak from where you are.”

I can see his smile even in the dim light. “Very well,” he says, offering me a brief nod. “First, allow me to introduce myself properly.” He steps forward with a flourish and bows down, his hand sweeping out in a grand gesture. “I am Marcus Quinn, professional channel.”

“A channel!” Now my voice does ring across the space, and Marcus straightens, bringing a finger to his lips. “Explain
yourself,” I hiss, no longer caring that he has edged closer to me.

“What is there to explain? I am the eyes and ears for the spirit realm,” he says, hooking his thumbs into his belt, as if this were an occupation as basic as a blacksmith's trade. “Within the circle of a wise man's conjuring, I walk out of this world and into the next, to see what may be seen, and hear what may be heard. This information then flows to my patron, who dutifully transcribes all that I report, for later deciphering.”

“Deciphering?” I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

He frowns at me. “I have seen you in the angelic realm many times, Sophia. You cannot tell me that you don't understand what I am saying. The spirit beings all blend together, their voices—” He shudders. “Their voices are as a roar of trumpets or the crash of the open sea. They are impossible for me to discern—for you as well, no?”

I frown at him. It did take me some time to make sense of the angels' speech when I first arrived in their realm and they all spoke at once. But each time I returned, my hearing improved. Surely Marcus . . . “How long have you been serving as a channel?”

He shrugs. “I'm told I have done it since I was eight.”

“So young!” I'm glad for the gloom, as he cannot see my patent shock.

“I can repeat what I hear—speak it even as it is being said—but it is gibberish to me. To the scryer as well, all too often, which makes for poor payment, trust me.” He eyes me more somberly. “It is not always an easy task, this work. Not every
spirit welcomes you into their realm, and some . . . some are worse than others.” He shakes his head, pushing away whatever dark images are plaguing him. “Though at least your uncle has proven capable of untangling the angelic song to generate actual words. It is a long and torturous process, to be fair. But he has done it, and I have seen his handiwork. It is how I learned the tale of you, in fact.”

That does bring me up short. “What sort of tale?”

“The best tale possible, for it served as a sort of key, if you will. I began work with your uncle this summer, upon his return from the Continent. The very first time I sat down with him at his scrying table, I found myself in a realm of mists and shadows and—noise. God's breath, such noise.” He shakes his head. “But though my ears were overwhelmed, my eyes were opened wide. Never before had my vision been so clear. Normally I can perceive naught more than the faintest shapes, but such was the power of Dee's incantation that my journey carried me farther into the realm than ever before. I could actually
see
the spirit beings.” His words are filled with wonder. “They were more beautiful than anything I could imagine. The angels surrounded me almost the moment I arrived.” He shifts his gaze to me. “They sang of you. Did you know that?” I shake my head, and he continues on, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I didn't realize that, of course, because when I speak what the angels say, I have no recollection of their words, just as I know they are beautiful, without ever remembering their faces. But Dee was quite overcome with frenzy by the time I returned to the mortal plane, writing furiously over
every open bit of parchment in the chamber, his clothing, the walls, the bedsheets. Apparently, when he heard your name and recognized what the angels' words were about, he endeavored to copy down the mad wailing of their song as closely as possible, for he was well aware of that particular story already, its beginning, its middle, and its end. And by working backward from what he knew to be true, he could then—”

“He used it as a cipher,” I say, suddenly understanding. “He could not translate the angels' words. Not at first. But he certainly knew the tale of my own kidnapping, because he was there. He's the one who stole me. So by hearing a story well known to him, told in a foreign tongue, he puzzled out the angels' words. My own abduction account was the tool Dee needed to pierce the angelic realm.”

Marcus nods and takes another step toward me. He is now close enough for us to whisper.

“All those years ago, when you were but a small child, a young, learned man with a fascination for alchemy and divination received a powerful vision,” he intones, his voice almost melodic as he recounts the tale, as if it were a story about some other girl, some other time. “In that vision he was promised that which he most craved—the ability to speak with angels. To receive this wondrous gift, he was told to find the three-year-old girl who had been marked by the heavens. She would light his way.”

I lift my brows. “Marked by the heavens.”

“As surely as if there were a map drawn upon her skin,” Marcus says. “Upon waking from this extraordinary vision,
Dee took to his charts and ephemerides. He mapped the stars back three years and studied the portents and signs. After an exhaustive search, he found what he was looking for. On one glorious summer's night, the heavens were positioned above Bristol with such extraordinary symmetry that it left him aghast.”

“My father's home.”

“He set off immediately, sparing no expense. A child born under such stars as these would be a wondrous light, and he was overwhelmed with zeal to seek her out. As the angels guided him every step of his journey, he found her one grim night and stole her away. He brought her to his family home, keeping her safe and close, trusting that one day, as the angels had promised, she would be the key that would open the angelic realm to him.” Marcus's smile is sad, and some corner of my mind registers that he is now only bare inches away from me. “And she was,” he murmurs. “You are.”

I blink in consternation. “So that's it? That's the whole of my purpose here? I am simply the fulfillment of the promise the angels made to Dee so long ago?” Anger flashes through me. “All of my suffering, just to eventually forge me as his key to the angelic realm?”

“You are not only Dee's key; you are his inspiration. You connect at a level with the angels that is far beyond anything he can attempt.”

“But I did not need
him
to make that happen,” I snap. “I could have as easily developed my connection with the spirit realm in Bristol, among my family. The only value in Dee stealing me was to serve his own twisted ends!” Rage builds inside
me, thick and hot. How many years did I live as an orphan, desperately grateful for Dee's care? How many years did he allow me to feel indebted to him, when he should be indebted to me?

Marcus's gaze never falters. “I thought you knew more of your story than this,” he says quietly.

“I knew I had been stolen. I knew Dee had been told by the angels to do it, that he could never achieve true connection without me. But I didn't realize that my purpose was simply to be a crudely forged key.”

“More than a key,” Marcus says again. “Because you walk among the angels, Sophia. You seem to
speak
to them. Though, of course you could not be doing so, not really.” He shakes his head. “That way lies only madness.”

“What are you talking about?” I have sensed this fear within myself as well—that to race headlong into the angelic world, away from my obsidian bench, would be to lose hold of my sanity. But to hear Marcus state it so boldly makes me impatient.

His eyes darken, and pure torment flashes in their depths. “Trust me, Sophia,” he says quietly. “The angelic realm is far more deadly than you can imagine. I once entered it unprotected. Three years ago, in fact. I was barely fourteen and had no idea of the risk. The conjurer I was working with was too weak, too uncertain. And because of his inexperience, the spectral beings we came upon were
not
born of God, I can assure you. They demanded that I remain within the spectral realm, and I tried to flee. Though the conjurer attempted to protect me . . . they had such strength.” He hesitates, his memories draining the blood from his face. “Such strength
as I would never have believed. The spectral plane is full of deception and danger, Sophia. You must know this. Even some of the spirits that you believe you've known all your life have been with you but a moment. If they have a mind to do it, they can convince you of any trick of time or space.”

I stare at him, my own dark specter looming large in my mind. “What happened to you?” My words are a bare whisper, and Marcus's face goes even bleaker.

“I cannot truly say,” he says. “According to the conjurer, I fell into a deep sleep, barely breathing, my entire body appearing racked with terrible pain as I twisted and writhed in his home. He could not call a doctor, of course; he had no idea what had happened to me, or if he would be arrested for conjuring. Days later I awoke, as if from a great sickness, with no memory of aught that came before. It took me months to patch back together the life I had lived up to that point, and another two years before I ventured back into the angelic realm. This time”—he smiles grimly—“with a master conjurer.”