Maid of Wonder (13 page)

“Dee,” I say.

He nods. “But I cannot complain. My memory is not what it used to be, and yet—I am here. I am alive, able to support myself quite well as a channel, and a wiser one at that. Why dwell in the past, when there is such a future to behold?”

I cannot argue with that. Still, there is something I do not understand. “If you started working with Dee six months ago, and you learned the cipher of the angels' speech on your very first visit to the spirit realm, then why did Dee continue to seek me out? What more value could I offer him?”

“What value?” he asks. “The value of information, Sophia. Dee is a jealous man. Here he had you to himself all those years, and now when you are under the protection of the Queen and locked away from him,
this
is when you come into your abilities. At first he couldn't believe it, and then he was consumed with the idea of speaking with you in the angelic realm.” Marcus shifts uncomfortably. “Through me. To use you to expand his understanding of the spirit world.”

“But then the summons of the Queen to solve Mother Shipton's prophecy came down, and—”

“And off to Windsor we went.” Marcus draws a deep breath. “Dee seeks to explain the prediction the Queen has received from Mother Shipton primarily through the use of astrology. Our chambers are covered with charts and calendars, and his frenzy is only growing. He is close.”

I consider that. Astrology is Dee's first true love, and he is extraordinarily skilled at using the stars as a means of answering his deepest questions. It is no surprise that he has turned to them to answer the question of who will die at Windsor. “And what of the angels?” I ask. “Have they provided you with additional information?”

“They have not. In fact, Dee holds you accountable for that. He believes you have somehow set the angels against him in this question, for they remain silent on the soul who is doomed at Windsor. He's quite upset about it.”

“Good,” I say, perversely pleased. The angels owe me an enormous debt. By making Dee believe that I was some sort of key to their realm, they sacrificed my childhood to his ambition. The least they can do is ensure I survive this convocation.

“You should have a care around him, Sophia,” Marcus says. “Based on his astrological reading, Dee fears that you will somehow divine the answer to the Shipton puzzle this very night. He insisted I seek you out to learn the truth of what you knew. Instead . . . well.” He shakes his head. “I did not expect to find you at the mercy of the Questioners.”

“You did not aid me either,” I say, though this is unfair. Marcus is a channel. His profession makes him as suspect as I am to men who serve God. Worse, I cannot trust him, no matter how drawn to him I am.

Marcus's next words make this all the more clear. “I am in Dee's employ, Sophia,” he says. “And it is more than that. Dee helped me to regain my strength enough to reenter the angelic realm, which, after two years of wandering only in the world of man, had become such a powerful compulsion that I could not bear it. And once there, I . . . found you.” His expression is wintry but resolute. “For that I will be forever in his debt.”

“So what will you tell him of this night?” I ask, the words a challenge. “Will you tell him you have met me and spilled all his secrets? Will you carry back new tales of our discussion to satisfy his thirst for knowledge of me?”

“No, Sophia.” He is so close to me, and I am too aware of his energy, his heat. It is as if a spell has been woven around us, lit with possibility. Without thinking, I lift my hand and place it upon his chest, and feel his beating heart beneath my palm. Marcus covers my hand with his, the touch sending a jolt through me. His eyes are once more silver-bright, intent upon my own, and I cannot seem to draw a breath deep
enough to give me relief. “Tonight our tale is for our ears alone.” He leans forward, his lips almost brushing mine. No young man has ever been so close to me, and my gaze falters, dropping to Marcus's mouth. His sculpted lips part, barely an inch away. “I followed you through mists and gloom,” he whispers. “I watched you surrounded by the angels, their light blinding me, still terrifying to behold, but I could not look away.” Another breath, and he speaks again, his words a caress unlike anything I've ever felt before. “By the saints, I almost recall . . . I believe I once watched you confront a spirit of fire and ash, and you were not afraid. You never seemed afraid.”

“I'm afraid now,” I whisper. And I am. I do not understand the panic filling me, the building fear that seems to have no cause nor cure. But Marcus only smiles. He shifts forward that final breath and presses his lips to mine—

A sudden shaft of light fills the space. I wheel away and see that the full moon has edged into the high windows, its sudden brilliance seeming to glare down at us in rebuke. Marcus reaches for me, but I stand back, my hands lifting as if to ward him away. Confusion makes my words bitter to my own ears. “Nay, how can I trust you?” I challenge. “I've seen you only once in the spirit realm, and yet you claim you have watched me for months. You've already told Dee about my session with the Questioners, I assume?”

His expression is all the response I need. “I suspected as much. Stop following me, Marcus. Tell Dee whatever you wish, but no longer chase after me through the shadows, in this world or in any other.”

“No!” Marcus protests, looking truly stricken. “You don't understand, Sophia. I don't know why, but I can no more stop following you than I can stop breathing. Especially not now, when danger seems to stalk you everywhere you go.” He tightens his jaw. “That first moment, when I breached the spirit world after so long, I was distraught, truly unnerved. Even with a patron as strong as John Dee, I was crippled with fear. And then, when my eyes cleared, I saw . . . you. You fairly glowed, Sophia, so bright in all that darkness. You gave me strength to step forward, strength to return to the world that called to me yet terrified me at the same time. You became the only thing I wished to see in the spirit realm. I dreamed of how you might speak, the sound of your laugh.” He sighs, as if the words were a struggle for him. “The way you would feel in my arms, should we ever dance. You became a light not only for Dee, Sophia,” he says, his words quickening in their urgency. “You became my light as well.”

The spell is stirring again between us, drawing us closer. I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Marcus, you cannot expect me to believe anything you say.”

“Then don't,” he murmurs. “Believe what I do.”

Suddenly his arms are around me, strong and fierce. This time, when he bends his face to mine, he does not falter. He brands my lips with his mouth, his grip almost brutal as he seems to pour his very soul into his kiss, scattering my thoughts in a million directions as a fiery heat wells up within me out of nowhere, answering his demand.

This!

Never have I felt so wanted before, so wanted and needed.
I desire nothing more than to dissolve into Marcus's body like sugar into water, the two of us no longer separate but one.
But he is the enemy,
some ragged part of my mind insists.
He will betray you with every breath!
And yet none of that seems to matter as much as the idea that someone—anyone—could seek to hold me with this sort of strength. Marcus knows who I am and what I am, and yet still he is here! Still he remains! Still he wants to be with me with an intensity that I cannot suspect. His words and his actions may be my undoing, but surely, this is real.

“Marcus!” I gasp as he finally grants me breath, his eyes shimmering with fire, his breathing ragged.

He steps back, setting me away from him with rough regret, as if he were a drunkard and I the last of his wine, too precious to be consumed all at once. “It was so much more than I even imagined,” he says at last, his eyes filled with an emotion I cannot discern. “So much more. Everything is different now.” The wonder in his voice sounds like a benediction. “Tell me you feel it too.”

“I feel it,” I whisper.

The bells in the high tower chime one o'clock, shattering the moment. “I must return to my chambers, ere I am missed. It's well past time. We have already tarried here too long.” I frown at him, sanity returning now that I am no longer in his arms. “So then, Marcus. What will you say to Dee?”

“That I could not find you.” Marcus's words are absolute, as strong as any oath of fealty. “That I searched but you were nowhere to be found, I swear to you.”

Something has changed in his manner, and I find my
own breath suddenly quailing in my throat, all of the doubts, hopes, and fears of a moment ago surging once more to the fore.

Marcus's gaze, if anything, sharpens. “Sophia—”

“Go!” I no longer trust myself to be sensible. “I cannot leave until I am sure it is safe.”

With one last long, searching look, Marcus nods. He turns and strides forcefully out of the room, once more merely a dashing young acolyte of the arcane . . . and not the young man who stared at me so intently that it seemed as if he wished to draw down my very soul.

I am still staring after him, in fact, my mind playing and replaying our too-brief moments together, when I hear a new sound that roots me to the floor. It is not the wail of angels, nor the howl of wind against the castle walls. Nor is it the strike of Marcus's quick steps, signaling that he has come back to confront me once more.

No.

It is a long-suffering sigh.

“That,” says Walsingham, “was most unexpected.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Sir Francis!” I whirl, and see the Queen's advisor emerging from behind an enormous tapestry next to the main doors of Saint George's Hall. He dusts himself off as he strolls through the piles of draped furniture and artwork, pointedly not looking at me. I assume this is to give me time to compose myself after my scandalous interlude, but I find that my utter embarrassment is still not enough to quell the sudden and horrible realization of what I must do next:

I have terrible news to share with Walsingham. I cannot afford to dither over a kiss.

Even if it was my very first.

Nevertheless, as Walsingham draws near, I cannot find a way to begin. I must tell him of the vision, of the man whose bedside he will attend, broken and grieving, but I am suddenly awkward, flushed and ill at ease. They seemed to be friends, after all. How do you announce to a man that his laughing, robust friend is about to die?

Walsingham's abrupt words take the opportunity away from me. “Marcus Quinn works for John Dee,” he says,
weighing the words as if each must take a measure of his attention. “And John Dee has been set against you in this pageant the Queen has devised, to find the next doomed soul at Windsor.”

Both of these statements are true, so I can only agree. “Yes, Sir Francis, but—”

“And yet,” he continues on as if I had not spoken, “I find you here, amidst the broken-down splendor of the castle's most abandoned hall, with none other than the hired hand of your uncle, who is also now your enemy. Is this some new alliance in the making? Or are you letting your head get turned by the first young man you meet in the wake of your canceled betrothal?”

My cheeks flush, and I lift my chin, hoping he cannot mark my humiliation in the shifting shadows of the hall. Though clearly, he saw well enough what just took place here between Marcus and me, even if he couldn't hear all of it. “My head is not turned, Sir William,” I say. “Marcus Quinn had information for me, and he delivered it. The rest is for naught.”

“Ah! Information,” Walsingham says gravely. “And perhaps you would like to share this ‘information' with me? Or have you forgotten that anything you learn, Miss Dee, is the property of the Crown?”

“I have not forgotten that at all,” I say. I still feel the burn of Marcus's lips upon mine, but I am not blind to his betrayal. He has been following me in the spirit realm for months, reporting on my activities to John Dee. So while he may harbor an affection for me, which would be a strange
and wondrous thing, it holds little weight against the duty that I owe the Queen. For now that duty must be my guiding star. “Marcus was explaining to me his role with my uncle. He is a channel. Are you familiar with the term?”

That stops Walsingham, and he narrows his eyes on me. “Enlighten me.”

“There are many ways into the angelic realm, Sir Francis, for those who seek its secrets. My uncle has chosen to employ the services of a man who would be his eyes and ears, who sees and then reports on what he sees, leaving Dee free to record his observations. Marcus Quinn performs this role for him.”

Walsingham wrinkles his brow. “But how? Under some sort of trance?”

“Exactly like that.” I blow out a long breath, feeling the moment upon me to explain myself to yet another man who has waited long months for me to finally merit his careful training. For I cannot explain the visions I have had, without explaining how I came to have them. “Marcus met me tonight to . . . to apologize, I suppose would be an accurate description. For following me into the angelic realm, and telling Dee of my activities there.”

Walsingham's nimble mind immediately grasps my underlying meaning. “So Dee was telling the truth!” he says, his eyes narrowing. “You
have
mastered the Sight and have not—”

“Ha! There is no mastery here, Sir Francis. I have barely any idea of what I'm doing. Always before, my visions would come to me as dreams or sudden flashes of awareness.
Disjointed and impossible to understand until the events they foretold had already happened. But in recent weeks I have learned how to go beyond receiving such passive visions. I have learned how to slip into my own meditative state and breach the angelic realm. And there—” I pause, for this is the crux of it. But there is no going back. “There I can ask questions.”

“Questions of whom?” he asks, though he must suspect the answer.

“Of angels.” I watch as Walsingham stiffens, his eyes fixed upon me as he considers my words. “Their answers are not always clear, but with effort I am learning to discern them.”

“You can ask . . . questions,” he repeats, as if I have altered his understanding of what is possible in the world. “And receive answers.
That
is the nature of your gift?”

“It is. I do receive visions as well, both in dreams and waking hours. But as my skills develop, I can better understand those visions and dreams by requesting clarification.” My lips twist into a grimace. “When the angels are of a mind to give it.”

“And these angels are of God?” Walsingham speaks quietly, but the chill in his words is unmistakable. For all that he is the Queen's spymaster, Walsingham is a man of faith as well. I can almost see him grappling with the question of propriety. If credible information came from the minions of Satan, would he use it?

Probably. Though he would never admit to such heresy.

Nevertheless, I can put him at ease on this issue. “They are of God,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “They are adorned
in blue-white fire, each of their wings the height of a man. I sense no evil among them.”

Not true, of course, but I need Walsingham to heed the angels' messages, not fear them. Especially given what I must say next.

I speak before he can recover. “Sir Francis, in light of the Queen's announcement at dinner that she wishes us to decipher the prophecy by tomorrow night, I hastened to seek out such answers early this evening. I tried—more than ever before—to get clarity and insight from the angels.”

“And they provided the answers you sought?” I can tell Walsingham's mind is still stumbling through the knowledge that his youngest spy now has access to an entire new
realm
of information.

“Indeed.” When he doesn't respond, I reach out and grasp his arm. I feel the shock of my sudden touch pass through him as he refocuses on me.

“What is it?” he demands. “What did you see?”

“I saw two deaths at Windsor,” I say quietly. “Not one.”

“Two.”
He passes a hand over his brow, sighing deeply. “Of course you saw two. Very well, then, Miss Dee. Let's start with the first.”

I compel myself to warn Walsingham of the death that seems more immediate. “He is a man I do not know, but I think you do.” I rush into the explanation, hoping that the speed of my words will lighten their sting. “You are at his bedside when he dies. And you are distraught, Sir Francis. I believe this man is your friend.”

“Who?” The word is like the crack of a musket. “Who is it?”

“I don't know his last name, but his first is Richard, or perhaps Robert,” I say. “He is a man of middling twenty years. His hair is chestnut going to red and trimmed short, and he boasts no beard. I couldn't discern the color of his eyes.” The image of the man assaults me again, deadened eyes staring out, mouth slack. “I think they are blue. He is robust and strong, with an easy smile and laughing countenance.”

“Robert Moreland,” Walsingham says, his tone now more disturbed than angry. “That is whom you speak of.” I am not sure what I expected of the spymaster, but it is not this—cold horror, as if I were an oracle of nightmares. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

I feel the pressure in my head and will myself to stay steady. “I have seen this man now twice, Sir Francis,” I say. “In both visions he is adorned with a purple sash and holds a scepter—”

“Well, that's not right at all,” Walsingham interrupts me crisply. “It can't be Robert Moreland then, but some other nobleman. Very well. What else do you see? How does this man die?”

“I don't know. There are no visible wounds. He is bedridden and appears gaunt. His mouth is open in a grimace, a thin line of blood trailing from his lips. In the first vision a young woman sits by his side.”

“Describe her.”

“She is wearing a dark grey gown, a veil upon her head. Her hair is blond, and she looks very pretty, though she is racked with sorrow. She is—” I hesitate, then push on. “She is quite pregnant.”

“God's teeth,” Walsingham mutters. “Mary Moreland. What else?” he barks at me. “What else is in this damnable vision?”

“You are, Sir Francis.” My words are barely a whisper. “You are dressed much as you are now—as you always are. But when I see you, you are standing at the foot of . . . the man's bed. His wife is not present. And you are . . . you have been crying. Your face is set, resolute, but your eyes are red and haggard.” I draw in a shuddering breath. “That is all.”

“Describe this sash.” Walsingham's words are bitten off, and I sense the outrage building anew in him. “Purple, you say?”

I nod. “In the first vision, with the young woman, he is also wearing a crown.” I wince at the memory. “The blood trickling from his mouth is purple too.”

I draw a sharp breath as Walsingham snaps out a curse, and I instinctively lift my hands up to my chest, as if to protect myself from a sudden blow. The spymaster whirls and stalks away from me, only to return with resolute steps a moment later, his face dark with intensity.

“You do not serve your interests well, Miss Dee, to smear the name of a man who is my friend.”

“Nay, Sir Francis!” I protest. “I wanted you to know so you could
prevent
this fell tragedy, that is all!

“If what you say is true, and I pray that it is not, then
prevention
is the least of our worries.” Walsingham stares at the far wall. “It is easy enough to discern the truth, in any case,” he says, though I have no idea what he means. He scowls at me. “When did you have this vision?”

“I had a brief image of it some days ago,” I admit. “But this most clear version was earlier this evening. I decided to tell you and the Queen on the morrow.”

“No,” Walsingham says, his word a command. “Do not under any circumstances tell the Queen. Not until I have time to determine the truth of this.”

“Of course, Sir Francis,” I say, overwhelmed with the strength of his emotion. My head is pounding, and I force myself to lower my clenched hands to my sides. I have to ask, and yet I fear I already know the answer to my next question. “Pray tell . . . this man is not at Windsor Castle?”

Walsingham lets out a choked laugh. “Of course he is at Windsor Castle,” he says. “I invited him here. Him and his young wife, Mary, who is heavy with child.” He sighs, then shakes his head. “But we must attend the task at hand. I came looking for you for a reason, when you were not in your own chambers. Nostradamus has retired for the evening, safely within the Visitors Apartments. We have accorded him a gracious room and assigned him servants for whatever his needs may be.”

I frown, my mind swimming. Why is he telling me this? “I'm sure you've done your best to make him comfortable,” I say.

“Indeed,” Walsingham says. “However, we have also done our best to aid our own Maid of Honor in her quest to prove herself as the Queen's preeminent seer.”

I lift my brows. “You have?”

“I have left a guard at the door to the Visitors Apartments. This man will take you to a specific alcove and then depart.
Go inside the door there and climb the narrow stair. Be careful not to make a sound. Though the walls are stone, I do not fault the hearing of our esteemed French guest.”

My eyes widen as I grasp his meaning. “Are you certain he will seek his answers this night?”

“Why wouldn't he? Dee has been holed up for hours, and you, yourself, sought out your angels. Nostradamus is every bit as keen to impress Elizabeth, for all that she is not his Queen. But look sharp, Sophia. Tell no one what you see, what you hear, until you speak with me.”

“Of course,” I say, but when he would turn toward the chamber's doors, I raise my hand to stop him. “There was the matter of the second death, Sir Francis.”

Almost against his will, he stops himself, fixing me with his tired eyes. “So you said.” He shakes his head. “From your manner, I can only assume it is the Queen?”

I nod quickly. “Yes.” I rush on to unburden myself. “She falls on a white field, Sir Francis, a black cross at her feet, and—”

Despite my dire and stumbling words, however, Walsingham seems to relax, lifting his hand to stop me. “There's snow on the ground?”

“Well, I don't really—” Impatience flares in his eyes, and I stammer on. “Y-yes, Sir Francis. The field is covered in snow.”