Maid of Wonder (5 page)

“Coriander, lemon balm, saffron, and rose,” Meg supplies helpfully. She rather enjoys the repetition of others' words, as it helps her learn without her ever needing to write her lessons down. She gives the herb mistress a wink. “Stirred, unless I miss my guess, by this mysterious horn?”

“It's a unicorn's horn!” Anna declares with sudden certainty.

“A
what
?” Jane's surprise is palpable, as is her disdain. I nudge her side, and she glances down at me, confused, before she seems to recover herself. She clearly does not believe in the existence of unicorns, but many among the court of Queen Elizabeth do. Including Elizabeth herself. The Queen's complex
web of superstitious beliefs is something I have been tangled in far more than the rest of our company.

“Where came she by such a treasure?” asks Beatrice, who by her tone clearly does not possess such a singular prize in her family coffers. Whether real or not, the horn of a unicorn is believed to have the powers of healing and purification. “Unicorn's horns are rare indeed. And to think, our Queen has had one all this time.”

The herb mistress is blushing, but she cannot keep herself from sharing the full secret, especially as it is all but out anyway. “It—it is broken, I'm afraid. She has but a remnant of it, a gift from a distant cousin. But she does set great store by it, until she is able to find a complete one.”

“Well, it's clearly worked so far,” Jane observes. Her words are a touch too dry, and this earns her another nudge from me. She rolls her eyes. “What? She hasn't died of poisoning, right? So the horn must be the reason why.”

“Jane,” Beatrice warns, as Meg starts coughing loudly.

“Hmm.” Anna taps her lips. “It is enough that she feels more secure with it, no matter its origin,” she says. “But in the, ah, unhappy absence of this horn, what do we have in the way of antidotes?”

And with that the herb mistress is off again, discoursing on the relative merits of common rue versus ginger, horehound, mugwort, and oak, which all make up remedies easily prepared within the castle. By the end of the session, we well understand that the cooks at Windsor can assemble the antidotes to
any
poison, and stand at the ready to defend the Crown as needed. Along with our unicorn horn.

We finish out the lesson in good spirits. The herb mistress is well schooled, and under Beatrice's careful guidance the talk shifts all too quickly to which potions and posies work best for such practical needs as a clear complexion or a rosy glow. Jane's irritation grows with every request, until she begins to eye the door.

Almost as if Jane ordered it, a sharp rap sounds on the heavy wood.

The door opens to reveal a young male servant whose eyes, predictably, are only for the lovely Beatrice, though the message is for us all, save the herb mistress. “If you please, you've been summoned.”

“To the Queen? You cannot be serious.” Beatrice groans.

“No, my lady.” The boy draws in a long, noisy breath, puffing himself up. “It is Sir William Cecil who requests your presence. Please, if you will. He said to come at once.”

CHAPTER SIX

Sir William Cecil sits in his darkened chambers, peering down at stacks of parchment illuminated by the flame of a single candle. He is ever stingy in the use of light, and I've always wondered at it. He's considered a visionary, both he and Walsingham, the Queen's most valued advisors. Why not actually break out a few candles to see those visions more clearly?

He pays no attention to us as we arrive and arrange ourselves in a line before his desk. It is only when Beatrice begins to tap her foot that he appears to take notice. Even then he does not speak, but merely lifts his head to peer at us.

Well, at
me
, I should say. He is peering at me.

I try to remember to show naught but wide-eyed innocence, though I confess the act is wearing a bit thin.

“The few men of science and astrology who have heard the whispers about the Queen's summons have come and gone. None of them knew anything about Mother Shipton's prediction, nor did they offer up any prophecies or warnings remotely similar,” he says, his gaze never leaving me. “But
now, with the arrival of John Dee and his company, the game has changed, and we can be done with the pretenders. Still, Dee apparently feels the need to impress Elizabeth immediately, and he is unwilling to wait until their private audience. The Queen, of course, is delighted to be impressed.” Cecil's weary voice betrays his fatigue. Clearly, whatever Dee has planned for Elizabeth has already caused him grief. “After the welcoming feast this evening, Dee will perform an astrological wonder for the Queen and her members of court. You will all be in attendance for this spectacle, and do what you can to ensure its success. The Queen has been much strained by her worry over Mother Shipton's premonition, and has need for the distraction.”

I consider this. I know Dee must be eager to provide the Queen with the answer she seeks. As one of the most celebrated thinkers in the kingdom, and an avowed student of angelic conversations, astrology, and the arcane, who better to shed light on the mysterious prophecy of Mother Shipton? All eyes will be upon him to reveal who is to die at Windsor Castle.

When he does,
if
he does, he will be richly rewarded, too. Secure in the belief that she has a true prophet in her service, the Queen will spare no expense to support Dee's work. This spectacle that he is presenting, then, must be to lay the foundation for his great revelation to the Queen. To show that Dee can not only serve as the Queen's link to the angelic realm, but he can delight her with scientific marvels as well.

And as for me?

It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps two seers for the Crown is one too many.

“Sophia, are you aware of what your uncle is preparing?” Cecil asks, drawing my attention back to him. “This ‘astrological wonder' that requires every candle in the castle to be brought to the Presence Chamber?”

“No, Sir William,” I say sincerely. “I am not in communication with my—my uncle. I have not seen him these past several months.”

“You would do well to nurture that relationship anew, then,” he says. “Your uncle is a valued member of this court, and an advisor of no small standing to the Queen. He has also traveled extensively of late, and his studies have been much remarked-upon by those courtiers with whom he is friendly. We need to understand not only what he knows but who he has talked with, where he has been, and what he's been doing.” He taps his papers. “He mentioned his alchemical studies in particular, during his audience with the Queen but a bare half hour ago. Has he gotten any closer to finding the Philosopher's Stone?”

Beside me Anna huffs in derision. “You really think Dee wouldn't run to the Queen immediately if he'd found a way to transmute lead into gold? His future would be assured.”

Cecil shrugs. “He has been traveling on the Continent, and the Queen is not the only monarch with money.” He refocuses on me. “What has he told you?”

I raise a brow. “Sir William, I am but John Dee's niece and ward, not his trusted colleague. Our relationship was never that close, nor will it likely be so now, given my current position within the Queen's household.” I offer him an apologetic smile, though in truth I could not care less
whether I ever see Dee again. “I am afraid he has no interest in speaking with me.”

He waves off my words. “Happily, it appears you are wrong. He is currently asking for you, in fact, to join him and the Queen.”

That does alarm me, but Cecil continues. “As to the rest of you, Dee has brought a small army of his associates to the castle, claiming them as apprentices to his studies.” Cecil's tone belies his skepticism. “More likely, he promised them the Queen's food and hospitality in exchange for their service.”

“What sort of service?” Anna asks. “Are they to help him divine the truth about Mother Shipton's prophecy? Or simply to aid him in tonight's spectacle?”

“That, or perhaps their duties are simpler still,” Jane mutters. “How hard is it for one of them to murder a courtier in his bed, so that Dee wins the Queen's challenge with one quick cut?”

“Exactly so,” Cecil says. “However, Dee has vouched quite loudly and long for his associates. Since the Queen is presently transported with the idea of Dee's ‘wonder,' she is inclined to trust him. And, of course,
we
trust him.”

Beatrice speaks now, her words wry. “But we don't trust whatever he drags in with him.”

“We do not.” Cecil stands. “Sophia? Please attend me. The rest of you, please return to your studies. Tonight, dress for a formal dance. It would not do for Dee's cohort to suspect you have any interest in them, save to be entertained. And, Meg.” Cecil levies a glance to my right. “Stay near Dee
himself, and follow any conversations he may have. We will want a full account.”

“Of course, Sir William,” Meg says, sinking into a quick curtsy. She does that, quite often without provocation.

My four colleagues file out of Cecil's office as he rounds his desk, his long face going even longer as he studies me. “You have had no conversation with your uncle, you say?”

“None whatever,” I reply. “I have not spoken to him since dispatching him a letter last spring regarding my betrothal to Lord Brighton.” I shrug. “He was already on the Continent and sent his blessings, nothing more.”

“Hmm.” He gestures for me to precede him to the doorway, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “And yet he insists that he has knowledge of your developing abilities. How can this be?”

I stiffen in surprise. “I do not know, my lord,” I say. “I have had neither reason nor occasion to share any developments of that nature with Dee or anyone else. There is nothing new to report on that topic.”

Once again, I must tread carefully. Cecil and Walsingham know I have gained some measure of the Sight. But they believe, as I want them to, that I still have no control over what I see.

They do not know I have begun using an obsidian scrying stone to focus and hone my visions. They do not know I have begun to speak with the angels more regularly. And they certainly do not know that I, too, have been told that death shall come to Windsor.

Speaking of that . . . “Sir William,” I say as we enter the
corridor, “can you recall any current monarchs who are on their deathbeds? Young men, perhaps younger than thirty, but frail and apparently sickly?”

He frowns at me. “No. The lot of them are depressingly hale and hearty at the moment. And most of them quite a bit older than thirty years.” He hesitates. “Why?”

“And none of them are here, now, correct? Visiting the Queen?”

“Sophia, what is it?” Cecil's words are sharp. “What have you seen?”

Dread pools in my stomach. If there are no monarchs at Windsor other than the Queen, then my vision makes no sense. The scepter and purple sash were clear indications of royalty. I am not mistaken there. Which means I am once again seeing a future that will never be.

“I've seen nothing,” I say, and even to my ears it is not enough. “Yet. Nothing certain, anyway.”

I feel Cecil's cold glance, his disappointment evident. Along with Walsingham, he has spent the better part of a year training me to be a spy, after all. Is it any wonder that he's also eager to see some benefit to all his work? “Tell me immediately, the moment you do see something.”

“Yes, Sir William,” I say, not needing to feign the meekness in my tone. I clench my hands into fists as we continue to walk in silence.
Why can't the angels show me anything of use!
And how is it Dee can claim to know anything about my abilities? In the decade and more I lived with him, he never gave any indication that he knew I had the Sight; and in truth he presented me to the Queen a year ago as someone
who only “might” one day develop such a gift. So how has he learned about me now?

Cecil abruptly stops as we reach the Queen's Privy Chamber, gesturing for me to precede him into the small, private space. I am unsurprised to see Walsingham standing at his ease near the door, while John Dee and the Queen sit in cushioned chairs at the base of the stairs leading up to Elizabeth's throne. I've seen this air of comfort before, between the Queen and Dee; unlike her manner with nearly everyone else in the court, she does not put on airs when it comes to her former tutor. She appreciates his mind and his insights. Upon being told she was to be the new Queen, she even summoned Dee to provide her with an astrological reading to set the date for her coronation, to ensure the stars would bless her new reign. Being highly educated herself, Elizabeth also adores Dee's tales of travels and books. And, perhaps most important, she is quite certain of his loyalty to her.

Which makes Dee's suggestion that he has evidence of my skills all the more dangerous.

As we approach, Dee stands and bows gallantly to me, allowing me to pause and sink into a curtsy. He looks like he ever does. Now in his early thirties, he is, I suppose, an attractive man. Slender of build, his short brown hair and beard are both trimmed to accent a long, intelligent face. He dresses as a scholar, his cloak thrown back to reveal a modestly cut doublet and trunk hose, his skin pale against the white refinement of his neck ruff and his ever-present dark cap. Dee's dark, searching eyes are his best feature, and they
rest upon me, alight with interest. “You look well, my niece.”

“I am well, my lord, thank you,” I murmur. I am no more his niece than he is the Queen of England, but he apparently does not suspect that I have learned of his villainy. Instead, I must merely content myself with staring at him, as if I could pierce him with silent daggers.

“Sophia, pray, join us.” The Queen speaks into our awkward silence with something approaching relish in her tone. I arrange myself and my wide skirts upon the bench to the Queen's right. Cecil himself remains standing, slightly behind me, watching Dee. Clearly he cares more about Dee's reactions to our coming conversation than my own. “Your uncle here believes you might have some news for our ears alone.”

“I cannot imagine what that would be.” I furrow my brow. “Other than my broken betrothal, but surely that is not news?”

“Not that, child, no,” Dee says, his manner suddenly ill at ease, almost as if I have embarrassed him. “I have reason to understand that you might be having, ah, disturbed dreams of late,” he says. “Would you share those experiences with us?”

“Disturbed dreams?” I shake my head. “My lord, I am blessed with gentle sleep as—” I stop short of saying “as ever,” for that would be a patent lie. He was there for all those childhood nightmares, after all. “As any would be, in the care of the Queen.”

“But others have seen you, on the plane of shadows,” he says abruptly, leaning forward. “Have seen you and told me the tale of your distress.”

I draw back, and even the Queen shows alarm. “My lord?” I ask.

Dee's words are as sharp as a slap. “What do the angels say to you, Sophia? What secrets have they shared?”

“You are mistaken.” I clasp my hands together, fully unnerved.
How can he know all of this?
“I have never been to this ‘plane of shadows' or seen these angels. I do not speak to them.”

“She would have told me if she had,” the Queen observes. Her gaze narrows upon me, as if she, too, is assessing my ability to lie in the face of Dee's questions. “She is a Maid of Honor.”

“A what?” Dee sits up straight, his head turning to the Queen as if he's only just realized that she shares space with him. His eyes are clear once more, but in that clarity there is a craftiness that wasn't there before. “Of course, Your Grace. I did not mean to imply otherwise. Sophia is blessed to have your patronage, as am I.” Even as he speaks the words, I feel the malevolence simmering beneath them. “It is just disappointing. I believed she would soon come into her gifts, else I would never have agreed to your kind offer for her to reside in your household, eating your food and enjoying your goodwill. Certainly by this late date, her skills should have manifested. Indeed, the angels have advised that it is so. But it appears I am mistaken.” He shrugs. “It appears we must still . . . wait.”