Maid of Wonder (6 page)

A chill slides through me. Dee damns me with his words, as he is well aware. The Queen is not known for her patience, and she
has
been sheltering me for nearly a year, without
results. Dee has now reminded her of that, and I sense Elizabeth's dark eyes on me as she allows his words to settle around us.

“The wait will not be for long, in any event,” she says after a long moment. “The test is at hand. There is no better time for Sophia to come into her own than at this present hour, when our need is great.”

Is her voice harder now, or is it my imagination?

The Queen continues with a considering lilt to her tone. “And if she does
not
come into her own, then we will simply find some other way for her to serve the Crown.”

It is not my imagination.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The day is waning as we process into the Presence Chamber for the evening feast, Dee on the Queen's arm. Walsingham and Cecil follow behind them, and I find myself alone, walking in their wake. Fury still knots my stomach, though hours have passed since my audience with the Queen and my “uncle.”

How dare John Dee turn Elizabeth against me so quickly and so well! And how dare
she
take his side! He has not been at her beck and call for the past year, jumping at her every command. He has been traveling on the Continent, learning all that he might learn. He has been writing and studying and sharing his work with like minds. He has been
free
. And now he has returned and seeks to destroy my life, without so much as a thought.

He stole me away from my parents when I was only three years old. Apparently, he seeks to steal me away from Queen Elizabeth too.

A dark emotion stirs within me as I think of everything I have suffered at this man's hands. A wild, almost violent urgency fills me up and seems to pulse in my very veins. It
lurks beneath the surface of my skin, eager to be set free.

I will show them all.

I sense a courtier move up beside me, taking my arm in his. Some nobleman taking pity on me, perhaps, or a lesser lord sent to make the numbers even. It does not matter; it cannot matter. I have larger concerns.

“You should not be so distressed, my lady.” The voice floats over me like velvet, rich and soft.

I turn to face the young man, schooling my expression into guileless confusion. “'Tis just Sophia,” I say, and then I stop. In truth, I would fall down, were the courtier's hold on me not so strong. Looking into his eyes is like gazing into the endless and open sea, its waters glittering as if lit by an unseen sun.

“Do I know you?” I ask baldly, and something has gone quite wrong with my voice, as if I've used up all my allotment of air for the day. But really, I can be forgiven. This young man is like nobody else I've seen, and yet he is so distressingly
familiar
, I feel I must have met him before. He is tall, with a slender, aristocratic build. He is richly dressed, from his expensive doublet and trunk hose to his luxurious midnight-blue cape. But it is the young man's face that stops me short—fair and sculpted, as if it were carved out of palest marble, with a full, smiling mouth, sharply edged cheekbones, raven-black brows, and those eerie light eyes. Surely I have seen this face before!

Suddenly I realize the young courtier hasn't responded to my sharp question, and I feel the blush crawl up my neck. “F-forgive me,” I stammer. “That was terribly rude. Allow me to introduce myself, good sir. My name is—”

“Sophia Manchester, yes. It is my absolute pleasure to meet you at last.”

I cannot help but recoil at his use of my true birth name, which even
I
didn't know until a few months ago. “Nay, you are mistaken!” I say, shaking my head. “My name is Sophia
Dee
. Plain, simple Sophia Dee.”

“Of course.” He offers me an inscrutable smile, and I find myself torn in two with a soul-deep recognition of this young man. “My mistake,” he continues. “So, then, what brings you to Windsor Castle, plain, simple Sophia Dee?” His smile broadens. “Besides your uncle, that is. Such a good man, to look after you when there was no one else to take you in. And such a terrible tragedy you endured when you were, what? But three years old?”

I stiffen, all pretense of politeness gone. “Indeed, sir.” I stand back from him, pleased to hear the steel in my voice. “And who are you, that you know so much about me, when I have not even your name to rely upon?”

“Marcus Quinn, at your service.” He sketches me a short bow, and his face catches the light. He is younger than I realized, perhaps only seventeen, for all his confident manner. “And forgive my boldness. It has just been so long that I have wished to meet you in person. So very long, it seems.”

He takes my arm once more, and we continue walking even as I frown. “So we do not know each other?”

“You believe we've met?”

“No! No, I would have remembered,” I say. Some fey spirit spills new words from my tongue. “And yet—”

“And yet,” Quinn murmurs, his voice like warm honey. “Perhaps you do remember something.”

His words are soft, but he gives me no more time to think, stopping abruptly. “Ah!” he says, as I blink up at him, confused. “It seems we have arrived.”

We stand at a secondary table in the long rows of diners gathered for the banquet. He eases me onto my bench with an elegant hand, and as he does so, I feel something brush against my palm. I draw my hand back, startled, and realize I am clutching a soft-petaled autumn rose.

I hold it up, vaguely aware I should draw out this “Marcus Quinn” with Beatrice's sly skill, but my mind is still staggering around like a drunken farmer, and my words are more challenging than coy. “You are a magician, then?” I ask.

“Only for you, Lady Sophia,” Marcus Quinn says quietly, his eyes locking with mine. Then he steps away, but I swear he keeps speaking, his words floating back to me over the clash of knives, cups, and trenchers. “Only for you.”

I turn round to my fellow diners, lifting the flower to catch its scent.
Marcus Quinn.
The name is not at all familiar to me. He was not on any of the lists Cecil and Walsingham gave us to memorize. Who
is
this young man?

And how in God's name does he know so much about me?

Unfortunately, Quinn is seated several tables away from me, so I cannot pursue these questions, though I am desperate to do so. Dinner passes without fanfare. Then the Queen orders the tables pulled back, and the servants scramble to rid the surfaces of food while leaving the cups and tankards standing within easy reach of the courtiers. By common
accord the feasters have all stood, gathering in a loose circle around the Queen, her advisors, and Dee. Now the room is full dark, save for the candles burning on the tables.

Jane moves into position at my side. “What would the court do, were we not so ‘entertained' on a nightly basis?” she asks.

I smile. “Expire from boredom?”

“At least that would be something different.”

At a sign from one of Dee's men, the candles on the tables are extinguished. I feel Jane stiffen beside me. We have guards by every table, but even they cannot see in the dark.

Dee's men apparently have no such issues. At the first rustle of their feet, we crane our necks toward the entrance of the Presence Chamber. Jane slips away from my side. Gradually I sense more than see four heavy-shouldered men move into the center of the room.

Dee's voice suddenly rings out over the assembly. “Except those in service to the Queen, I beg of you, for full effect, to shield your eyes a moment, until you see the heavens presented to you in full glory!”

By my rough estimation, as the first candle in the center of the room flares to life, about half the throng does as Dee asks. The rest of us strain to see more as he lights fully twenty candles in the center of what looks to be a large spherical cage, with a long slender rod bisecting it at an angle. The cage is set upon a pedestal, and when the lights are all set, it looks almost like a chandelier that has been brought down to the rush-strewn floor for cleaning. Only this chandelier is not intended to ever be raised. Instead, four more of Dee's men step forward
with what look like a pair of enormous earthen bowls, each four feet across, the thin basins pricked full of holes. As we watch, his men fit the two sides of these bowls together over the cage of flame—

And the walls and ceiling of the Presence Hall suddenly become painted with all the stars in the night's sky.

“Oh!” It is the Queen, purely delighted. “What manner of presentation is this?”

“I cannot give you the sun and the moon,” Dee proclaims triumphantly. “But I would give you the stars!” He adjusts the sphere and lays a piece of curved glass over one of the many holes. Instantly, one of the stars glows bright blue against the ceiling of the Presence Chamber. “This is the North Star, my Queen, and this pattern of stars is what we observed on that most illustrious of days, your coronation. The very firmament of the heavens showered its blessings upon you, for long life, safety, and endless abundance.”

There is a rustle of skirts beside me, then Beatrice speaks as the courtiers break out in applause. “I should say our presence here is no longer needed,” she says waspishly. “If Her Royal Magnificence is so protected by the stars as that.”

Still, Beatrice stays beside me as courtiers and ladies jostle and stare at Dee's wonder. He whisks away the glass and rotates the cage a quarter turn. It appears to rest upon the spindle in such a way that as soon as one series of stars slides out of view, another series slides into position. “And this,” he announces, “is the placement of the stars on Your Grace's first birthday celebration as Queen. The stars quite wisely aligned to give you great joy and success the whole year long.”

A cheer sounds loudly, giving me an opportunity to step up onto my toes to reach Beatrice's ears alone.

“Beatrice,” I say, my voice low, “shouldn't you be at the Queen's side?”

“You would think,” Beatrice whispers back, her derision plain. “However, she all but pushed me to the floor in her haste to see more clearly. I won't be missed. But you . . .” She eyes me strangely in the half gloom. “Are you well? You looked positively stricken through most of dinner. You must guard your appearance more carefully than that, Sophia. What distracted you so?”

“And then!” Dee proclaims, recalling our attention. “I ranged forth to find the most glorious years in the future for our Queen, to delight your eyes and warm your spirits.” He spins the ball, and the pricked-out holes catch the light as they shoot past, swirling with dizzying speed. I close my eyes against the odd sensation that sweeps over me, and Beatrice shakes my shoulder.

“Look sharp, Sophia!” she says. I struggle to focus on her. She has been given strict instruction from the Queen to help me appear as normal as possible to the court, and it is a doomed attempt at the best of times. But at this moment she has no hope of keeping me grounded to this plane. I am dropping, dropping . . .

Beatrice speaks firmly over Dee's excited babble about the Queen's success decades in the future. Her words catch at my thoughts like rocks jutting out into a waterfall. “Sophia, tell me! What on earth is wrong with you?”

What on earth
. I remember saying those words, or some
thing like them. I remember thinking them but a short while ago, in fact—seconds, really—
What on earth! What on earth!

“Marcus Quinn,” I murmur dreamily, the words pulled from me.

“What? Who?”

Dee sets the globe in motion again, the whirl of stars compelling my gaze. “But the stars speak not
only
of far-off futures,” he insists, his voice booming at the center of the room. “But of a very curious pattern that is coming together even now.”

I suddenly feel that I am on the precipice of the angelic realm, rushing into shadow, into the world beyond as the trance threatens to engulf me like a crashing tide. Before these past few months, the mere idea of dropping into the spirit world in the center of a crowd would have driven me into a panic. And still I tense, blinking rapidly, trying to re-center myself, trying to—

“Sophia?” Beatrice's tone is stern. “Are you well?” She reaches out and grasps my wrist, her tight grip grounding me. “Who is this Marcus Quinn?”

But the manufactured stars across the ceiling of the Presence Chamber choose that moment to shift and shudder, and I shake my head, trying to focus. “Marcus . . . ,” I whisper. I
did
see him, once. In my mind's eye, slipping through the shadows, staring through the gloom.

Dee whirls the ball round and round, and I sense myself coming unmoored. “And here we are at last!” he cries. “Here, for one and all. A puzzle and a possibility for you!”

“What is this you say?” It is the Queen who speaks, her
voice as excited as a young girl's. “What night sky do you paint for us, Master Dee?”

“One but a few short days hence,” Dee responds gleefully. “At the festival of Samhain. See what the stars suggest!”

I stare as Dee drops scraps of cloth over various pinpricks of light—a blue, a red, a shadowy grey. The colors spill and tumble over me, and my eyelids grow heavy, the trance sucking me into its endless sea. I hear the whispers of angels, their urgent cries, their hissing portents, clawing-catching-grabbing at me, that I may hear! That I may know!

“Sophia!” Beatrice reaches for me, but I pat her hand as if she were a child. Distracted, I mumble the first words that come into my mind, seeing them form and slip away from me into the whirl of colors with which Dee is decorating the artificial sky.