“I told you,” he continued, “that we’re going to the palace. We’re taking Grass Street south to the River Thames, by the London Bridge. From there we’ll hire a boat.”

Petra turned back to the window, though it had misted over again. She had looked away to hide her surprise from Dee—surprise that he was taking her on a trip to see a dead man and supplying information about London along the way, as if the idea that she might be asking questions to prepare for an escape had never entered his head. But he must have thought of that. He wasn’t stupid. She wished she had been able to take Astrophil with her. He would have known what to make of this.

Petra considered telling Walsingham that she was being held captive in Dee’s house. But Kit’s former master seemed just as bad as Dee, as far as Petra could tell, and she doubted he would believe her. It was better to stay quiet. If she didn’t say anything, then maybe Dee wouldn’t suspect—

The carriage halted, and Walsingham flung open the door. As he strode toward the river bank he called, “You there, oarsman!”

Dee didn’t move from his seat, so Petra didn’t either. “Why did you tell him my name? You said to keep it secret.”

Dee gave a slight shrug. “You told Christopher. You might as well have told the entire town.” Dee paused, and said, “I see you’ve unlocked your door.”

“What?” Petra was confused. Then she realized he was referring to his note. “No, I didn’t.”

“I disagree. I have spoken with my wife. You will be given the same freedom as our daughters. You will dine with them. You may go for walks with them, and attend functions or visit places that I would deem suitable for Madinia and Margaret. You will be given the same weekly allowance they receive, which you may spend as you see fit. Do you know why I have agreed to this?”

Petra was stunned. “I have no idea.”

“None? Why, the answer is simple, my dear: if you were to get lost, which is easy to do in a new city—”

“I never get lost.”

“If you were to go missing, then you needn’t worry. As long as the link between our minds exists, I can find you and bring you back to my manor. You might, however, find my methods to be unpleasant.”

Petra followed Dee to the wharf, because it was clear that she had no other option. When she stepped into the boat, she came to a conclusion:

It would be a fine thing to outwit John Dee.

THE BOAT SLIPPED through the fog and Petra watched swans glide past in the blackish water of the Thames.

The oarsman noticed. “You’re thinking that them birds would make a tasty meal, aren’t you, lass? You oughtn’t. They belong to the queen.”

“I was thinking that they’re pretty.”

He shuddered. “Mean creatures, and strong. They’d break your arm if you let ’em.”

“I paid you to row, not talk,” ordered Walsingham. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

“I doubt the West will be any deader when we arrive,” said Dee.

“Oh, the West this and the West that,” Petra said impatiently. “Isn’t his name Gabriel Thorn? Is the West some sort of nickname?”

“No.” Walsingham was offended, though Petra didn’t see why. “It’s more of a title. A way that the queen’s council shows respect for its most important members. It’s—”

“A nickname,” said Dee.

“There are thirteen members of the council.” Walsingham turned to Petra. “I am one of them. Dee is another. But throughout Queen Elizabeth’s reign, there have always been four members whose voices have more weight. They are her North, South, East, and West. Robert Cecil became the North when his father, who used to hold that position, died. Francis Drake recently became the East. He’s a great favorite with the queen.”

“Who’s the South?” Petra asked.

“He is.” Dee nodded at Walsingham.

Petra looked at Dee, wondering why he wasn’t one of the queen’s favorites, and how he felt about it.

“So the West is dead,” she said. “Big deal. Why are we rowing through the freezing fog?”

“Well, I don’t know why you are,” Walsingham told her. “But we are going to Whitehall because the queen requested our presence.”

“I gather, then, that Gabriel didn’t die in his sleep,” said Dee.

“You’re taking the news rather coolly,” said Walsingham.

“And how should I take it?”

“I just thought you’d care, one way or another.”

Petra snorted. “He doesn’t care about anything but himself.”

Walsingham was shocked. The oarsman suppressed a smile. Dee’s expression didn’t change. For a moment there was no sound but the dipping of oars in the water.

Walsingham cleared his throat. Ignoring Petra, he said to Dee, “A servant found the body in the palace library. The corpse was a little stiff, but not totally rigid. The West can’t have been dead for more than a few hours. I’ve already inspected the body, and there are no signs of any struggle. He has no bruises on him.” Walsingham shrugged. “Gabriel Thorn was too great a lover of wine. I’d say the old man’s heart just gave out.”

“Yet the queen ordered you to send for me,” said Dee. “And you were anxious that I come.”

“The queen says jump, I jump. So do you. The death seems natural, to be sure, but you’re supposed to confirm it.”

“Here we are,” said the oarsman. Behind him, a covered dock appeared out of the mist. It looked like a little wooden house jutting over the water. The oarsman rowed the boat to a set of stairs leading out of the house and down to the river.

A servant skipped down the steps to offer his hand. The two men got out of the boat, and began walking up the stairs when the servant reached to take Petra’s elbow. She jerked away. “I don’t need help.” But the river looked dark and cold. She hoped she wouldn’t slip. She stood up.

“Stay a moment, my lovely lass,” the oarsman said.

Petra turned to look at him.

“You’re a bold one, I can tell. And them silver eyes of yours seem awful deep. Mine’ve seen a lot, too, rowing from one bank to the other. Take my word: don’t go poking around politics, especially when there’s already one dead body. Men like that”—he jerked a thumb at the cloaked backs of Dee and Walsingham, retreating into the dockhouse—“they’re swans. They seem grand. Give ’em cause, though, and they’ll fly at you. They’ll break you.”

“I know,” said Petra. She planted her foot firmly on the stairs and stepped out of the boat. “But thanks for the warning.”

PETRA FOLLOWED DEE and Walsingham down a long hall crowded on either side with small, decorative shields. She leaned forward and rapped a knuckle against one.

“That’s not a toy.” Walsingham knocked away her hand.

“It’s made of pasteboard! I didn’t break it, and wouldn’t mind if I did!” Petra was tired of being bullied, and was just about to say so when Walsingham spoke again:

“She’s a little savage, John. She has no manners—or, if she does, they’re bad.”

“She’s curious,” Dee said. “It’s part of her charm.”

“Francis,” called a hunched man waiting at the end of the hallway. “A word, please.”

As Walsingham walked away, Dee explained the meaning of the colorful shields. “They’re gifts to the queen from her knights. Notice the various animals and trees. They are symbols that refer to a knight’s family. As you see, each shield bears a short poem that either brags about the knight’s status, praises the queen, or does both. Walsingham’s shield is somewhere on this wall.” He waved a hand.

“Where’s yours?”

“Nowhere. I am not a knight, nor will I ever be.”

Petra examined him. He didn’t seem to mind being passed over by his queen. She looked at the shields—they were bright, flashy. They called attention to themselves. Dee didn’t. But Petra thought Dee was probably more powerful than a dozen knights with silly pasteboard shields.

He stood patiently.

Petra ignored him, walking down the hall, studying the shields. One of them caught her eye. The shield showed a tree, and dangling from its branches were socks, scarves, hats, coats, trousers, and dresses. Beneath it were these lines:

To My Queen

My finest cloth shall dress your land

And warm it ever at your command.

Dee looked over Petra’s shoulder. “A wretched poem, though there are worse.”

“Whose is it?”

“It belongs to Sir Robert Cotton. The entire shield plays on his last name. Cotton, cloth, clothes—”

“I get it,” Petra interrupted. Then a thought struck her. “Ariel. She talked about a tree dressed in robes, just like the picture on the shield.”

Dee glanced at Petra, and his face held a new expression. It almost looked like respect. “Yes.”

“But what does that have to do with me?”

“I don’t know,” Dee said abruptly. “Ariel mentioned a great deal of things, including the possibility of murder. And here we stand, ready to view Gabriel Thorn’s body. We—you, especially—would do well to consider Ariel’s words.”

What else had she said? Petra remembered the spirit’s warning to Astrophil: Never trust a poet. Petra’s gaze swept down the corridor, over the two-line scraps of verse on each shield. There were hundreds of poets here.

Dee asked, “Would you like to find out why I brought you to Whitehall Palace?”

She did. She couldn’t help it. But she lied. “No.”

“That was a rhetorical question,” said Dee. “Follow me.”

WHITEHALL PALACE SPRAWLED. Petra was used to the splendid but simple form of Salamander Castle, with its square-shaped rooms and orderly hallways. Whitehall felt alive, as if every night, while its occupants were sleeping, it sprouted another room that grew at an impossible angle.

Petra followed Dee into a chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling. She felt swallowed up by the space. “What is this place?” she asked, and her words echoed.

“The Watching Chamber,” Dee replied. “Balls are held here.”

“So it’s for dancing, not watching.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “There is always someone watching.”

Dee led her down a corridor. At the end was a closed door, in front of which stood Walsingham and the man with the hunched back, who gave Petra a keen but not unkind look. “Who is this?”

“My ward,” Dee replied.

“I’m Robert Cecil.” The man took Petra’s hand and gently patted it. “I think you should wait here. A dead body is not a proper sight for a young lady.”

“I agree,” said Walsingham.

“I don’t,” said Dee. “Petra is here to assist me.”

“I am?” Petra asked.

“I’ve had enough of your eccentricities, John,” Walsingham said. “I’m off to the kitchen to question the servants. I doubt that you and your little assistant will discover anything new about the body. But try, by all means.”

He walked away, his shoes clapping against the stone floor.

“He’s a competent man,” Robert Cecil said, watching Walsingham go. “But the queen requires your opinion on the death of the West, John.”

The three of them stepped into a library. Leather bindings, mostly in red and green, gleamed on the shelves. Astrophil would have been awestruck, but Petra felt disappointed. She was wondering why, when she realized that there was nothing remotely magical about Whitehall Palace—not like Prague’s castle, which overflowed with glorious objects and enchanted rooms. This palace made Petra wonder what it was hiding.

Then she saw Gabriel Thorn’s body slumped in a chair.

“He was here from ten o’clock until about eleven o’clock in the morning,” said Cecil. “He had reserved the library for his private study. No one came in, as far as we know.”

Dee studied the body, looking carefully at the face and mouth. “Petra.”

She stayed by Robert Cecil’s side. The body’s skin was already gray, and it seemed to Petra that her scars burned.

“There’s nothing to fear from a dead man,” Cecil said gently.

“That is not always true,” said Dee. After this discomforting statement, which did little to make her forget about the Gray Men, Dee ordered, “Petra, come here.”

Not wanting him to think she was nervous, she did.

“Many poisons are metallic,” Dee began.

“I know that,” Petra snapped. “Do you think my father wouldn’t have warned me about the dangers of metal?”

“Then put that knowledge to good use and tell me if anything about Gabriel Thorn looks unusual.”

“He looks dead.”

“Very insightful, my dear. If your eyes have learned so much, imagine what your touch could do.”

Petra recoiled. She understood what Dee was suggesting. She remembered Tomik asking her to hold the Glowstone and guess what kind of metal it contained. She slipped her hand inside her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the only thing, besides Astrophil and her father’s sword, that she had left of her home. She didn’t squeeze Tomik’s Glowstone, just felt its smooth shape. She often clung to it when she was lonely.

Or afraid.

“I’m not touching a dead body,” she stated.