It was a long walk from his suite to the Thinkers’ Wing, but the prince prided himself on facing people whose lives he was about to change. There was honor in that.

Because the prince was fairly crackling with energy, he couldn’t help looking at Mikal Kronos with disgust. The frail clockmaker shuffled when the prince entered the room, and a scrap of metal floating in the air abruptly crashed to the man’s feet. Mikal Kronos bowed, but the prince knew it was not out of respect. There was anger in the clockmaker’s stooped shoulders, and grief, and worry.

“Your Highness,” the clockmaker began, “I am making some progress.”

“Do you know what my favorite fairy tale was as a child?”

Master Kronos opened his mouth, then closed it, no doubt afraid the question was a trap.

“I had none,” the prince continued, “for I never enjoy hearing the same story told twice.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t know what you mean.”

“I shall explain. I do not care about your clock. I do not care about you. I do not need you.” Suddenly furious with himself, the prince corrected his words. “I have never needed you, or your invention.”

As soon as the words were uttered, a peace settled over the prince. He imagined the Mercator Globes. He caressed them with his mind.

“Your Highness, if you no longer want me to rebuild the clock’s heart, then . . .” The question on Mikal Kronos’s face was plain: Then what will become of me?

“I have other plans for you.”

WEEKS DRAGGED BY. Rodolfo thought of the now-empty laboratory in the Thinkers’ Wing, and the date on Novak’s letter, and wondered if he had not made a terrible mistake. When the prince looked in the mirror, he saw the bluish shadows of sleepless nights—there, right under his eyes. He touched the delicate skin and thought of storms, sea battles, and sunken ships.

Had something gone wrong? Why had he received no news? Where was Novak? Most important, where was the Terrestrial Globe?

The prince smoothed pale powder over his cheekbones, hiding the shadows. He must remain calm.

But that afternoon, at a luncheon twittering with lords and ladies, someone dropped a fork. The metallic sound of it hitting the floor rang through the prince’s head like an evil bell. He thought of the clockmaker and his annoying daughter, who was somehow still missing. She was just as absent as the Terrestrial Globe.

Rodolfo stood up from the table and left the room.

He stalked to his suite, and ordered everyone to leave him alone. He stood before the enchanted window in his chambers. The lilacs were in bloom. It was far too early in the year for this, and snow still blanketed the ground, but much can be accomplished with magic. The sight of the flowers should have put him in a fine mood. Their purple softness had never failed to soothe him with their beauty.

Instead he made a fist, but he did not punch the window. Even in his frustration, he was aware that punching was something dirty men did in tavern brawls. His fingers curled, he backhanded the windowpane. It did not shatter, for the window was enspelled rock. The prince knew this—and his bloodied knuckles knew it, too.

Why did the thought of the clockmaker’s daughter disturb him so?

He remembered when he had interviewed her—here, in this very room. She had been bold for a servant. Her voice had a country twang that set his teeth on edge. But there had been something mysterious about her . . . Rodolfo cursed himself. He should have listened to his instincts. The girl had reminded him of something. He knew now that her face resembled her father’s. But it was more than that. He was certain that he had seen her face—her face, not just her father’s—before.

Suddenly, he understood. Petra Kronos looked like the statue of Life on the clocktower her father had designed. The prince recalled how, a year ago, he had told Master Kronos that he thought the designs for that statue were too plain. But the clockmaker had stood firm, so the prince had allowed it.

He strode across the room and down the hallway, wrenched open the double doors, and called for his carriage.

It was not long before he stood before the Staro Clock in the center of his city. His people stared at the unexpected sight of their prince, but he ignored them. He watched the silver minute hand sweep over the clock’s face to join the golden hour hand. When they met, the clock began to toll. The blue doors opened and statues began to file out, but the prince had eyes for only one. There she was: Petra Kronos, the statue of Life.

This was love. Even Rodolfo recognized this, though he knew very little about the subject. Mikal Kronos loved his daughter. The prince could see it in every carved line of the statue’s face.

His own father was an obstacle. Someone who simply would not die. His mother was an idiot. Rodolfo suffered during every dinner of every night of every visit to the Austrian court. There, he could not escape his parents’ presence, and the empress was fond of trying to be witty. She never seemed to realize she was telling only one joke, and it was about herself.

The blue doors shut.

The prince closed his eyes. He was doing something that was rare for him: reevaluating his position. When he had learned that a gawky girl had breached every measure of his castle’s security to steal from him, he had wanted nothing more than to tear her to pieces. He was enraged not merely by the fact that she had taken precious objects and destroyed others. She had also made him look weak. He was nineteen, the youngest of Emperor Karl’s three sons, and he could not afford to be seen as a ruler whose castle had become a playground for a girl and a Gypsy. So Petra Kronos would have to die—publicly, unpleasantly.

But . . .

The prince pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes still shut. The features of the statue were not beautiful, but they haunted him, and that fact alone made him realize that Petra Kronos had to be special. Indeed, she must be, if she had been able to deceive him and destroy the most important piece of her father’s clock. And she had escaped the Gristleki—how had this been possible? His scouts had hauled back the four blood-soaked bodies. Had she killed the Gristleki? All four? And where was she?

The prince was forced to conclude that the girl had hidden talents, and he wanted to know what they were. She would be more interesting to him alive than dead. She could be useful.

Prince Rodolfo opened his eyes, and they blazed with something that those who had watched him build his collection in the Cabinet of Wonders knew well.

It was possession.

He would have the globes. He would. And he would have Petra Kronos, too.

17

The Only One Left

HAVE YOU taken leave of your senses? Astrophil asked. Do you realize that you have just purchased Orlando Furioso, an epic poem in Italian?

Did I? Petra replied. I thought it was a recipe book.

Petra walked away from the stall. Astrophil risked poking his head out of her hair for a better look at the book she held against her chest.

But you loathe cooking. And Dee’s servants prepare all the food. And you—you—he spluttered—you did not think it was such a book. You cannot fool me. Even you are not so oblivious as to think that a recipe book could be so finely bound. Why, look at that Moroccan leather. The letters are tooled with gold, and—

Astrophil, are you drooling?

There was a pause. No.

Petra touched her neck and examined her fingers. Yes, you are.

Late February is a grim time in London. The sky was as gray as slate, and almost as heavy. But life went on, and Petra had a secret that made her smile and hum.

You are quite cheerful for someone who has just wasted money on a book she will never read, Astrophil said crankily.

Oh, I wouldn’t say I wasted money. I’m sure I can find a use for Orlando Furioso. I do need something for target practice, after all. How deep do you think my dagger will go into the book?

Her earlobe vibrated with a metallic spasm.

Astrophil, don’t have a seizure! I’m joking! This book is not for me. It’s a gift.

Really?

Yes, for Madinia and Margaret.

Oh.

Astrophil was silent the entire way back to the house on Throgmorton Street. Petra could feel him drooping on her ear like a wilted flower. He seemed so depressed that once Petra had locked her bedroom door behind her, she couldn’t help telling him the truth. She set the book on the desk. “Astrophil, I have a confession to make.”

“I am not interested.” He lowered himself to the floor and began to creep away.

“Oh, Astro.” She scooped him up. “The book is a gift, but not for Madinia and Margaret. It’s for you, for your birthday.” She set the spider down on top of the red book. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but I can never hide anything from you.”

“It is for me?” The spider gazed with awe at the golden title. “For my birthday?” He turned to look at Petra. “You remembered!”

“Have I ever forgotten? Seven years ago, Father”—Petra’s smile slipped—“Father gave you to me. I was so happy.”

“You screamed,” Astrophil corrected. “And at a very high pitch, I might add. I thought you would break the windows.”

“I was scared of spiders. That’s why Father made you for me—so I would learn not to be afraid.”

Astrophil tiptoed across the leather cover and leaned over the edge to peer at the spine. Then he began to jump up and down. “I knew it! I knew it was for me!” He rubbed his forelegs together like a fly. “Open it, Petra! The cover is too heavy for me to lift.”

As the spider raced through the pages, Petra was surprised and guilty to find that, for the first time since she had been snatched out of Bohemia, her heart felt light.

The past several weeks had been hard. She had become stronger, healthier. But she’d also grown more desperate. The only thing that kept her from smashing anything valuable in the house and running as far as her legs could take her was the knowledge that Dee would just yank her back like a puppet on strings.

There were two things that gave Petra hope. One of them was her goal: Outwit Dee. Go home. Find Father. Margaret had taught her how to play chess, and Petra quickly learned that she could lose almost any piece and still win. So if Petra had to sit through lessons with Dee, she did it. If she was encouraged to take every meal with Madinia and Margaret, she dined in their rooms. And every moment she looked for a way to end this terrible game in which she had been trapped.

The second thing that Petra clung to was Astrophil.

She sat on the window seat’s velvet cushions, hugging her knees to her chest and watching the spider read. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Something impressively foolish, I imagine,” the spider said dryly. But then he glanced up at Petra. He saw that her pleasure in giving him the book had been momentary, and that it was already gone. He climbed off the book and lowered himself to the ground, then picked his way across the carpet, crawled up her leg, and came to rest on the plateau of her bended knee.

“I also miss our home,” he said. “I miss Master Kronos. I worry about him, too.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Why would that surprise you?”

“You’re always so much more . . . normal than I am. You seem the same. I don’t feel the same. Sometimes it’s as if nothing bothers you.”

“I am often bothered,” said Astrophil. “It is hard to know, however, what to do with such feelings. I study books partly because I need to know how to hold myself in times like these. Through my reading, I have learned that people can choose to remain silent out of love for others. But there are also moments when a person might share his troubles for precisely the same reason.”

Petra held out her forefinger, and the spider wrapped his legs around it.

“Thank you, Astrophil.”

SINCE THE DAY Petra and Dee reached an agreement in the shallow boat on the Thames, she had tried to find out information about Gabriel Thorn. The problem was that there was a limited number of people she could ask. Dee, she knew, would smirk. She could imagine his response. “What, conceding already, Petra?” he would say. “You do understand that we are competitors, and that if you ask for my help, it can only mean you are admitting defeat.”

So Petra tried talking to Sarah.

“Gabriel Thorn?” The servant gnawed her lip. “Never heard of him. Wait—he’s one of the queen’s men, isn’t he? I think he’s visited our house before. Talk to the porter, Jack. He’d’ve seen Thorn come and go. Now stand up straight, dear heart, and let me measure you for a new set of those unspeakable trousers. Ah! You’ve put on weight. There’s a good girl.”

The porter refused to speak to Petra. Jack heard her questions, gave her one disapproving look, and then ignored her.

But Petra was able to glean a little more information from Madinia and Margaret. She saw them several times a day, for the sisters never took meals with their parents (“They have so little time alone,” Margaret explained). The twins sought out Petra’s presence, so she tried not to throw her fork at Madinia when she criticized Petra’s table manners, and she listened to their endless gossip. Petra was sure that the sisters knew something about Gabriel Thorn, and they did.

“Who would want him dead?” Madinia echoed Petra’s question. “Everybody! No one liked that nasty toad.”

“But he was the West,” Petra said. “The queen must have liked him.”

“That just shows how much you know!”

“The queen doesn’t always give important positions to the most popular people,” Margaret explained, “or the strongest or most capable.”

How wise of Queen Elizabeth, observed Astrophil, whose English had vastly improved with the help of the stolen grammar book. He was now able to follow conversations easily.