“Oh, he’s not half-bad.”

Neel hooted.

“Honest.” Andras spread his hands. “I wouldn’t mind spending time with him, but he’s real inquisitive. Keeps asking all kinds of questions, and my Czech’s not good enough to understand even a small part of what he’s saying. Poor lad’s been swiped from his home. Least you could do is come down and explain to him what’s going on.”

“Nope. Not me.”

Andras glared, his wrinkles cutting so deeply that they looked like scars. “I’m giving you an order.”

“And you know where you can stick it.”

“I outrank you!”

“I outsmart you.”

Andras put his fists on his hips. “Don’t make me come up there and shake you out of your tree.”

“So Blue Eyes has got questions, does he? I should say so. But. I. Don’t. Care. Find somebody else to hold his hand. I can’t figure why you’re bugging me to do it.”

“You speak Czech better than anyone on this boat.”

Neel shrugged and hauled on a rope. Treb spoke Czech as well as he did. Andras was just trying to flatter him. Well, it wouldn’t work.

“And,” Andras said with a wicked note in his voice, “we all know how fond you are of Bohemians. Why, who hasn’t heard about your girl—”

“Friend!” Neel yelped. “She’s a friend!”

“Ooo—ooo,” Tas cooed.

Even the sailors clinging to the other mast were paying attention now.

“Argh!” Neel dropped the rope in his hands.

Tas swore, fumbling with his rope as the sail swung wide.

“Neel!” Treb was striding up the deck. “What in the name of the four tribes are you doing to my topsail?”

“Neel’s distracted,” Andras loudly explained. “He keeps thinking about—”

“Nothing!” Neel fastened the rope into place. “Andras, will you switch jobs with me?”

There was a pause.

“Please?” Neel begged.

Andras began climbing up the Jacob’s ladder. When he reached the platform, he took over Neel’s rope with a chuckle.

Neel said sourly, “For someone so old, your sense of needling others is right spry.”

He flew down the ladder before Andras could laugh at him again.

• • •

“OH.” The blond boy’s face hardened. “You.”

Neel noted with satisfaction that the Bohemian was already burned by the sun. “That’s right, Pinky. Looking red as a bloody dawn, you are. But a whole lot less prettier.”

“I’m not talking to you. Get me somebody else.”

“Is our prisoner making demands? You’ll talk to who you can get, and be glad for it.”

There was a pause. “I want to ask some questions.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“Yesterday, you said this ship is sailing for Morocco.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where you’re going to sell me.”

“Yep.”

“If I’m a prisoner, why did somebody let me out of my cage?”

“You mean the brig? That was Andras’s idea. He talked Treb into it. Said you’d do no harm on deck during the day with the crew to keep an eye on you. Plus, we don’t want you looking all pasty and sickly-like for the auction,” Neel continued, ignoring the boy’s staggered look. “That’d bring down your price. But we’ll lock you up nice and tight each nightfall.”

The Bohemian closed his eyes. “When will we reach Sallay?”

“A few days. Depending on the wind.”

The boy’s jewel-blue eyes flew open. “How is that possible? Yesterday I was in Bohemia. No boat can sail from Bohemia to Morocco in a matter of days. Of course, no boat could ever sail anywhere from Bohemia because we have no seas!”

“Well, that’s what you get when you walk through a Loophole.”

“Loophole?”

Neel studied him. “You really don’t know how you ended up on that beach, do you?”

“A friend of mine’s missing, in trouble.”

“Looks like your pal ain’t the only one.”

“I tried searching the forest, but all I found was four headless monsters.”

“Monsters? Are you telling tales?”

“Why would I lie? I mean, aside from the fact that you’re a kidnapper who has ruined my life and definitely doesn’t deserve the truth.”

“Huh. Monsters.”

“Gray, scaly, and clawed.”

Neel filed that information away to tell Treb. Slowly, he replied, “Look, I don’t know anything about your beasties. But a Loophole’s like . . . a shortcut. A way of hopping from one place to another. One minute you’re in a Bohemian forest, the next you’re off the northern coast of Portugal, not far away from North Africa, on a speedy ship like the Pacolet. There are Loopholes all over the world, but they’re hard to find. Going through one’s like threading a needle blind. You can’t miss it by even a hair. My people happened upon your Loophole by accident, ages ago. We’re a roaming sort, so we’ve discovered a couple of other shortcuts like this. It’s rare for a fellow to just stumble through a Loophole, like you did. Guess you got lucky.” Neel smirked.

A small, black-haired girl ran up the deck and dashed between them. Laughing, she raced along the bow and turned around to sprint to the other end of the ship. She pattered away.

Neel felt suddenly somber. “Are we done playing ask-and-answer? I’ve got work.”

“One more thing . . . ” The gadje gazed after the girl. “Why are there children on this boat? Babies, even? That girl’s no more than three years old. I’ve seen old people on this ship, families . . . they can’t be sailors. Don’t they get in your way?”

“They do. But that ain’t the point.”

“So Sea-Gypsies always travel with their families?”

“Most of them aren’t our relations. Look, Pinky”—Neel’s voice sharpened—“there’s plenty in this world you don’t know a bit about. Your precious, white, mighty prince—”

The gadje raised his hand. “I hate his guts.”

“Oh. Good. Because that sunken wreck of a human took it into his head to lock all us Roma up and swallow the key. Happened real sudden. Not a lot we could do about it, but we did what we could. The Maraki—the Roma tribe you so sweetly call ‘Sea-Gypsies’—sent word for the free Roma in Bohemia to slip through the Loophole to the beach and gather there. The families on board had to leave behind their wagons and horses and I don’t know what all.” His throat tightened. He cleared it. “Treb and I had just loaded the last of ’em onto the Pacolet and rowed back to the beach in the launch to clean up. Wanted to hide any trace of campsites. No need for the Portuguese to notice something special about that stretch of sand. That beach is our secret. We were ready to leave when you turned up, and if you’d stepped through that Loophole fifteen minutes later, you and I never would have laid eyes on each other.”

There was a pause. “Like you said,” murmured the gadje, “I guess I was just lucky.”

7

Madinia and Margaret

PLIP. PLIP. PLIP.

Petra opened her eyes, which were gummy from long sleep.

She felt something squirming on her neck. At first she thought it was Astrophil, but the sensation felt nothing like the cold prickle of his legs. It felt . . . fleshy.

Petra’s brain seemed to be trying to tell her that the plip-plip sound had something to do with whatever was crawling on her neck—and, she realized, on her arm. She glanced down and gasped.

Fat black leeches teemed over her left arm. As she stared, one of them wriggled and dropped off, falling into a bowl placed next to the bed. Plip.

Petra reached to crush the insects, but someone caught her hand. A short, gray-haired man shook his head at her. Then he pointed to the leeches and smiled.

“What are you doing to me?” Petra shouted. “Get them off!”

The old man shook his head again, and replied in a language that sounded like hissing snakes.

English, Petra thought with a groan. She pulled weakly against the man’s grip.

He tsked at her. He let her go, but then quickly doused a handkerchief with a strong-smelling liquid. He clamped the cloth over her nose and mouth.

Petra sank back into sleep.

Below her bed, Astrophil waited, growing hungrier as the days passed.

SOMEONE WAS STROKING Petra’s hair. Only two people had ever done this: Dita and her father. Maybe her mother had, too, but Petra couldn’t remember. She had been only a baby when her mother died.

Petra opened her eyes.

A woman was sitting next to the bed. Her hair was white, pulled back into a simple twist, but her skin was unlined. Her face held no expression. There was no tug of a lip, lift of a cheek, or furrow of a brow.

“Hello,” the woman said in a flat voice. “I’m Agatha.”

Petra, I am so relieved you are awake. You have been asleep for several days. Astrophil’s words buzzed in Petra’s mind. I was so worried.

Where are you?

I am hiding under the bed. It is very dusty. I do not think highly of the Dees’ housekeeper.

Petra glanced at her left arm. The leeches were gone. The welts left by the touch of the Gristleki were healed, but fresh, fierce, and red.

She turned to Agatha. “There was a man here . . .”

“Yes. Dr. Harvey.”

“He put leeches on me.”

“He used them to suck the poison out of your blood.”

“Who are you?”

“Agatha,” the woman repeated. “Agatha Dee.”

“Agatha Dee?”

“Yes. John Dee’s wife.”

I don’t like her, Petra told Astrophil.

Petra, would you try to like her enough to ask for a favor? Because—the spider’s voice grew embarrassed—I am extremely hungry.

Petra bolted upright. Oh, Astro! You haven’t had any oil in days! I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this right away. You might have died.

You might have, too, the spider said gently.

“Agatha?” Petra leaned toward the woman. “Could I have some brassica oil? Please.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing. But I need brassica. A large jug of it. Now.”

The woman’s face betrayed no surprise at this unusual request. She walked to the door, unlocked it, and murmured to someone in the hallway. She turned back to Petra. “It will be brought to you shortly.” She locked the door. “I am glad you are well,” she said, though her voice sounded empty of any gladness, “and that I am able to help you.”

Petra thought that Agatha might mean something more than fetching brassica oil. “Help me?” Hope fluttered inside her. “Will you help me get back to Okno?”

“No. I am here at my husband’s request. He asked me to teach you English.”

“Oh,” Petra said resentfully. She knew what this meant. It meant that Dee intended Petra to stay in London for some time. “So when are you going to force the first lesson down my throat?”

Agatha Dee didn’t seem offended, if only because she didn’t seem anything. “It’s done. You already know English.”

“I—what?”

“Yes. You’re speaking English now. You have no trace of a Czech accent. You know every word I do.”

“You . . . used magic? Teaching—it’s your gift?”

Agatha nodded.

How was Petra ever going to get away from four magically talented Dees? She frowned. “I’m surprised that Dee didn’t make me learn English the hard way.”

Agatha reached to lift Petra’s chin. “Why do that, when everything else will be so hard?”

“LOOK AT THAT SCAR. . .”

Petra touched her neck and turned, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder. Her silver eyes measured the two girls. “The poison didn’t damage my hearing.”

“It might have done something to your fashion sense, though,” said the freckled girl, raking her gaze over the trousers Petra had worn the day of the attack.

Petra crossed her arms, brandishing the burnlike wound that reached up to her elbow. “Why are you here?” she demanded. Speaking English felt effortless, like walking without thinking about the fact that her entire body was doing a balancing act with every step. “Do you want a tour of my jail cell? There’s that awful bed I was stuck in for days, there’s the chair in which I was interrogated by your interfering father—”

“And over there’s a mirror”—the freckled girl pointed—“that you might think about using.”

“Madinia,” her sister murmured.

“What? Don’t look at me like that, Meggie. The first step to recovering from an abysmal lack of style is to admit that you have a problem. I’m only trying to help.”

“You Dees have a funny idea of help,” Petra snapped.

“We just wanted to introduce ourselves, Petra,” the quiet sister said. “I’m Margaret.”

The freckled girl stuck out her hand. “Madinia.” She waited for Petra to shake it. When Petra didn’t, Madinia plopped down into the nearest chair, her silk skirts spilling around her. “Wasn’t that a freakish scene in the forest? Petra, you should have seen it! Too bad you were passed out. But our dad was right in the thick of things, swinging away like a master swordsman. Those gray creatures were as skin-crawlingly creepy as anything I’d ever seen, but I wasn’t afraid at all. Not a jot!”