It seemed to Petra that Astrophil’s silence was expectant. That he was waiting, like when he would wait for her to figure something out on her own. She considered making her Choice, as the Metis had taught her. She could increase her magic over metal.

But the Metis had warned that the sudden shock of power would confuse her. She might not even remember her own name, or who Astrophil was.

Then what could Petra do?

“I will make him work,” she said.

Petra’s own, familiar brand of magic pulsed through her fingertip. Her skin tingled as she imagined Astrophil’s central mechanism, a heart of cogs and gears. Start, she commanded the metal parts. Spin.

Astrophil’s body made a tiny wheeze, then a crank, then a buzz. His eight legs sprang straight. He popped up in the air, fell down flat on his abdomen, and zigzagged across the table, his legs wild. “Stop!” he shouted at his legs. “Cease! Desist! Please?”

“Astrophil!” Petra laughed.

“I see no humor in this situation!” The spider careened off the table and crashed onto the floor.

“Astro? Are you all right?” She scooped him up.

“Of course I am all right.” His legs still waved crazily, but he didn’t move from Petra’s palm. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“Um, you died,” Tomik pointed out.

“Surely not.”

A smile quirked at the corner of Iris’s mouth. “And then you seemed to have some sort of seizure,” she added.

“Seizure? Just now? Oh, no. I was dancing. In fact, that dance is called the tarantella, a lovely Italian step inspired by a cousin of mine, the tarantula. Of course, the tarantula is from the rather unattractive side of the spider family. It is so hairy. But—”

“You really are all right.” Petra raised her hand so that she and the spider could see eye to eye. Astrophil’s legs jerked a few more times, then calmed.

“I feel very well rested,” he said. “And full. Mmmm.” He smacked his tiny mouth. “I have clearly been drinking very high quality brassica oil. A fine vintage. Delicious. Although … there is a salty aftertaste. How strange.”

“Very.” Petra smiled.

Astrophil considered her face, then stretched out one leg to brush a tear from her lashes. “Perhaps it is not so strange after all,” he said.

19

The Peasants’ Darling

THEY MET AGAIN in Iris’s sitting room, after Petra had taken a bath in a sunken marble tub so large she could swim in it. It had three golden faucets, each topped with the curved shape of a sleeping ermine, the symbol of the Krumlov family. Petra was less amazed by this, however, than by what the faucets could do. Two of them spouted hot and cold water, and the third gushed bubbles. Then Petra spotted a fourth faucet that didn’t point into the bath, but curved over the marble edge of the pool, right above a porcelain cup that rested on the stone floor of the bathing room. Petra fiddled with the faucet, and hot chocolate poured into the cup. She swam in the bath’s rainbow froth. Then she floated, drinking the rich, melty brown liquid in her cup. After days of weasel meat, the hot chocolate was a delight.

When Petra entered the sitting room, wearing a velvet nightgown with Astrophil clinging to the midnight purple of its fabric, she saw Tomik seated at a table before a fire. His hair was clean and damp, and he was wolfing down roasted chicken, buttery vegetables dusted with spices, and fizzy cider.

“And bread!” Petra gasped. “And apples!” She snatched a fork to help Tomik demolish the food.

“Hello to you, too,” Iris said dryly from her plush chair. It was drawn up to a desk on which lay a sheet of paper half-filled with swirly lines of cursive writing. Iris set her quill into its inkpot, drew a clean page to cover the written one, and pushed her chair back to face the three of them.

“Fohrry. Umbello, Girish,” Petra said, her mouth full.

Iris scowled at her, then focused on Astrophil, who was busy scolding Petra in tones of dismay. “You are using the wrong fork,” he moaned. “Would you please remember your table manners?”

“You.” Iris pointed at him. “Tell me what you’re doing here, and what has happened since I last saw Petra blasting and flooding her way out of Salamander Castle.”

It was a long story that began with Petra’s first encounter with the Gray Men, and how John Dee had saved her only to imprison her in his London house. Bargaining for her freedom in exchange for solving a murder, Petra had gotten tangled up in English politics that led to her facing Prince Rodolfo in a deadly, destructive encounter.

“None of that explains why you are here, in my home,” Iris said.

Astrophil searched for the most diplomatic way to phrase his next words. “Countess, your generosity toward us already has been deeply moving,” he began. “And we honor you for it. Yet—”

“Oh, stuff it. Do you think I’m an idiot? I know exactly what you want.”

“Really?” said Petra. Astrophil hadn’t even explained yet what had happened to her father. “How?”

“Well, maybe I don’t know exactly what made you turn up on my doorstep in such a hysterical, bossy manner, but one thing is clear: you want my help.” Iris folded her arms, settled back in her chair, and propped her slippered feet on a lurid green footstool. “And whatever you want my help for, it’ll be directly in defiance of our Bohemian prince. You’re an outlaw, Petra, do you know that? If I turned you over to the authorities, I’d receive a very nice reward. Of course, I don’t really need that. I am rich enough. But delivering you to the prince would put me back in his good graces.”

“You’re not in his good graces?” said Petra. “What did you do?”

“Do? I helped you, that’s what I did. I helped you and that Gypsy escape from Salamander Castle by the skin of your pretty white teeth.”

“He knows? How did he find out?”

“Oh, Rodolfo doesn’t know anything for sure. He certainly suspects me, though. The Krumlov family is too powerful for him to accuse me without proof, but I’ve been banished from court. All because of you—Petra Kronos, the peasants’ darling.”

“But you didn’t like being at court,” Petra said.

The grouchiness of Iris’s expression didn’t change. However, one brow arched above the rim of her spectacles. “Oh?”

“You hated it. People were always pestering you for hair dye. It was a waste of your talent.”

Iris showed the faintest hint of a smirk.

“And you didn’t like what was going on in some of the prince’s other laboratories,” Petra continued. “What he was having done to people. You thought it was wrong. And it is.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It is wrong.”

“Be that as it may, what am I to do about it?”

“Help us.”

“You see? I am supposed to help you. Again. Help you do what, precisely?” Iris’s sour expression returned. “Kill the prince, I suppose.”

The words were like a blow. “No.” Petra tried to block the memory of black blood seeping into snow. “Not that. I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To talk to Fiala Broshek,” Petra said, and explained her hope that the woman who had turned her father into a monster would have a way to change him back.

As Iris listened, the fire lowered and crackled, casting a garnet-colored glow about the room. Iris leaned forward and propped her pointy chin on one small fist. Finally, she said, “Fiala Broshek has left the court as well. She’s taken up a post as a professor of the Academy. Prince Rodolfo hopes that she will make some necessary changes to the Hapsburg Empire’s premier school for magic.”

“The Academy?” Tomik’s eyes went wide. “So that’s where we’ll have to go, right, Petra? I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’ll get to see the Academy.” Then his face fell. “But we’d never get through the door. They’d never let us in.”

“They will,” said Iris, “if you are students there.”

Petra and Tomik stared.

“Oh, yes,” said Astrophil. “A splendid idea!”

“No, it isn’t,” Petra said. “We can’t be students at the Academy. The Academy is for rich people. For aristocrats and the gentry and people with high connections. Not villagers. Besides, we’d have to take a magical exam, and—”

“What,” said Iris. “Don’t you think you’d pass?”

Petra shut her mouth.

“As for connections,” Iris continued, “I believe I could pull a few strings.”

Petra couldn’t look at Tomik, his face was so vivid with hope.

“Ahem,” said Astrophil. “As much as I admire your proposal, Countess, I must point out a flaw. It sorrows me to say it. I was so overcome with rapture at the thought that Petra might actually sit at an Academy desk, might learn from the wise words of an Academy professor—”

Petra rolled her eyes.

“—that the idea’s flaw did not even occur to me. Yet it is obvious. Petra, as you say, is an outlaw. Prince Rodolfo must have spread word that she is to be arrested on sight, and she has very unique features. I do not know if the prince is searching for Tomik as well, but Tomik has been seen by him. The prince, and several of his guards, know exactly what Petra and Tomik look like.”

“Leave the disguises to me,” said Iris.

Astrophil looked as if he might weep for joy. He clapped six legs in a flurry of fierce applause. “Hurray!”

“Thank you, Iris,” said Petra. “But … why are you helping us?” It wasn’t until this moment that Petra realized that she had never really trusted that Iris would help them, or that she would even be here, in her castle. Petra had simply clung to that hope, since some plan was better than none. And now, it seemed, her plan had worked.

“Because what you said is true,” Iris answered. “What Fiala Broshek is doing—what the prince is doing—is wrong. Because the number of Gristleki is growing, and there have been rumors of strange deaths all over Bohemia. Because, a little more than two weeks ago, on the night of the day you say you entered the Novohrad Mountains, one of the prince’s older brothers died.”

“He did? But that means—”

“That only one man—the prince’s remaining brother, Frederic—stands in the way of Prince Rodolfo inheriting the empire. The emperor chooses who will claim his crown, but if Emperor Karl has only two sons, instead of three, the choice narrows.”

“How, precisely, did Prince Maximilian die?” Astrophil asked.

“Quietly,” said Iris. “In his sleep. There was no obvious sign of any foul play. As a countess, I have access to information that few do, and I can tell you that the only trace of anything remotely odd was a tiny welt the size of a mosquito bite on Prince Maximilian’s wrist.”

“A mosquito bite?” said Tomik. “In winter?”

“Indeed,” said Iris. “The death’s shady, I’d say. But very clean, if it’s an assassination. Most people think that Maximilian just caught some strange disease. I think Rodolfo’s tired of waiting for the emperor’s crown, and heaven help us if he gets it.” Iris pulled the spectacles from her face and rubbed at her eyes. Her mouselike features were small and tired in the firelight.

“Petra,” Iris continued, “if you learn how to transform your father back into a human, you won’t only be helping him. You could help other Gristleki. You could help your country.” She sighed. “That is why I’m helping you.” She shoved her spectacles back on, glanced at Tomik and Petra’s empty plates, and said, “Now, go. Go to bed, the three of you.”

Petra had a sudden, dizzingly tempting vision of a feather bed and the privacy of her own room.

She and Tomik were making their way toward the door, with Astrophil perched on her head, when Iris said, “Also … I always liked you, Petra.”

Petra turned.

Iris wasn’t looking at her, but at her desk, and at the blank sheet of paper covering the written one. “You’ve got some feist in you, girl, and hunger. I was hungry once, too. For different things, but, oh, what of that?”

Petra considered this. “The prince is hungry, too.”

Iris nodded, and was quiet.

“Iris,” said Tomik, “what did you mean, when you called Petra the ‘peasants’ darling’?”

She grinned. “You noticed. Interesting, eh? It seems that Petra has become a bit of a legend. The poorer folk of Bohemia have been under Rodolfo’s thumb for a long time, and they’re angry. Powerless, but angry. Somehow people have caught wind of some of Petra’s adventures, and have made a few up, too. She’s become a hero. A regular little Robin Hood.” Iris wagged a finger at Petra. “Don’t let that go to your head. It only makes the prince hate you more.”

Tomik was staring at Petra. She shifted, uncomfortable.

“Well, what are you still doing here?” Iris snapped. “Lollygaggers! I told you to get out. Now, shoo!”

After the door had shut behind them, Iris stood and crossed to the dying fire to stab at it with a poker, trying to rouse a bigger flame. It shot several sparks, then crumpled into chunks of charred wood. The fire was out.

“Bother!” Iris snatched a candle off the mantel, lit it, and returned to sit at her table. She rattled her quill in the inkpot and uncovered her half-finished letter. She began to write, and the room was filled with the scratching of pen on parchment.