Petra watched the fire as Tomik explained why Petra needed Fiala Broshek so badly.

When Zora spoke, it was with sympathy. “We can find her, Petra. Lucas and I have court connections. We’ll use them.”

Petra looked over her shoulder at Zora.

“In fact, I have an idea,” Zora continued. “We’ll try it out tomorrow morning, at the Hall of Education. Tomik can help me.”

Petra said, “I want to help.”

“Sorry, but no. You’re too recognizable. You can’t leave this house.”

At that, Petra wheeled around to face the Decembers. She couldn’t believe that, yet again, she was trapped in a beautiful house by someone who claimed it was for her own safety. John Dee had done exactly the same thing.

“Petra,” Lucas said, “it’s for the best. You’re too tired now to see things clearly. Sleep, and in the morning you’ll realize that sometimes you have to sacrifice things to get what you want. Your personal freedom is a small price to pay for capturing Fiala Broshek.”

With that, the Decembers left the room.

I think they are right, said Astrophil.

“Petra.” Tomik rested a light hand on her shoulder. It felt soft and warm, and part of her wished she could accept this gesture and relax into it. Yet she knew this would be a mistake. He said, “Can we talk?”

There was so much to discuss, but Petra sensed what haunted his mind. There are things I can’t feel, she had told him.

“Not now,” she said.

“Not ever, you mean.”

Astrophil glanced between the two of them. He tried very hard to seem invisible. Petra watched him shrink, gathering in his shiny legs.

Petra hated her mind-magic. She hated what it showed her sometimes, and how, even when it lined up perfectly with what her heart would have guessed anyway, she couldn’t rely on it. She couldn’t be sure that the Decembers were good people who wanted to protect her. She couldn’t believe the tenderness that sometimes seeped through Neel’s silent words to her.

And she couldn’t know, for certain, that Tomik was now struggling to swallow his disappointment and say that everything would somehow still be all right.

“I’m tired,” she said.

Tomik’s hand slipped away. Just before he passed through the door to the bedroom next to hers, he murmured, “Sorry, Petra, about tomorrow morning. I know you don’t like having to stay put.”

Petra had nothing to say to that, because she had no intention of staying put.

30

The Horseshoe

THE DECEMBERS trusted Petra—or at least they trusted her sense of self-preservation.

She and Tomik breakfasted with them, watching Lucas fuss with his doublet and rub fingertips against the sides of his face. “I must not smile, I must not smile,” he muttered to himself. He was going to Salamander Castle. A messenger had come in the night from Prince Rodolfo, who was calling together the most powerful aristocrats in the country to discuss yesterday’s attacks.

He left, and Zora and Tomik followed soon after that. “I’m going to squirrel the whereabouts of Fiala Broshek out of the secretary of education,” Zora said cheerfully. “Just you wait.” Then she and Tomik were gone.

Petra stood from the table. There was a determined glint in her eyes.

Astrophil jumped from a chair to her shoulder. He sighed. He wished, as he had wished many times and would do so again, that he was big enough to hold Petra. He wished he could hold her back from danger.

She plucked Astrophil from her shoulder and set him on the polished, dark surface of the table.

“Petra.” His voice was small. “I am going with you.”

She shook her head. “Not this time, Astro.”

Petra opened the unlocked door of the dining room. She walked freely through the many-roomed house and passed through the front door to the street. She remembered how John Dee had posted guards outside her bedroom in London, and how cautious he had been to prevent any attempt she might make to flee. She thought of the Decembers’ unlocked doors, and of the fact that Dee had, at least, understood her.

She walked through the morning bustle of Prague’s streets. The air was glassy and cold, but there were signs that the city was inching toward spring. It was early March. The Vltava River was no longer frozen solid, though a thin lace of ice still clung to its banks. Petra crossed the river to Staro Square, where she tried not to look at the tall, magnificent clock her father had built. She turned down a street lined with shops and hugged the edges of the crowd until she found it: the Riven brothers’ silk stall.

“Master Riven?” She approached the man standing behind piles of jewel-colored fabric.

He nodded. “That’s me. Joel Riven. Who are you?”

Petra untied the leather string of her necklace, and set it on a square of blue silk so that the man could see the Romany words scratched on the tiny horseshoe dangling from its string. This is Petali Kronos, the words read. Be kind to her, for she is bound by blood to Indraneel of the Lovari.

Petra said, “I want to talk with Sadie.”

* * *

“BE CONFIDENT,” Zora whispered in Tomik’s ear as he looked across the street at the doors to the Hall of Education. The entrance was flanked by statues of giants. They looked as if they were holding the weight of the building on their stooped shoulders. Tomik imagined them coming to life and swatting him down with their huge, stone hands.

“You can even be a little arrogant,” Zora added. “All aristocrats are.”

But he was not an aristocrat. He was ordinary. A fifteen-year-old boy from the countryside. “Don’t I need a title?” he asked Zora. “Shouldn’t I say I’m Sir Something from Somewhere Important?”

“No. You’d be caught in a lie. Don’t worry, Tomik. You’re dressed like a rich and powerful person.” Her eyes studied him. “You look the part. And you’re with me. Say as little as possible and let the secretary assume the rest. Whatever you do, don’t say what your magical ability is. Be mysterious about it. I don’t think that someone will guess who you are, but one thing everyone knows about Tomik Stakan is that he’s got a magical gift for glass.”

Zora led him inside. She smiled at the guards, who seemed to recognize her, and wove her way down halls lit by candles stuffed into lamps designed to burn brassica oil. It looked as if Prague was already feeling the pinch of the oil shortage. Tomik didn’t mind. The Decembers, who had known what was coming, had set aside barrels of oil. Astrophil would have plenty to drink. Anyway, there was something cozy about candlelight. It flickered merrily, and shone on Zora’s blond hair.

A boy in a gray-blue uniform opened the door to the secretary’s office. Tomik’s heartbeat fumbled and raced. He would be caught. Of course he would. He would be punished for having always tried so hard to be better.

“Lady Zora.” An old man rose from a velvet chair to greet them. He took one of Zora’s gloved hands and pressed it with both of his. “On any other day, the sight of you would bring a smile to my face. Alas, I have no smile to give you today, nor even very much time.”

“The Academy.” Zora shook her head sadly.

“I’m heartbroken, dear. And overwhelmed with meetings. Parents across the country—even across the empire—are demanding to know what will become of their children’s studies. We’re trying to locate a suitable building to hold classes, but it will never be the same.” He bit his lip. “Did you ever ride in one of the Academy hot-air balloons? I used to love that.”

“No, sir. I never attended the school. You forget I have no magical talent.”

“Nor I, but being the secretary of education has its benefits. Now, I hate to rush our conversation, but I have a meeting in”—he pulled a red enameled watch from his pocket and peered at its face—“ten minutes. What brings you here today, my lady? And who”—he finally focused on Tomik—“is this?”

The breath died in Tomik’s throat.

“He is why I needed to see you.” Zora beamed at him. “Stefan”—she laid a hand on Tomik’s arm—“is a great talent. He could do so much for Bohemia, but with the Academy gone … you were right when you said that things will never be the same. Classes can be held in another building, of course, but that will take so long to organize.”

The secretary nodded and sighed.

“Meanwhile, his education will suffer,” Zora said. “Unless … well, I have an idea. You see, Stefan hoped to work with one Academy professor in particular: Fiala Broshek.”

The secretary looked suddenly wary.

“Would it be possible to arrange an apprenticeship with her?” Zora continued. “I’d ask her myself, but no one knows where she is.”

The secretary’s eyes roved from Zora to Tomik, then back again. “How exactly do you know each other?”

Zora’s hand slipped to link arms with Tomik. She nestled close to him and smiled. Tomik blushed.

“Oh.” The secretary’s gaze softened somewhat.

“You see, I want the very best for him,” Zora said. “Professor Broshek is the best.”

“The best of a certain kind,” the secretary said slowly. “An apprenticeship might be possible—Professor Broshek is enthusiastic about gathering the most promising magical talents under her wing—”

“So she is safe and well,” said Zora. “What a relief! There were rumors that she was missing.”

“She and the prince had an arrangement, should something ever happen to the Academy. For her own safety, she had to return immediately to Prague. Once the rebels began to destroy public property—little things, at first, like bridges—Prince Rodolfo feared that the Academy could become a target. Professor Broshek’s research then—and now—is a sensitive, secret matter. Which brings me back to your silent gentleman.” The secretary’s gaze focused again on Tomik. “If I ask Professor Broshek to take on an apprentice, I need to know what he can do. What, young man, is your magic skill?”

Zora’s eyes flashed an anxious message at Tomik. It was easy to read: Be careful.

Tomik thought quickly. Neel had once taught him the trick to telling a good lie. “Tell the truth,” Neel had said. “But skew it. Twist it.”

“Heat,” Tomik said finally.

The secretary frowned. “I’m not so sure that heat would be useful to Professor Broshek.”

“Yes, it would.” The next words flew out of Tomik’s mouth: “I can prove it.”

Zora struggled to keep her smile, but Tomik saw the dismay on her face, and her fear. There was no way that he could prove an ability he didn’t have.

But he could heat and mold glass, sometimes, with the touch of his hand. If he was determined enough. It hurt his head and made him see double, but he could do it. He had done so last year, when he had made a glass knife from loose sand.

Zora’s eyes were still on him. Tomik cursed his brazen words. Of course he could heat something in front of the secretary’s eyes—but only glass, or something that could be made into glass. A secretary of education had to be an intelligent man. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out Tomik’s identity.

“Prove it, then,” said the secretary, “or I’m going to wonder why you won’t, and why you two are asking questions about Professor Broshek. Well, Stefan? Let’s see if you have something the professor wants. And let’s see it now. I am out of time.”

Tomik had a flash of inspiration. “May I have your watch?”

The secretary’s brows shot up. “My watch?”

“I’ll give it back.”

With a curious glance, the secretary handed his pocket watch to Tomik, who tightened his fingers around it. He felt its enamel-coated surface. He remembered how people don’t think too hard about the objects they use. When the secretary looked at his watch, did he think about the red, opaque enamel that framed its face? Did he consider its shiny ceramic surface, and think about what enamel was made from, what it really was? Or, to him, was it just a pretty part of a watch? Enamel, after all, doesn’t look like glass. It’s not clear. It looks like floor tile.

But Tomik’s hand knew what it was. His fingers began to burn. He felt like someone had thrust a torch down his throat and the flames were burning in his brain.

The watch turned into a hot coal in his hand. The enamel melted. The red fluid dripped through Tomik’s fingers and exposed the metal gears underneath. Tomik squeezed his fist. He couldn’t melt the metal, but he could crush the delicate gears for good measure with the ordinary strength of his fingers. He did just that.

He handed the molten mess back to the secretary, who yelped and dropped it. The old man shook his hand to ease the burn. “You ruined it!”

“I said I’d give it back,” Tomik replied. “I didn’t mention what condition it’d be in.”

The secretary stared at the lump on the floor. It was unrecognizable.

“If I destroyed that so easily”—Tomik let a dangerous note creep into his voice—“imagine what else I can do. I want to serve Prince Rodolfo, and learn how to destroy what he wants destroyed. Well? Am I good enough for him? Am I good enough for Fiala Broshek?”

“Yes,” the secretary said shakily. “I will pass along a recommendation.”

“I’d prefer to speak with her myself. If you tell me the location of her new laboratory—”

“No. The prince would have my head. I can only say that she’s nearby, in Prague, and that I’ll arrange for you to see her.”