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!”
“I was,” said Margaret.
“Poor Meg! I know what you’re thinking, but you shouldn’t blame yourself. Why, anyone could have made the same mistake. I wasn’t petrified out of my wits, but anybody could have—”
“Madinia!” Margaret turned a furious gaze on her sister. “You have no wits!”
“That is so unfair! Why’re you—?” Madinia glanced at Petra, then back at Margaret. “Oh.”
“What mistake?” Petra asked. “What’re you talking about?”
“Nothing,” said Madinia.
“Maybe I’ll mention this conversation, then, the next time I speak to your father.”
“Please don’t do that,” said Margaret. “I made an error, but we fixed it. No harm done.”