This is making me dizzy, Astrophil complained from his hiding spot under Petra’s hair.
Finally, Kit called a halt to their practice. Petra was trembling. I hate that I’m so weak, Astro, she thought.
He tried to comfort her. Some of it is due to your illness.
Some, but not all. She hadn’t even used her injured left arm. It was the muscles in her right that ached. When Kit grabbed a pitcher of water and poured some for Petra, she had trouble raising the glass to her lips and her hand shook.
Kit studied her. “Tomorrow, wear your hair up, or I’ll chop it all off. It gets in your face. Anyone can grab a fistful and jerk your head back for a blow to the neck. But if you promise to keep your hair out of the way, I’ll let you keep it. I know girls have their little vanities.”
“You don’t know me very well,” she said.
He paused. “I suppose you’re right. And I was wrong about you where one thing is concerned, Petra.” Kit took the glass from her, then reached to shake her hand. “You are better than I thought.”
12
The Death of the West
PETRA HAD NEVER been afraid of the dark, but all she could think about was that the door to this strange bedroom was locked. Astrophil was sound asleep under the bed.
Petra felt small and empty, like an old, dented thimble.
She missed her father. She remembered how he would hold her when she was little, how he smelled smoky—the coal of his smithy, the candles of his study. She would press her face against his chest and his voice, usually so quiet, would rumble under her ear.
Petra held the pillow against her cheek, and tried to sleep.
“YOUR HIGHNESS, do you have my daughter?”
“Why would I tell you that?” The prince lifted a perfumed handkerchief to his nose. He had forgotten how much his dungeons stank.
Mikal Kronos was on his knees in the dirty straw. “Please, take my eyes, if you will only—”
“If I wanted your eyes, old man, they would already be mine. But they are last year’s fashion.”
“I could rebuild the clock’s heart,” Mikal offered.
The prince squeezed his handkerchief, recalling his plans to seize the Hapsburg Empire through a clock that could waste fields, strike towers with lightning, and flood cities. How his brothers would tremble! How foolish they would look!
“Yes,” the prince said, and folded the handkerchief into a neat square. “I suppose you could.”
PETRA READ THE NOTE, fury boiling in her stomach. She smashed the paper into a ball and flung it into a corner of her bedroom.
Astrophil, perched on the frame of an oil painting, watched the paper whiz past. “What did it say?” he asked.
“It said no.”
Well, not in so many words. Across the top of the note was Petra’s scrawl: “I DEMAND to be let out of this room. My door is always locked.” Below this was Dee’s response: Unlock it, then.
Petra took stock of her surroundings, as she had so many times. The one window showed a snow-covered garden many feet below. Several paintings of old, shriveled-up people hung on the bedroom walls. Astrophil liked them, because he could hide behind the frames if anyone opened the door. Petra hated them, because she was sure that everybody in the house thought they were hideous, too, and that this room was where the Dees kept everything they didn’t like but still wanted to own—including her.
Petra’s angry gaze fell on a pile of crumpled trousers and shirts. They were sweat-stained from days of practicing with Kit. Up until a moment ago, when Sarah had delivered the note, Petra had thought that the clothes were a sign that Dee was trying to win her over. He had noticed, Petra had thought, that she preferred trousers. She readily wore them, transferring Tomik’s Glowstone to the pocket of each new pair.
But the note, combined with the fact that Dee hadn’t seen her since he had introduced her to Kit almost a week ago, made her think that, after all, he probably couldn’t care less what she thought of him.
She began to pound on the locked door.
“Petra!” Astrophil chided. “What happened to our carefully considered master plan? The one where you pretend to be a good, likeable girl so that we can gain people’s trust and find a way to escape?”
“All—part—of—the—plan,” Petra muttered in between kicks at the wooden door.
It flung open.
“Heavens, child!” Sarah gasped. “What is the matter?”
“I want to see Madinia and Margaret.”
PETRA CONFRONTED THE GIRLS when they entered her room. “You haven’t been to visit me.”
“Who has time?” Madinia said airily.
“You didn’t seem to like us,” Margaret told Petra.
“And we’ve been busy,” Madinia insisted. “Why, we have to buy dresses for the queen’s winter ball. We’ve walked all over London until our feet were achingly sore. And I have just been in rapture with my lute lessons—”
“You hate playing the lute,” said Margaret.
“You’re right, I do!” Madinia laughed. “I’d like to break my lute over Master Bassano’s head. That squinty old beast!”
“Why did you send for us, Petra?” asked Margaret.
“I’m bored,” Petra lied.
“Me, too!” said Madinia. “What shall we do?”
“You could show me around your house,” Petra suggested. Perhaps she could run right out the front door . . .
“That’s your idea of fun?”
“Well, we could hunt for secret passageways or something,” Petra tried.
“And then play dice on the rugs?” Madinia sneered. “I’m not a child.”
“You shouldn’t leave your room, Petra,” said Margaret.
“Why? Does your dad have a pet monster in the hallway?”
Madinia giggled.
“Or is your family keeping something secret from me?”
Madinia stopped laughing. She looked at her sister.
“It’s not that,” said Margaret. “But if Dad insists on your door being locked and guarded, he must have his reasons.”
Guarded? Petra hadn’t known that. “Maybe,” she thought out loud, “he thinks I’m dangerous.”
“Maybe you are.” Margaret spoke so seriously that Petra regretted her last comment. Why did she always have to say whatever she was thinking? Now Margaret was suspicious.