Petra needn’t have worried, however.
“Ooh, dangerous!” Madinia trilled.
Petra decided to focus her efforts on this sister. Thinking of the pile of dirty clothes and the one thing Petra knew for certain about Madinia, she said, “Well, your father can’t have a good reason for denying me dresses, can he? Look at what I’m forced to wear.” She pointed.
Madinia’s jaw dropped. “You”—she seized Petra’s hand—“are coming with us this very second.”
“YOU’RE TOO SKINNY!” Madinia scolded.
Her dress sagged on Petra. The only place where the dress wasn’t too loose was around her shoulders, where it was too tight.
“And tall!” Madinia sounded as if Petra were to blame for this problem. “That dress is at least three inches too short on you.”
I wish I could see this properly, Astrophil commented from his post on Petra’s ear.
You’ve got a mean streak, Petra accused.
“At least we can put a ruff on your neck to hide that hideous scar.” Madinia reached for a starched, frilled collar.
Petra pushed it away. “I’m not wearing that. I already agreed to put on this stupid cage.” She kicked at the hoopskirt, a bony structure underneath the dress that made the skirt stand out like a bell.
“Petra, you’re my project! You have to do what I say!”
Why am I doing this? Petra moaned to Astrophil.
I haven’t the faintest idea. You were the one who seemed to think that playing dress-up was part of the plan to escape. And how is that, exactly?
“Leave her alone, Madinia,” Margaret said. She was sitting at the edge of the huge, curtained bed that she shared with her sister.
“She looks like a stick!”
“She looks fine. She’s just different.”
Petra gave Margaret a grateful glance. “If neither of you has dresses that will fit me, couldn’t we go into the city to buy one?” she suggested.
Ah-hah, said Astrophil.
“Absolutely not,” said Margaret.
The gratitude Petra had felt toward her was replaced by something ugly. “Why not? Is the city too big, bad, and scary for you?”
Margaret crossed her arms. “You are not allowed to go out.”
“Just because Dee says so. Do you even know why? Do you even care? You’re his slaves, both of you. Some people have fathers who are kind, who listen to what their daughters have to say, and who would risk their lives to protect them!” Petra’s eyes began to sting. “What kind of father forces his daughters to kidnap someone?”
“We were trying to help,” Margaret said.
“I keep hearing that, but it never sounds like anything but a lie!”
Madinia’s face was flushed. “Try this on for truth,” she hissed. “Our father loves us, and yours is nowhere to be seen.”
Blindly, Petra turned to walk out of the room. Hot tears spilled onto her cheeks.
Petra, said Astrophil.
That was all he said, but it was enough. She halted, not looking at the twins. “I can’t stay locked in one room practically every hour of the day. I can’t. Tell—would you ask your parents to let me out?”
“Dad’s busy.” Madinia stamped a foot.
“You have a mother, too!”
There was a silence. Then Petra felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll ask her,” said Margaret.
PETRA WAS SURE that Kit noticed her red-rimmed eyes, but he didn’t say anything. For someone who had once been a spy, Kit didn’t ask a lot of questions. On their second day of practice, Petra had walked into the room with her hair in a ponytail (and Astrophil gratefully abandoned to the dizzy-free environment of her bedroom). The scar on her neck had been exposed and Kit’s eyes had sharpened with curiosity. Then he looked away.
He wasn’t quiet, though, when it came to telling Petra how terrible she was at fencing. Today he bashed the rapier out of her hand with one blow. It clattered on the floor.
“Usually you swing your sword like a drunken farmer who’s been drafted as a foot soldier. Today you’re still that farmer, only somehow you’ve developed a death wish, too,” Kit said.
Petra shrugged.
“You are aware that normally you hang on to your sword, even if I kill you in a hundred different ways?”
She shrugged again.
“Petra, it’s not easy to keep your grip when you’re up against me, and the fact that you can—usually—is promising.”
“So?” she said listlessly.
“So . . .” He took a breath, and then barreled ahead like someone who couldn’t stop himself. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Petra did—a little bit. Dee had warned her not to tell anyone in London about who she was or why she was there. She didn’t trust Dee, but she knew common sense when she heard it. So all she told Kit was that she felt like a prisoner in Dee’s house. “And Dee said . . . I thought . . . I thought that Dee was going to give me lessons.”
“Really? What kind of lessons?”
“I’m not sure,” she hedged. “But I haven’t seen him since the day I met you.”
“He’s been busy, I hear.”
“With what?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, mimicking her earlier words. “He’s been meeting a lot with Walsingham.”
“Who’s Walsingham?” Petra asked.
Kit blinked. “I used to work for him. He is England’s master of spies. Sir Francis Walsingham is the secretary of defense.”
“Oh.”
“And the fact that he is the secretary of defense is something that anybody raised in this country, as you supposedly were, should know.”
Petra scrambled. “I’ve led a very sheltered life.”
His gaze flicked to her scars. “I’m sure.”
“I’ve never cared much about politics.”
“And your attempts to explain yourself only convince me that you are hiding something. Why would Dee keep his orphaned cousin locked up in her room, only to be let out for sword practice, of all things?”
Petra didn’t answer.
Kit sighed. “Get out of here. You’re going to be worthless today. I think you’ll find that, because I’m letting you out of practice early, the servants who usually escort you won’t be waiting outside the door. If you run to Dee’s library, you might catch him before Walsingham turns up for their weekly meeting. Maybe if Dee sees your face when you ask him for a little freedom he won’t be able to say no. And, Petra, I’m happy to answer any questions you have. But be warned: someday you might have to answer mine.”