To My QueenMy finest cloth shall dress your landAnd warm it ever at your command.
Dee looked over Petra’s shoulder. “A wretched poem, though there are worse.”
“Whose is it?”
“It belongs to Sir Robert Cotton. The entire shield plays on his last name. Cotton, cloth, clothes—”
“I get it,” Petra interrupted. Then a thought struck her. “Ariel. She talked about a tree dressed in robes, just like the picture on the shield.”
Dee glanced at Petra, and his face held a new expression. It almost looked like respect. “Yes.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
“I don’t know,” Dee said abruptly. “Ariel mentioned a great deal of things, including the possibility of murder. And here we stand, ready to view Gabriel Thorn’s body. We—you, especially—would do well to consider Ariel’s words.”
What else had she said? Petra remembered the spirit’s warning to Astrophil: Never trust a poet. Petra’s gaze swept down the corridor, over the two-line scraps of verse on each shield. There were hundreds of poets here.
Dee asked, “Would you like to find out why I brought you to Whitehall Palace?”
She did. She couldn’t help it. But she lied. “No.”
“That was a rhetorical question,” said Dee. “Follow me.”
WHITEHALL PALACE SPRAWLED. Petra was used to the splendid but simple form of Salamander Castle, with its square-shaped rooms and orderly hallways. Whitehall felt alive, as if every night, while its occupants were sleeping, it sprouted another room that grew at an impossible angle.
Petra followed Dee into a chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling. She felt swallowed up by the space. “What is this place?” she asked, and her words echoed.
“The Watching Chamber,” Dee replied. “Balls are held here.”
“So it’s for dancing, not watching.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “There is always someone watching.”
Dee led her down a corridor. At the end was a closed door, in front of which stood Walsingham and the man with the hunched back, who gave Petra a keen but not unkind look. “Who is this?”
“My ward,” Dee replied.
“I’m Robert Cecil.” The man took Petra’s hand and gently patted it. “I think you should wait here. A dead body is not a proper sight for a young lady.”
“I agree,” said Walsingham.
“I don’t,” said Dee. “Petra is here to assist me.”
“I am?” Petra asked.
“I’ve had enough of your eccentricities, John,” Walsingham said. “I’m off to the kitchen to question the servants. I doubt that you and your little assistant will discover anything new about the body. But try, by all means.”
He walked away, his shoes clapping against the stone floor.
“He’s a competent man,” Robert Cecil said, watching Walsingham go. “But the queen requires your opinion on the death of the West, John.”
The three of them stepped into a library. Leather bindings, mostly in red and green, gleamed on the shelves. Astrophil would have been awestruck, but Petra felt disappointed. She was wondering why, when she realized that there was nothing remotely magical about Whitehall Palace—not like Prague’s castle, which overflowed with glorious objects and enchanted rooms. This palace made Petra wonder what it was hiding.
Then she saw Gabriel Thorn’s body slumped in a chair.
“He was here from ten o’clock until about eleven o’clock in the morning,” said Cecil. “He had reserved the library for his private study. No one came in, as far as we know.”
Dee studied the body, looking carefully at the face and mouth. “Petra.”
She stayed by Robert Cecil’s side. The body’s skin was already gray, and it seemed to Petra that her scars burned.
“There’s nothing to fear from a dead man,” Cecil said gently.
“That is not always true,” said Dee. After this discomforting statement, which did little to make her forget about the Gray Men, Dee ordered, “Petra, come here.”
Not wanting him to think she was nervous, she did.
“Many poisons are metallic,” Dee began.
“I know that,” Petra snapped. “Do you think my father wouldn’t have warned me about the dangers of metal?”
“Then put that knowledge to good use and tell me if anything about Gabriel Thorn looks unusual.”
“He looks dead.”
“Very insightful, my dear. If your eyes have learned so much, imagine what your touch could do.”
Petra recoiled. She understood what Dee was suggesting. She remembered Tomik asking her to hold the Glowstone and guess what kind of metal it contained. She slipped her hand inside her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the only thing, besides Astrophil and her father’s sword, that she had left of her home. She didn’t squeeze Tomik’s Glowstone, just felt its smooth shape. She often clung to it when she was lonely.
Or afraid.
“I’m not touching a dead body,” she stated.
“You do not have to, if it is too distressing,” Dee said. “By all means run away and hide.”
Petra knew that what he said was a trick, but it worked anyway. She wanted to be brave, and she began to wonder if Dee was correct about her magical gift. Maybe she was special.
She found herself stepping forward. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she laid her palm on Gabriel Thorn’s wrinkled forehead. It was cold and hard.
“Don’t think about what you’re touching,” Dee said. “Think about what it holds.”
Petra remembered the Thames, and how opaque the waters were. Somewhere below the river’s surface was a bottom—muddy, old, and far from the sun. She forgot about the curve of the skull beneath her palm.
The image of a bright, twisting liquid floated in Petra’s mind. She recognized it. “Quicksilver.”
“Good,” said Dee. “Keep your eyes closed.”
She hadn’t realized that they were.
“This will be more difficult,” Dee continued. “Can you tell me how long the quicksilver has been inside the blood? A long time? Since late this morning, or early?”
Petra’s lips automatically formed the answer: “A little after ten o’clock.”