by David Walton
1. The beetle could walk through every material they tested except for wax and earth.
2. The table was not special. Once Parris scraped away the waxy resin that had been used to treat the tabletop, the beetle fell straight through it to be caught in the box he held underneath.
3. The pale wood of the beetle's box had not been treated, but the inside was covered with a natural waxy oil that imprisoned the beetle just as effectively.
4. The beetle could pass into the box, but not out of it— which didn't make any sense at all, but made an effective trap. Sinclair could slam the closed box down on top of the beetle, or slide the box along the table into it, forcing it to pass through into a prison from which it could not escape. Sinclair tried it several times, apparently pleased with the theatricality.
The fourth point was especially intriguing. How could the wax work to trap the beetle in one direction, but not in the other? Either it could pass through wax or it couldn't. The direction shouldn't matter. Was it possible the beetle had control over its ability? In which case . . . it wanted to be in the box? It was one possible theory, but not a very satisfying one. In any event, the waxy wood seemed a necessary part of the beetle's ability to survive.
"You must still admit the hand of God who created the tree to exude such an oil," Parris said.
Sinclair shrugged. "Just another mystery, to which we must pose questions. What does the tree gain from the oil? Perhaps protection from creatures that would eat its bark. Or perhaps the beetle itself provides some value to the tree."
Parris laughed. "Are you saying the tree decided to exude the oil to encourage the beetle to nest in its branches?"
"It's a mystery, as I said. And one we must travel there to solve."
CATHERINE shifted on the stairs, annoyed. Here she was, peeking through the banister like a child up past bedtime, while they were investigating one of the most remarkable animals ever seen. It was no use getting dressed and then trying to join them. It would take Blanche half an hour to arrange her gown and hair to Mother's satisfaction, and by that time the men's conversation would be over. Or if it wasn't, Mother would find some other reason to pull her away.
She itched to ask her own questions. Where did the beetle go, when it passed through a solid object? It implied there was some other place, some spirit world parallel to their own, into which it could momentarily pass. She wondered what would happen if two such beetles met on their way through a solid object. Would each beetle pass through the other? Or would they collide?
The light through the windows darkened, and wind whipped at the shutters. It would storm soon. A shadow behind Master Sinclair deepened, and she peered more closely at it. It had an odd shape, like a man crouched very still. It was too small to be a man, though, and it had what looked like huge claws extending from its hands. The light filtering through the red curtains gave the impression of orange fur tipped with black. Catherine was not prone to fits of fancy or to imagining goblins in dark corners, but it looked real. Then its eyes flicked open, revealing large yellow irises around pupils of deep black, and she screamed.
As soon as she did so, the creature vanished. The men ran toward her, but Mother was quicker, bursting through the door and up the stairs with Henshawe right behind her. Catherine stood there like a fool, still pointing at the corner with a hand over her mouth.
Mother felt her cheeks and head. "She's flushed."
"What did you see?" Father said.
Catherine looked from one of her parents to the other. "Nothing. I'm sorry." She stumbled up the top steps and fled to her room.
PARRIS stoked the sitting room fire, relishing the warmth and the sharp smell of burning wood. It gave him something to look at besides his wife, who was knitting again.
"Sinclair showed me something from Chelsey's island," he said. "A beetle that couldn't be trapped or killed. It flew straight through solid matter as sure as the Lady Mary is a Papist."
He waited, not looking at her. There was no sound but the crackle of the fire and the steady, soft click of her needles.
"This island," he said, trying again. "What if it holds the answers? The truth about the soul and life and death?"
"Folly," Joan said. "We have enough troubles here in London without seeking more at the edge of the world."
"Sinclair plans to form a colony. Chelsey left half his crew behind, so there should already be the rudiments of a settlement. He'll be taking families, men and women, as many as want to go."
"And you're saying what? That you want to go with him?"
"What if I do? He's looking for the same answers I am."
"Don't be a fool," Joan said. "He's just after your money."
Parris stole a glance at her. "We may not be able to stay in England anyway. The king won't live for long, and when he dies, Mary will take the throne. I'm not as important as a Cranmer or a Ridley, but my day will come. When it does, I'd better be out of the country."
"Rubbish. Who are you? You're a physic, not a bishop. You're not even a minister."
"But my name is on the Articles."
Her needles fell silent. "What?" she whispered.
"I was at the king's bedside when they were written. I signed my name to them as witness."
"The Forty- two Articles?"
"Yes."
"The refutation of Roman doctrine? Cranmer's Articles?"
"Yes, the very same! They were true. I believed them. I would sign them again."
Joan pursed her lips and shook her head. "So sign a recantation. Swallow your pride and return to the Church."
"I can't. I won't yield to Popery."
"You won't yield. Oh, yes, the physic will take a stand beside the archbishops and theologians. Please, Stephen. Greater men than you have bent in the wind."
Parris had known this wouldn't be easy. "We will have to flee London, one way or another."
"So this is your plan? You're serious? To drag your wife and daughter on this doomed expedition? The last people to go to this island died."
"We might die if we stay. We could return to our lands in Derbyshire and lie low, but it would be a risk."
"And what about Catherine?"
"She must come, too, of course."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"It'll be good for her. She'll see new things, experience more of life."
Joan counted on shaking fingers. "Disease? Malnutrition? Untamed jungle, dirt, and mosquitoes? Or the company of sailors and adventurers? Tell me, Stephen, which of these will be good for her?"
"There is more to life than comforts."
For a moment Parris thought she was actually going to cry. "This is no escape," she said. "To run to a place from which no one has returned alive. This is a death sentence of a different kind."
"It has its dangers," Parris said, "but it may also have its rewards."
"Well then, I shall look forward to seeing you on your return: mad as a March hare and dead within a fortnight."
"It won't be like that."
"Not for Catherine and me, it won't. We'll stay with my sister."
"Woman, you'll do as I say!" His voice broke at this, and he coughed to get it back under control. "If not for the king's illness, I would leave you and Catherine here. But you would be held hostage against my return. It wouldn't matter that you had nothing to do with the Articles."
She regarded him coldly. "As usual, men do as they will, and women must bear the consequences."
"Believe me, I would spare you this if I could."
She flashed him a hard, bitter smile. "You should have thought of that before now."
Henshawe knocked lightly and then pushed open the door. "Two gentlemen to see you, sir."
"Who is it?" Joan said.
"The master's cousin, Francis Vaughan, with a Spaniard."
Parris sighed. "Show them to the parlor," he said, but Henshawe didn't have a chance to obey. Vaughan strode into the room uninvited, his Spanish friend right behind him.
Chapter
Five
CATHERINE felt like a fool. No one would have believed her if she'd told them what she'd seen. But there had been something in the corner. Only it wasn't there a moment later, leaving her to wonder if she'd imagined the whole thing. But if snakes could turn to wood and beetles could turn intangible, surely a creature with for and claws might disappear.
She held herself erect while Blanche, her young maidservant, laced up her corset. Women's gowns were not as comfortable as girls', but now that she was sixteen, Mother insisted she wear them. The new gowns announced that she was a woman grown, old enough to marry. Old enough to attract looks from men of all ages.
Mother was constantly reminding her how important marriage was, how much could be gained with wealth and a title, how they had to make good use of Father's favor with the king before he did something foolish enough to lose it. But no one she met at Mother's balls was half as interesting as that little beetle she'd watched crawl over the parlor table.
She inhaled so Blanche could pull the laces as tight as possible. Blanche had been with her for over a year, and was now much better at her work. At the start, recently come from France, she'd known only a few words of English and hadn't been very skilled. Of course, Catherine spoke French, and she could tell that Blanche— though she tried to hide it— understood Latin. It was unusual for a servant girl. She suspected Blanche had a secret past, and amused herself by imagining what it might be. Blanche worked hard, though, both at her tasks and at her English. Catherine liked having a girl her own age around, so she never complained.
The gown came over her head, and Blanche arranged the French hood to frame her face. Catherine spun in front of a large mirror of polished tin, trying to catch a glimpse of what she must look like. The distorted reflection was hardly like the real thing, but it was enough. Father had scowled when Mother gave her this dress, warning that she was too young to be out in society. She thought Mother and Father should strike a deal: he would let her pick the dresses, and she would let him cut up dead bodies as much as he wanted.
Mother didn't think she knew about the dead bodies, but she did. Of course she knew. It was shocking, but that didn't bother her. The world was changing. Even religion was changing, with Englishmen boldly biting their thumbs at the power of Rome. Bishop Marcheford had called the Pope an antichrist from the pulpit on Sunday and denounced Papists as worse than pagans. In such a world, Father's secret experiments seemed thrilling, not frightening: a defiance of old institutions.
She might even have revered him, if he had spoken to her from time to time. As it was, he mostly irritated her, with his pompous speeches about how she wasn't ready to be out in society. How did he know what she was ready for? He barely knew her anymore.
Once, a few months earlier, she had told Matthew Marcheford that she hated her father. She had just been angry at some incident she couldn't even remember now, but Matthew had been appalled. He was a good friend, but she should have thought twice before making shocking confessions to the son of a bishop. He was going to be just like his father: educated, eloquent, brilliant . . . and so upright and honorable it made her sick.
Catherine dipped her fingers in a basin by the mirror and touched the cool water to her eyelids. When she opened them again, the orange creature sat in the corner behind her writing desk. A scream leaped into her throat, but she fought it back down. She was not going to cause another commotion only to have it disappear again. The creature was about her size and had a startlingly human face. Its long, curved claws curved toward each other like a crab's pincers, and she could see now that it had many tails— at least six— that waved back and forth behind and above it. One of the tails, much thicker than the others, ended in a bony spine that looked needle- sharp.
Catherine whispered to Blanche as quietly as she could. "Look over there by the desk."
Blanche turned too quickly, and the creature sprang away and disappeared into the wall. Blanche narrowed her eyes. "I saw something." She approached the corner, which was now clearly empty, and waved her foot where the creature had been. "Was it a mouse?"
Catherine shook her head. At least Blanche had seen the movement— which meant Catherine wasn't crazy. "Come with me," she said.
Father's library was filled with books, scrolls, unbound sheafs of parchment, and boxes full of letters from all around the world. She trolled the shelves until she found what she was looking for: the thirty-seven volumes of Pliny the Elder's Naturalis Historia, the last work he completed before dying in the eruption of Vesuvius. She pulled out the eighth volume—On Beastes— and paged through it until she found what she was looking for.
She read the Latin out loud. "Likewise there is a beast which he calleth Manticoras, having three ranks of teeth, which when they meet together are one within another like the teeth of combs: with the face and ears of a man, with red eyes; of color sanguine, bodied like a lion, but having a tail armed with a sting like a scorpion: his voice resembleth the noise of a flute and trumpet sounded together: very swift he is"— she paused and looked up at Blanche as she finished the sentence—"and man's flesh of all others he most desireth."
Blanche's eyes were wide. "Is that what you saw?"
"It didn't have red eyes," Catherine said. "They were human eyes, like yours or mine. And I couldn't see its teeth."
"But . . . in the house? Was it real?"
Catherine pursed her lips. "I have to tell Father."
They raced together into the sitting room. Catherine burst through without knocking, clutching the book, and then stopped dead at the sight of both her parents talking with Cousin Vaughan and a stranger with a massive head of black curls and dead eyes. Blanche, coming through the door right behind her, gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.
Catherine had once thought Vaughan handsome, with his lavish red Spanish cloak and lacy cuff s and that elegant little pointed beard. But the looks he'd given her over the past year made her uncomfortable. A few months back, he had cornered her in an alcove and told her she was growing more beautiful every day. He might have done more, but the sound of a door closing had spooked him, and he'd run off .
The stranger wore an acre of black cloth more like a priest's cassock than a gentleman's cloak. He had a large jaw and deep- set eyes that scanned the room relentlessly. Blanche shrank back until she was half hidden behind Catherine.
Vaughan swept an ostrich-feather hat from his head and gave her a deep bow. "Miss Catherine." He turned back to Father and indicated the stranger. "This is Diego de Tavera, an aide and friend to the Spanish ambassador."
Father nodded his head somewhat curtly, and Catherine dropped a curtsy.
"I have private business with you, cousin," Vaughan said.
"I have nothing more to give you," Father said.
Vaughan's smile was not friendly. "I'm not after money."
They held each other's gaze until Father said, "Very well." He walked out of the room with Vaughan following, leaving Catherine, Blanche, and Mother alone with the Spaniard.
They all stared at each other, no one moving. Catherine hadn't been pleased to see Cousin Vaughan, but this stranger with the dead eyes frightened her even more.
PARRIS slammed the parlor door and glared at Vaughan. "What do you want?"
"How is the king?" Vaughan asked.
"He's well."
"Really?"
"The picture of health."
"You see, I am just returned from Framlingham."
Parris froze. "To see the Princess Mary," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Her Grace must know." Vaughan's voice was barely audible, a breath in his ear. "She must be prepared."
So Vaughan wasn't looking for money, after all. This subject was far more dangerous, and it was not a conversation Parris wanted to be anywhere near. "No one can say when the king will die, least of all me," Parris said. "Pray God he lives to seventy and sires many sons for England." He moved to leave the room, but Vaughan caught his arm.
"Come, now, cousin.
Everyone knows the king doesn't have long to live. What I want to know is, who will the king will name as his successor?"
"You want to know? Or your Spanish friend does?"
"Tavera is Mary's confidant. Once she takes the throne, Catholic Spain will be our strongest ally."
"Then why ask me?"
