The Celestial Globe

by Marie Rutkoski

  “I agree. However, we should consider other possibilities before focusing on him.”

  Petra mulled over the events of last night. There was something she was forgetting, something that had been troubling her little by little over her stay at Throgmorton Street. It nibbled at the back of her mind. Suddenly, Petra knew what it was. “Agatha Dee.”

  “Surely not. Why would you suspect her? You do not know anything about her.”

  “That’s just it. She’s a mystery. You know that look Madinia and Margaret always give each other? I bet it’s because of their mother, because they want to keep some secret about her hidden from me. You’ve seen Agatha Dee. There’s something wrong with her. Maybe she’s not a killer, but whatever she is, it’s worth finding out.”

  • • •

  AS USUAL, Agatha Dee was nowhere to be found. This time, however, Petra would not be put off so easily by the servants. “I need to talk with her,” she insisted.

  The housekeeper turned away. “Mistress Dee sees nobody unless she pleases.”

  “I’m going to keep asking.”

  “You’re telling, not asking, and it’ll do you no good.”

  “Every day,” Petra said, “I’ll find you and say the same thing.”

  The woman’s face twisted. “Brat,” she muttered at Petra’s retreating back.

  Kit had the day off, so there would be no fencing lesson. But even though Dee himself had stayed up late, and even though his daughters were probably still sleeping, he had told Petra to meet him at the usual early hour. Which was just like him.

  Although . . . Petra had to admit that she didn’t hate their meetings. Not exactly. Not like she had thought she would.

  “Forget trying to make a penny spin in the air,” he had told her during their first lesson in the library, the day after Petra had sensed quicksilver in Thorn’s dead body. “Do not even bother with such tricks. Your gift for metal is clearly less powerful than your father’s. But that doesn’t mean that it is useless. It is simply more subtle. I am sure you can influence metal to some degree. Perhaps you could nudge away an opponent’s sword if you focused enough. Perhaps . . . I wonder . . . you might even be able to change the shape of a metal object, so long as you maintained physical contact with it. We will try such things later on, after you have mastered what I consider to be some basic steps in your training. Now, sit still, be quiet, and tell me what you know about the history of this knife. If it were a person, what would it say?”

  Petra didn’t like being still, or being quiet, or being in Dee’s presence, but she quickly became fascinated by the stories metal had to tell—the knife, for example, had been used in a tavern brawl three years ago to stab a man.

  Dee rarely mentioned her second magical talent, the one she tried so hard to ignore.

  Today, when Petra entered Dee’s library, he was not seated as usual at his desk. He waited in a leather-backed chair, and gestured for her to sit in the one across from him.

  She did, and decided to let him speak first. When he remained silent, she pointedly yawned.

  No response from Dee.

  Petra yawned again, her mouth opening as far as it could stretch.

  “Why are you afraid of mind-magic?” Dee abruptly asked.

  Petra’s jaw snapped shut.

  Dee gazed at her as if he were willing to wait all day for her reply.

  Petra could feel how tense Astrophil was, gripping her ear behind the curtain of her loose hair. I would like to hear your answer, Petra.

  She blurted, “I don’t want to know the future.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if . . . I see something horrible, and I can’t change it?”

  “Many of us see horrible things we cannot change,” said Dee. “As the queen’s spy, I do nothing but see and hear, and there have been many times when I wished I did neither.

  “You could be glad that your gift is not strong. For those who have powerful Second Sight, the magic is worthless. They see machines that run on the liquefied bones of long-dead animals, and endless cities with buildings like tall spears. Then the Second Sight can be almost a curse, since the people who have it are always aware of a future so far removed from our time that it does not even matter.”

  Petra thought about her mother, who could see into the future. How far had she been able to see, and how much had she known?

  “Your gift,” Dee continued, “is something far weaker, and far better.”

  He was speaking delicately to Petra, as if his words were made of glass—or as if she were. She asked, “Why? Why is it better?”

  “What makes a horse know that a storm is coming, or a courtier realize the right words to say? We all have it, and it is called intuition. An internal system of warnings and suggestions that we use without being aware of it. You might not be able to predict the future with any clarity. You might not be able to read minds. But your intuition is stronger than that of the average person.” He smiled slightly. “If you like, I could throw another knife at your head to prove it.”

  In spite of herself, Petra smiled back. Dee’s words gave her a relief she hadn’t even known she needed. So Petra had inherited just a little bit of mind-magic. She thought she could handle that. Yes, she could.

  “But, Petra,” said Dee, “you should realize that this gift, which Ariel called ‘dream-thinking,’ can be useful only if you have faith in it. Let me be clearer. You need to set aside your fear and learn to have faith in yourself.”

  Petra didn’t reply to this, because Dee’s words were all too easy to say, and all too difficult to do.

  Dee folded his long-nailed fingers.

  “Is that it?” Petra asked.

  “Yes. You may go.”

  She had her hand on the door when Dee called, “There is one more thing I wish to discuss.”

  She turned.

  His face had changed. It was stony. “I understand that you have been trying to speak with my wife. Do not do that again.”

  This broke the fragile peace between them.

  “Or what?” Petra taunted. “You’ll kick me out of your house?”

  She left while she still had the last word.

  MORE THAN A WEEK PASSED. Petra kept asking to see Agatha Dee, and was always denied. But she loved watching John Dee’s mouth grow tighter every day. He knew perfectly well that she was disobeying him, and she knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going to do anything to stop her.

  As for Kit, her lessons with him were better . . . and they were worse. As Dee shifted his attention to developing Petra’s “intuition,” as he called it, Petra found that her fencing rapidly improved. Her parries were quick, her thrusts were true, and she had rediscovered the ease with which she was able to bury a dagger in a target many paces away.

  But her encounters with Kit were worse, too, because they rarely spoke. During their first lesson after the winter ball, Kit had looked at Petra expectantly. He had started to speak. But Petra’s cheeks grew hot, and she cut him off. “Let’s get started,” she said. He coolly raised his sword. They fought in silence. And that, it seemed, was that.

  One late afternoon, Petra went to the top floor of the Dees’ house, to a long gallery with paintings and small sculptures. Astrophil had wanted to inspect the art, saying something about “chiaroscuro” and “contrapposto.”

  “Whatever,” Petra interrupted. “Let’s just go.”

  They are very important Italian terms for art, Astrophil lectured as they climbed the staircase.

  I don’t care about chiaropposto and contrascuro.

  You are saying it all wrong! he moaned.

  They were still arguing when Petra opened the gallery door and realized that someone was already in the room.

  It was Agatha Dee, watching the sun set from one of the large windows. She stood as still as one of the marble statues.

  Even though Petra had spent weeks hoping for an opportunity like this, she felt a flare of nervousness. This woman’s blank face wasn’t jus
t strange. It was creepy.

  Petra cleared her throat. “Hello, Mistress Dee.”

  “Call me Agatha.” She watched Petra cross the distance between them. “You have been trying to see me for a long time. I am sorry I have ignored you. I am not a very good hostess. What do you wish to discuss?”

  For a moment, Petra couldn’t remember, because all she wanted to ask was, What is wrong with you? What happened to make you be like this?

  Astrophil prompted her: The death of the West.

  Petra took a deep breath. “What do you know about Gabriel Thorn?”

  “Yes,” said Agatha. “I suspected this would be your question. I heard about your wager with my husband. That is why I have refused to meet with you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No. You wouldn’t.”

  Petra studied her. The woman’s voice had been expressionless, but Petra thought that the words had been tenderly meant, as if it were a good thing that Petra didn’t understand. She remembered Raleigh’s suggestion that several people might have been pleased by Gabriel Thorn’s death, so she asked, “Who would have wanted Thorn dead?”

  “I.”

  Petra stared.

  “I did not poison him,” said Agatha, “but I did wish he would die.” She turned to study an oil painting of a forest so dark green that it was almost black. “Do you miss your parents, Petra?”

  “I—yes. My father,” Petra stammered.

  “And your mother?”

  “She died when I was born. You can’t miss something you never had.”

  Agatha gave her a look. It was empty, but it still made Petra feel as if her skin had been peeled back, exposing something soft and raw. “That sounds like something you say a lot, but I think we both know it is not true. It is very easy to miss something you never had.”

  Petra remembered Agatha’s hands stroking her hair when she was sick, thought of Dita far away in Bohemia, and was silent.

  “My parents died of the plague when I was little,” Agatha said. “If I had been a poor child, I would have been sent to an orphanage. But my family had been wealthy, though I could not touch my money until I came of age, so I was given to the Court of Wards. You do not know what that is, of course. Perhaps it is not so different from an orphanage after all, except the children are rich and so are the people who adopt them. Gabriel and Letticia Thorn adopted me. The Thorns were childless. They only discovered after the adoption that they never really wanted children anyway. My earliest memories are dull and lonely. But that is not so terrible.

  “Gabriel Thorn was a scryer. What could be more convenient than using the child in his own home? His wife did not mind. At first Thorn was careful, but he was an ambitious man. He sought a position of power at court, and wanted to know about secret conversations and political deals. He became impatient, and I became insane.

  “When you look at me, you do not think I feel anything, do you? Yet when Letticia Thorn died, I was glad. When her husband was murdered, I felt a cruel joy.”

  “But . . . you’re not scryer-cracked,” Petra said uncertainly. “Children broken by scryers stay mad forever.”

  “I was mad for many years of my life. I was not aware then that I had any magical talent, but I also wasn’t aware of the difference between night and day. Legally, I became an adult, yet how could I use my inheritance to buy my freedom when I didn’t even know my own name? The Thorns locked me up, and it was easy to hide me from the world, for I had never had any friends.

  “Then, when I was twenty, pieces of my memory began to return. Every day I found a part of myself. I realized where I was, and eventually I could see who stood in the room with me. A young man had approached Gabriel Thorn and asked if he could try to cure his scryer-mad daughter. Thorn initially refused, saying he had no idea what he was talking about. But this man, John Dee, was a spy. He knew the truth about me, and about other things besides, so Thorn agreed.

  “John healed me, as best as he was able. Even if you can fix something broken, you can rarely make it whole again.

  “Some people say I married him out of gratitude. Others say that he fell in love with his success—with the cure, and not with me. Sometimes I am not sure if they are right or wrong. But I never think that this matters, because I know the fact of our love, whatever its source may be.”

  Petra didn’t know what to say.

  “You resent my husband. Maybe you have cause. But he is a good man, and wants to do well by you.” Agatha paused. “Do you have any more questions for me, Petra?”

  “No,” she whispered, and fled.

  FEBRUARY TURNED INTO MARCH, and March lengthened. Petra continued her lessons, and although she couldn’t like Dee any better, Agatha’s story made her wonder if she should respect him. She didn’t—not yet—but waited to see if she would.

  “WE’VE GOT NEWS for you, Petra,” Madinia crowed. Petra was sitting with the twins in the parlor, which was decorated with potted plants.

  Oh, no, said Astrophil. If I have to listen to her describe the spring dress patterns one more time, I might scream. Loud enough for everyone to hear. I mean it, Petra. I will open my tin mouth and tell her that—

  “Robert Cotton is dead!” said Madinia.

  “What?” said Petra.

  “It’s true,” said Margaret. “He was found in his library.”

  “With his head bashed in,” her sister added. “And you know what else? He had been dead for months.”

  “For several weeks, anyway,” Margaret corrected.

  “His corpse must have been a nasty, pulpy, bloated, purple stink.”

  My, said Astrophil, how unpleasant. I am glad I will not decompose when I die.

  “Astrophil!”

  “What did you say?” said Margaret.

  “Nothing,” said Petra. Then she shouted at the spider, Don’t talk like that! You won’t die!

  The sisters were still staring at her.

  “What?” Petra snapped.

  “You said, ‘Astro-something,’ ” said Madinia. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I . . . used a Czech word. Sorry. I forgot my English.”

  “The news about Robert Cotton is startling.” Margaret nodded.

  “But we thought you’d like to know,” said Madinia. “You were asking questions about him, and I’m always ready to share good gossip.”

  “Cotton was murdered,” Margaret reproved. “That’s not exactly good gossip.”

  “Well, it’s his own fault if I don’t care a jot that he’s dead. He never left his library, unless it was to buy books. It’s a miracle anyone ever found out he had died, and that he didn’t have any pets, because I would bet you my new ivory-handled fan that if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything left of his corpse.”

  “Madinia, you’re disgusting! Could we please stop talking about dead bodies and animals that eat them?”

  “Why? You’re the one who brought it up!”

  Margaret grabbed a book and flung herself into a chair in the corner of the room. Madinia decided she was going to ignore her sister, too, so she snatched a watering can from a nearby end table and huffily began watering the plants.

  Petra’s mind was racing. Robert Cotton was murdered, too? This must be linked to the death of the West . . . but how?

  She wanted to figure this out, but was soon distracted by a fresh burst of conversation between the sisters.

  “Madinia”—Margaret turned a page of her book—“those cuckooflowers are fake.”

  “Fake?” Madinia was pouring a thin arc of water onto pink petals.

  “The flowers are made of silk.”

  “Since when? I’ve been watering that plant for two years!” The water flowed over the pot and dripped onto the floor. “Oh, fig!”

  “You shouldn’t swear. And that plant has always been fake. You can’t possibly think Dad would allow real cuckooflowers in the house.”

  “Why not?” Petra had never heard of the plant before.


  “Cuckooflowers can’t keep their mouths shut,” said Madinia.

  “Flowers don’t have mouths,” said Margaret.

  “You know what I mean!”

  “You know how flowers have pollen?” Margaret asked Petra, who nodded. “And how humans shed pieces of themselves?”

  “Um, no. Do people have detachable toes in England?”

  Madinia giggled, but since one of Petra’s closest friends had fingers with invisible tips that could extend very far, she wasn’t taking anything for granted. As far as Petra knew, the English did have detachable toes.

  “You do it all the time: you lose eyelashes, a hair falls from your head, you scratch away a patch of dry skin,” Margaret explained. “If you do that around a cuckooflower, it will absorb this into its pollen. And the flower will remember you. If this plant was a real cuckooflower, and I ripped off a petal, it might yell ‘Margaret!’ or ‘Madinia!’ or ‘Petra!’ ”

  “So,” said Petra, “a cuckooflower isn’t so great to have in a house with a spy who wants to keep his meetings secret.”

  “Not so much,” Madinia said. “I mean, if someone found out that Dad had met with the West on the morning of his death—”

  “Madinia!” Margaret’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Oops.” Madinia bit her lip.

  “What she means to say”—Margaret turned to Petra—“is that if, hypothetically, Dad had met with the West, it would raise some questions. But since he was listening to us play the lute that morning, there’s no problem.”

  No problem? Astrophil murmured. Did that sound like a lie to you, Petra? Because it certainly did to me.

  Petra agreed. She didn’t understand how the deaths of Robert Cotton and Gabriel Thorn were related, but this conversation with Madinia and Margaret made other things fall into place. Petra remembered how Walsingham and Cecil had expected some kind of reaction from Dee on the day they met at Whitehall to inspect Thorn’s body. She knew that Thorn had almost destroyed Agatha’s mind. Petra recalled Dee’s anger when Walsingham referred to his “brain-addled charity cases.” Madinia and Margaret must know Agatha’s story, or they wouldn’t be worried about protecting their father—and maybe they should be worried, if Dee had met with Thorn so soon before his death. Dee could have easily slipped quicksilver into Thorn’s wine.