Maid of Wonder (26 page)

Arc closes his eyes briefly, as if absorbing a staggering blow. I know the answer before his eyes open again, but they do at last, holding me still. “I told you. I dare not,” he whispers, and there is something in his voice . . . something almost
familiar
. “Were I to be so bold, I would steal away your breath, your life, your soul. As mine was once taken from me.” He steps sharply away from me then and catches up my hand. He seems frozen for a moment, with so much anger, anguish, and an emotion I cannot name roiling off him, it is as if he were trapped in its storm. Then, so quickly
I do not have time to think, he pulls my hand to his mouth and presses his lips against the skin of my palm.

Fire jolts through me, alighting my blood and bones. I gasp but cannot pull away—
will
not pull away—even if it were to mean death itself. Arc straightens and puts my hand against his heart. “Forgive me,” he rasps, but I am too shocked by what I feel beneath my fingers.

“It
beats
,” I say.

“It beats.” And just that quickly he pushes my hand away, as if gifting me with the very essence of his being. “Go,” he orders me. “Go save your Queen, Sophia. She is worth saving.”

Sound crashes all around me.

I have been thrust back into the middle of the Samhain spectacle, not five feet from the Queen. My heart pounds with urgency, all of the horror and fear and knowing I have gained this night knifing through me at once. I turn, surging forward as Elizabeth leans down to bite her pastry.

“Your Grace!” I cry.

The Queen looks up, her eyes wide and shocked as I fly up the dais and bat the cake out of her hand. “Poison!” I say, and she draws back in horror. At that moment, however, a series of fireworks lights up the night sky. It is midnight on Samhain. All the energy in the castle seems to crystallize as Walsingham bursts up the dais as well, stumbling to his knees before the Queen, mad in his urgency to reach her.

But I don't see him. I see only Arc, still standing in the crowd, lost and alone. Around him the angels remain as well, sharing space with the Queen's court on this one night a year.
Spirits and mortals, standing as one, the veil between the worlds ripped asunder. Is this why the dark angel could truly appear to me only now, in the moments before midnight? But for how long? And what is this nagging certainty I have that I cannot yet let him leave?

The thunderous chimes of the Windsor clock strike the first bell of their dolorous refrain.

What was it he said?
I think desperately. “
Not even when the clock strikes twelve—” What is it he meant?

One . . . two . . .
The cacophony of the court musicians starts again, and I fly down the stairs, determined to reach Arc once more. My task is done, the Queen is safe. Surely I can have this moment, to see him for what he truly is! The clock is striking
three . . . four . . .

The dark angel takes a shocked step backward, but then he stills, not trying to stop me as I race toward him. The clock strikes
five . . . six . . .
The music is wild around us, and some country dance has started, but we are not a part of it. Instead Arc opens his arms and I run into them, wanting to get as close to him as I can, knowing it is not enough, that it can never be enough.
Seven . . . eight . . .
My mind records the chimes as a death knell. I urge myself closer still. Wanting to feel his heart against my heart, his hand against my hand. I strain up to see his face, and he is looking down at me, so close to me that I can feel the heat of his lips hovering over mine. His heart is pounding in a frantic rhythm. The sound of it almost drowns out the clanging tower bells, but of course it cannot.
Nine . . . ten . . .
His eyes are haggard with pain and . . . something else, something I have never seen before in the eyes of any man.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice broken. I am desperate, begging, but I don't care. I truly don't care.

I reach up and wrench the mask from his face, my world narrowing to a pinprick.

“No!” I scream, shocked to my core at what I see.

“I cannot . . .” Arc cries, wheeling away as the clock strikes twelve. Whatever he says next is lost in a scream of angels as he is torn away from me, pulled deep into the howling winds of the shadowy realm. I feel something else pulling at me as well, yanking me from this place even as I fight and clamor for Arc to return, to speak to me, to explain.

Instead he is thrust backward, his cloak wrapped around him once more, the shadowy hood turning as if to catch one last glimpse of me as well, until all that is left is the gleam of fire in the far-off distance, blazing around his shadowed cowl.

And then even that winks out.

I stagger back, and feel a different hand on me, a different bolstering body.

“Arc!” I shout, only it's not him. It is Marcus, strong and real and mortal, holding me up as if I weigh nothing.

“Sophia!” he says. “You disappeared! Not once, but twice. The first was but a flicker, and you went from the stage to the Queen's side in that breath. The second—” He hesitates, glancing up at the clock. “Was at about six strikes of the clock.”

I let him steady me, willing myself not to loose the scream burbling up inside. “You saw nothing else?” I ask, my voice rough, intense, but Marcus only shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Whatever you saw on the other side of
the veil, I did not see. But come,” he urges me. “Maude disappeared that way, toward the Visitors Apartments. There is a passage there that opens to the forest.” He reaches out his hand for me, and I place mine in it. Instantly the Sight rushes over us both, rendering the riotous crowd into shadows and light.

And we are off. Where a normal man would take a stride in a breath, we take six, racing through the throng as if they were ankle deep in mud, while our feet barely touch the ground. Before we are halfway across the Upper Ward, I see Maude disappearing into the entryway to the Visitors Apartments. Just as we reach that shadowy opening, however, I see her fat form thrust back toward us.
What is this?

Stumbling to the side, Marcus and I barely avoid crashing into Maude as she falls backward in a puddle of skirts.

“What, 'o!” she screeches into the dark passageway, even as the guards race up behind us, swooping low to yank the woman to her feet. “What manner of man are you, to treat a lady so poorly?”

John Dee steps out of the Visitors Apartments entrance in his full scholarly robes, dusting his hands off, looking quite smug.

“I knew she would try that,” he says, smiling at me with fierce excitement.

For the first time in well more than a year, I want to hug the man.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The sun looms high in the sky as I linger just down the road leading from the King's Gate, Will Seton at my side. He would not allow me to escape the castle without him as protection, and nothing I said would dissuade him from his path. Along with my fellow maids, I have made my formal good-byes to Dee and Marcus, but I find that is not nearly enough.

And so I stand in the still wood of Windsor Forest, waiting to encounter my past and future once more.

Maude did not last the night at Windsor Castle. Before Anna could arrive at her side, screeching at the guards to bind the herb mistress's hands, Maude had grabbed a pouch from her bodice and poured its contents into her own mouth. She died within minutes, mute and convulsing, bending at the waist. Her weapon of choice for her demise was a powerful dose of belladonna, according to Anna, who examined Maude after they transferred her body to the nearest empty chamber in the Visitors Apartments, away from curious eyes.

I suspect Maude wanted her tale to die with her, but that was not to be. Once I'd explained that I'd seen the shade of
Elizabeth's mother looking down upon the gathered crowd in the Upper Ward, the Queen went on a tear, demanding that I ask the angels to tell me the whole story. I complied, of course—what choice did I have? Though by the time they brought me back to consciousness, the horrible damage to my eyes gave even the Queen pause.

Still, I could tell her what I saw.

Sunlight shimmered down on Windsortown, a scene that could have happened just this morning. But the woman laboring to haul her cart of herbs and potions into the center of the town square was not Mistress Maude. At least not the Mistress Maude I knew. Instead, it was a younger, stronger version of that woman, not so round or grey. And she was not alone either. An old woman with smiling eyes and a wise laugh walked at her side. Her mother.

The scene extended in front of me, a bolt of cloth unfurled. I saw a royal litter approaching, bearing the Queen—but not my Queen. No, this woman was dressed in flame-red and gold, her hair and eyes as dark as midnight, her mouth full and her manner bold. In my mind's eye, Anne Boleyn descended from her royal perch to grace the town of Windsor, and all who greeted her bowed and stared.

And then she saw Maude and her mother, and they saw her.

Time folded on itself, and shattered.

The rest was poured into my mind as if from an overfilled cup.

Anne Boleyn, the beautiful Queen consort of King Henry, mother to the baby princess Elizabeth herself, had long fled rumors that she was a witch. The moles on her neck; her sharp, piercing gaze; even the angle of her fingers had been the cause of scandalous whispers, especially as the months
wore on and she did not give birth to the longed-for male heir. During her stay at Windsor Castle, the Queen visited Maude and her mother countless times, in search of a cure to clear her complexion, to straighten her hands . . . all for naught.

But Anne Boleyn was no fool. She knew the court had turned against her, and she was desperate for someone else to draw its fickle ire.

So on that day in Windsortown, in the full and brilliant sunlight, she lifted her hand—and pointed to Maude's smiling mother, ensuring her demise.

“Witch,” she cried.

With the sound of crackling fire all around me, I saw the horror play out. A questioning. A trial. A mockery of justice. The screams of a woman too quickly judged but not too quickly killed, her anguished cries washing over me—and over her still-young daughter, Maude, whose eyes were filled with horror, and with hate.

Anne Boleyn did not survive the year. Her daughter Elizabeth did, however. And so did Mistress Maude, biding her time and stoking her fury, until she could wreak her revenge.
Death plays your Queen in a game without end. It circles and crosses, then strikes once again.

Even now, I shudder to think of Maude's terrible expression as her mother died. I can only imagine the agony she endured, to see her mother suffer such a ghastly death. I cannot help but sympathize with her fury as she saw the daughter of her greatest enemy lifted to a position of power, celebrated by all the land.

It will be ever thus for the Queen, I am certain. Consider young Robert Moreland's wife, carrying her baby, her sorrow, and the body of her fallen husband back to Gravesend. . . . If she ever learns the truth of what happened to her husband, who is to say she won't seek her revenge against Elizabeth one day as well? Being a monarch is a dark and dangerous business. But being someone who stands in the way of that monarch getting what she wants? That is more dangerous by far.

Something for me to remember.

But, for this day I am well assured of my place in Elizabeth's affections—and in her court. Even Cecil and Walsingham have begun to treat me with greater diffidence, acknowledging me as an equal among the maids, and no longer the quiet, strange girl who serves no clear purpose. The Queen, for her part, apparently seeks not only to use my gifts but to nourish them, providing me aught that I might need to increase my skills and abilities in the angelic realm. I still do not entirely know what that training will entail: audiences with masters of the arcane, certainly, learned men from across the Continent. More work with Dee as well. Even that idea no longer fills me with dismay. My uncle and I have much to overcome, yes. But there is at least the promise of a new beginning between us, and for that I am more grateful than I would have expected. My world is not so full of those who understand me, it seems, that I would push away someone I have known my whole life, as flawed as he may be.

Only the maids remain unchanged in their treatment of
me. They have always been there for me, and I do not need the Sight to know they always will be.

A small flutter of happiness unfurls within me, and I brush my hands down my skirts, once again startled by the roughness I feel on my palm. I discovered this injury shortly after we captured Maude, but it still catches me unawares. I wonder if it always will.

Two curved slashes of raised white skin scar my palm, like a burn from a long-ago fire. The slashes barely meet at the edges, and if I didn't know better, I would say I'd been burned by a set of kitchen tongs, or pincers.

But I
do
know better.

In my mind's eye I flash to Arc, flinching back from me, telling me in a haggard whisper that I dare not touch his face. Arc, who moments later kissed my hand as if he were desperate for some small remembrance of me. I run my fingers over the roughened, puckered white skin, and a thrill of awareness skates along my nerves. I have a piece of him, the barest shred.

And something more, too.

A hint. A clue. A promise for the future.

For when I pulled the mask away from Arc's face, in the moment the clock struck midnight on Samhain, when I could still see him for what he once had been, who he truly was, it was not an unknown face that stared back at me, but one I recognized very well.

What manner of magic is this?
I wonder again. And what might it all entail?

“Here they are, Miss Sophia.” Will Seton's gruff voice
recalls me to the bright sunshine, and I squint to see that Dee and Marcus are indeed riding toward us, their horses fresh and fine, clearly more gifts from the Queen.

Marcus sees us first, urging his horse forward into a trot. “I'll keep your uncle here,” Seton says, grinning at me. “But don't take too long. You know the Queen guards her maids most jealously.”

“Thank you, Will,” I say, and then I am moving my horse as well, turning the young mare into line with Marcus's as he rides up. We take a well-worn trail into the forest, and I smile to think on it. How many times have I walked this way, heading for my scrying glade? And how different the forest feels today!

“Sophia.” Marcus guides his horse up beside mine until our legs are touching. I look at him across the short space between us. He leans close, and I meet him halfway, our lips pressing together briefly, chastely. . .

And then not so chastely.

Suddenly Marcus's hands are at my waist, pulling me half out of my saddle as my mare shifts and stamps. My arms naturally go around him for support, and he deepens the kiss, sighing as I return his urgency.

For the face I saw when I tore away Arc's mask was no longer scarred, no longer brutalized. Instead, the dark angel's entire visage had shifted, becoming Marcus's face. Marcus, who now holds me as if I were an answer to his prayers; Marcus, who in many ways is the answer to my own—someone to walk this path with me, to venture forth both on this plane and in the angelic realm. A young man
whose abilities fit with mine like a hand in a glove, and whose eyes shine with an emotion I am only now beginning to understand. An emotion that fills me up as well, until my heart is near to bursting with it, like a thousand stars all soaring across the nighttime sky at once.

“Sophia,” Marcus murmurs at last. “Say that you will find me in London. Say that you will not force me to wait any longer than I must.”

“You have already planted the seeds in the Queen's mind,” I say, just as earnestly. “To hear Dee talk, you could serve as my honorable champion, guiding me through the spirit world under his careful eyes.”

“Champion, yes,” Marcus all but groans. “Honorable, I cannot promise you.” He pulls away to look down at me, and again I wonder at his intensity. For so long, I have stood alone against the buffeting winds of chance and fate. Now, to imagine that I will find shelter in Marcus's embrace in the future . . . it is almost too much to consider, a gift more precious than gold.

But it is not the only gift that Marcus has brought me. The sight of his face in the angelic realm is as much a key for me to better understand that mysterious plane as my existence was a key to John Dee, I feel it in my bones. I take Marcus's hands in mine, keen to learn more, but unsure of what effect my words will have.

“Marcus, before your trouble in the spirit world, did you ever interact with the angels directly?”

He frowns at me, his expression not affronted, only curious. “I don't think so. I told you, your face is the only one I have ever recalled after returning from that plane. I don't remember the words I speak, or the visions that I see.” He smiles. “It's what makes me so good as a channel. The fact that I can tell all, but remember none of it, is highly valued by the men who wish to pierce the veil.”

“But you once were stronger than you are now, on the other side, were you not?” I ask. “Before you were harmed so cruelly?”

“I don't want to speak about that,” he says, his words more strained as worry haunts his face, his eyes searching mine now almost frantically. “And you shouldn't either, truly. What have you seen on the other side that you ask such questions of me?”

“Sophia! Marcus!” Will Seton's booming voice sounds from the edge of the road, and we turn in our saddles, breaking away from each other and shifting our horses farther apart. A moment later Dee rides into the clearing. “We must away, Marcus. As it is, we will barely make it by nightfall, and I've no desire to put up at an inn if we can avoid it.”

He regards the two of us with interest, and I can practically see the calculations in his mind. As Marcus ably stated, Dee is no fool. If he thinks there is more to my relationship with Marcus than mere friendship, he will use that to his advantage. By his own admission, there is much about the angelic realm that he wishes to understand. “Sophia,” he says, “please know that you are welcome at any time at my residence in London. I expect I will be at the Queen's bidding during the Christmas holidays, but I do hope we can spend some time in conversation while we are in the city. Marcus will be working quite closely with me. So many new experiments to try, at the Queen's command.”

“Of course,” I say. I smile at Marcus, but his face is still set with worry, his thoughts distracted by my questions about the terrible attack he endured in the spirit realm. I try to put him at ease about it as best I can, but his mere reaction to the topic has given me the assurance I need. “Worry not, Marcus,” I say. “I didn't see anything in the angelic realm that would cause me harm. In fact, the more I see, the more I agree with you that we must strengthen your abilities as well within that plane, so that we can truly walk among the angels together, and provide my uncle with all that he might seek.”

“Absolutely!” Dee says, thoroughly pleased by this line of thinking. He turns his horse around, nose toward the road. “Follow me then, Marcus,” he says over his shoulder. “Don't let me get too far ahead.”

Marcus's eyes widen at the second reprieve Dee is granting us, but he doesn't waste it. Urging his horse close to mine once more, he leans over and captures my face with his hands. His lips press against mine like a benediction, and once more my hand burns where it was scarred by the dark angel. There is some link between them, I am sure of it. But this is not the time to share that with Marcus. We will have opportunity enough for that, in the days and weeks and months that stretch ahead of us, filled with promise. Marcus and I were meant to walk this path together, in this world and the next, and I cannot wait to begin that journey with him.