Deborah Harkness - Shadow of Night

At that moment George hurried into the front hall. A blast of cold air entered with him.

“I have news!” He flung his cloak aside and struck a proud pose.

Kit groaned and put his head in his hands. “Don’t tell me. That idiot Ponsonby is pleased with your translation of Homer and wants to publish it without further corrections.”

“Not even you will dim my pleasure in today’s achievements, Kit.” George looked around expectantly. “Well? Are none of you the least bit curious?”

“What is your news, George?” Matthew said absently, tossing the trap into the air and catching it again.

“I found Mistress Roydon’s manuscript.”

Matthew’s grip on the rat trap tightened. The mechanism sprang open. When he released his fingers, it fell to the table with a clatter as it snapped shut again. “Where?”

George took an instinctive step backward. I’d been on the receiving end of my husband’s questions and understood how disconcerting a full blast of vampiric attention could be.

“I knew you were the man to find it,” I told George warmly, putting my hand on Matthew’s sleeve to slow him down. George was predictably mollified by this remark and returned to the table, where he pulled out a chair and sat.

“Your confidence means a great deal to me, Mistress Roydon,” George said, taking off his gloves. He sniffed. “Not everyone shares it.”

“Where. Is. It?” Matthew asked slowly, his jaw clenched.

“It is in the most obvious place imaginable, hiding in plain sight. I am rather surprised we did not think of it straightaway.” He paused once more to make sure he had everyone’s full attention. Matthew emitted a barely audible growl of frustration.

“George,” Kit warned. “Matthew has been known to bite.”

“Dr. Dee has it,” George blurted out when Matthew shifted his weight.

“The queen’s astrologer.” George was right: We should have thought of the man long before this. Dee was an alchemist, too—and had the largest library in England. “But he’s in Europe.”

“Dr. Dee returned from Europe over a year ago. He’s living outside London now.”

“Please tell me he isn’t a witch, daemon, or vampire,” I said.

“He’s just a human—and an utter fraud,” Marlowe said. “I wouldn’t trust a thing he says, Matt. He used poor Edward abominably, forcing him to peer into crystal stones and talk to angels about alchemy day and night. Then Dee took all the credit!”

“‘Poor Edward’?” Walter scoffed, opening the door without invitation or ceremony and stepping inside. Henry Percy was with him. No member of the School of Night could be within a mile of the Hart and Crown and not be drawn irresistibly to my hearth. “Your daemon friend led him by the nose for years. Dr. Dee is well rid of him, if you ask me.” Walter picked up the rat trap. “What’s this?”

“The goddess of the hunt has turned her attention to smaller prey,” Kit said with a smirk.

“Why, that’s a mousetrap. But no one would be foolish enough to make a mousetrap out of silver gilt,” Henry said, looking over Walter’s shoulder. “It looks like Nicholas Vallin’s work. He made Essex a handsome watch when he became a Knight of the Garter. Is it a child’s toy of some sort?”

A vampire’s fist crashed onto my table, splitting the wood.

“George,” Matthew ground out, “do tell us about Dr. Dee.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course. There is not much to tell. I did w-what you asked,” George stammered. “I visited the bookstalls, but there was no information to be had. There was talk of a volume of Greek poetry for sale that sounded most promising for my translation—but I digress.” George stopped and gulped. “Widow Jugge suggested I talk to John Hester, the apothecary at Paul’s Wharf. Hester sent me to Hugh Plat—you know, the vintner who lives in St. James Garlickhythe.” I followed this complicated intellectual pilgrimage closely, hoping I might reconstruct George’s route when I next visited Susanna. Perhaps she and Plat were neighbors.

“Plat is as bad as Will,” Walter said under his breath, “forever writing things down that are none of his concern. The fellow asked after my mother’s method for making pastry.”

“Master Plat said that Dr. Dee has a book from the emperor’s library. No man can read it, and there are strange pictures in it, too,” George explained. “Plat saw it last year when he went to Dr. Dee for alchemical guidance.”

Matthew and I exchanged looks.

“It’s possible, Matthew,” I said in a low voice. “Elias Ashmole tracked down what was left of Dee’s library after his death, and he was particularly interested in the alchemical books.”

“Dee’s death. And how did the good doctor meet his end, Mistress Roydon?” Marlowe asked softly, his brown eyes nudging me. Henry, who hadn’t heard Kit’s question, spoke before I could answer.

“I will ask to see it,” Henry said, nodding decidedly. “It will be easy enough to arrange on my way back to Richmond and the queen.”

“You might not recognize it, Hal,” Matthew said, prepared to ignore Kit as well, even though he had heard him. “I’ll go with you.”

“You didn’t see it either.” I shook my head, hoping to loosen Marlowe’s prodding stare. “Besides, if there’s a visit being paid to John Dee, I’m going.”

“You needn’t give me that fierce look, ma lionne . I know perfectly well that nothing will convince you to leave this to me. Not if there are books and an alchemist involved.” Matthew held up an admonishing finger. “But no questions. Understood?” He had seen the magical mayhem that could result.

I nodded, but my fingers were crossed in the fold of my skirt in that age-old charm to ward off the evil consequences that came from knotting up the truth.

“No questions from Mistress Roydon?” Walter muttered. “I wish you luck with that, Matt.”

Mortlake was a small hamlet on the Thames located between London and the queen’s palace at Richmond. We made the trip in the Earl of Northumberland’s barge, a splendid vessel with eight oarsmen, padded seats, and curtains to keep out the drafts. It was a far more comfortable—not to mention more sedate—journey than I was accustomed to when Gallowglass wielded the oars.

We’d sent a letter ahead warning Dee of our intention to visit him. Mrs. Dee, Henry explained with great delicacy, did not appreciate guests who dropped in unannounced. Though I could sympathize, it was unusual at a time when open-door hospitality was the rule.

“The household is somewhat . . . er, irregular because of Dr. Dee’s pursuits,” Henry explained, turning slightly pink. “And they have a prodigious number of children. It is often rather . . . chaotic.”

“So much so that the servants have been known to throw themselves down the well,” Matthew observed pointedly.

“Yes. That was unfortunate. I doubt any such thing will happen during our visit,” Henry muttered.

I didn’t care what state the household was in. We were on the brink of being able to answer so many questions: why this book was so sought after, if it could tell us more about how we creatures had come into being. And of course Matthew believed that it might shed light on why we otherworldly creatures were going extinct in our modern times.

Whether for propriety’s sake or to avoid his disorderly brood, Dr. Dee was strolling in his brick-walled garden as if it were high summer and not the end of January. He was wearing the black robes of a scholar, and a tight-fitting hood covered his head and extended down his neck, topped with a flat cap. A long white beard jutted from his chin, and his arms were clasped behind his back as he made his slow progress around the barren garden.