Maid of Wonder (19 page)

“Whatever could you mean, pet?” Her face goes a little harder. “I wasn't following
you
, after all, but that nattering chatterclack from Windsortown. But you got in my way and she was right there, so yer pain serves as a warning to 'er just the same. Mark my words, none will trace your mishap to poor ol' Maude. So you just be glad of your strength. It will save you, I warrant.”

“You poisoned me!” I try to shout the words, but fear
clamps down hard on my throat, rendering my accusation little more than a squeak. Maude merely clucks at me, waving it off.

“Poison?” she says. “Never say such a thing. I sell paints for pretty women, and droplets for their eyes, no more. And besides all of that, you could never prove 'twas me that caused you 'arm.” She takes another step toward me, leaning close. “I didna see your death this day, poppet, and I would 'ave. But that doesn't mean you won't suffer. And just as well. Next time you'll stay out of my way, eh?”

Marcus's voice rings out to my right, and I stagger away from Maude as he rushes up to me.

“Marcus!” I cry, gratified to find that my voice has returned to me. “Find a guard. I need to report that this woman—”

But as I turn back, I see naught more of Maude, not even with my Sight.

“What woman?” Marcus asks, looking at me with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” I say, taking a step. Instantly, my legs wobble beneath me, and it's only with Marcus's aid that I'm able to stay standing.

“What is it, Sophia?” he asks, worry sharpening his voice. “What happened to you? You look as pale as a ghost. And your eyes . . .” He stares at me, his expression darkening. “What's wrong with your eyes? The irises have gone completely black!”

“Anna!” I say, my mouth slipping and stumbling over the word. “Please, we have to find Anna!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I don't know how we reach the maids' chamber. Marcus's grip is tight around me, and I sense he is half-carrying me, but we somehow have managed some measure of propriety to have reached thus far unaccosted. At one point he spoke to someone else, explaining my weakness, dizziness, and whatever he has seen in my eyes. The voice that responded sounded male, and familiar, but my mind is awash with a buzzing I cannot quell, far worse than the cry of a thousand angelic voices.

I feel those angels too, pressing close. They watch, ever eager, and that gives me the greatest pause of all. Am I so close to death as that? But Maude said . . .
What did Maude say?

“There you are. No, don't lay her down. I need to see her eyes.”

This voice I definitely recognize. I feel a finger beneath my chin, and Anna lifts my face up, Though she is right in front of me, I cannot see her clearly. “There you are, Sophia. We have you now.”

She waves her arm, and someone new appears, carrying a tray with what might be a half dozen bottles. Meg? “Rafe
told us only what Marcus said, Sophia. Can you talk?” When I only blink at Anna, the words clamoring in my mind but impossible to be spoken, she continues. “And what he said to me was clear enough. You've been poisoned. You understand this?” I nod, the movement barely a bobble of my head. “And by quite a strong dose, from your manner. Dizziness, loss of vision.” She peers at me. “Thirsty, yes?” My involuntary shudder must be answer enough. “Only a few poisons act so quickly, and as it happens, we have no yellow frogs at Windsor—at least, not that I am aware of. Though, if you see any, tell me immediately.” She blows out a sharp breath.

My vision swims, but I think I see her move certain bottles to the back of Meg's tray. “Given the state of her eyes, we can eliminate this, this, this,” she says. “Which leaves belladonna. Ordinarily I'd prescribe a purgative, but she didn't drink the stuff.”

I feel my hair brushed back from my neck, cool fingers touching a point that sends a bolt of fire through me once more. Someone else speaks. “Barely a knife at all, almost more of a sewing needle sharpened to pierce leather, though thrust with a jagged plunge.” Jane's words are detached, but a fine edge of anger rides them. “It isn't the cut that is harmful, but the poison.”

“Distilled down. . . . Has to be, to cause such an effect with so little of it,” Anna says. She is pouring small bottles of fluid into a cup, and I watch her with an odd detachment. At that moment there's a commotion at the door, and I swing my head around slowly to see Beatrice burst forth, her hands clutching a tankard. I think it's Beatrice, anyway.

“You have it.” Anna's relief is palpable.

“The only good thing to come of my mother's addiction, yes. I have become a master at identifying the right mixture of opium and wine for stupor, and that for death. Not that I would wish either upon even my worst enemy.” Beatrice strides forward and thrusts the tankard at Anna. “What now?”

“This first.” Anna quickly pours some dark red liquid into a cup and brings the cup to my lips. “Drink it all, Sophia. As fast as you can.”

I stare at her, still numb, but I do not resist as she pushes my head back and pours the liquid into my mouth. I splutter as I feel the burn of it hit my throat.

“She'll choke!” Suddenly Marcus is at my side, holding me still, but Anna doesn't cease the gentle pour.

“She drinks it or she dies,” she says. Her voice is as cold as frost, and I wonder at it, blinking to try to see her more clearly. Never before have I experienced Anna being so sure, so certain. Surrounded by her science like a fine raiment of light.

“There you go.” Marcus's arms tighten, but it is Anna who speaks, Anna who sets a quarter hourglass on its head. “In short order, once the opiates have a chance to enter her bloodstream, we'll give her the steeped herbal brew. She'll want it, too. Belladonna poisoning is noted for its parching effect. Then more of the laudanum, and brandy besides.”

“How long?” Beatrice asks.

“An hour,” Anna says, rocking back on her heels. I watch her, but it's as if she has moved a fair distance away from
me, impossible to track. My sight seems to shimmer a bit, and a curious warmth spreads through me. I sag, but with Marcus encaging me, I've nowhere to go but to lean more heavily against him. He takes my weight without comment, and I feel the stroke of his hand down my back, his whispered words against my hair.

I slip in and out of consciousness, but there are three constants every time I awaken that steady me. The first is someone pouring liquids down my throat; some that burn, some that soothe. The second is Marcus holding me so firmly, it seems he is made of stone. And the third is the presence of the Maids of Honor, all of them ranging round me in unwavering guard. With their presence I hold more firmly to my grasp on reality.

When I am not with my fellow spies, however, I am by no means alone. The spirits press and howl in the angelic realm, their presence all around me like a crashing storm. But the dark angel is absent, nowhere to be found in the gale. I remember his warning, which I heeded too late. I remember his gloved hand upon my cheek, allowing me to see so much more than I ever have, to see and to believe what I saw. He tried to warn me as best as he was able. And I did not listen. I dared not listen. For if
all
my visions are now correct, what does that mean for poor Robert Moreland, whom I saw dead upon his bed just last night? Shouldn't I have a new vision of him now, riding over the countryside, hastening away from Windsor's walls? And yet, nothing comes.

Something like sleep claims me once more, until I am jostled awake for what seems like the fiftieth time. Anna
is in front of me, and I flinch away from the bright flame she thrusts toward my face. “Leave off!” I say sharply, and my own words startle me. They are as crisp and sharp as a flint strike.

Anna's smile is the stuff of magic. If I did not already feel my fog lifting, the healing strength of her beatific grin would burn it all away. “Recovering,” she says, sitting back.

I straighten, and realize that Marcus is still beside me. I offer him a smile, suddenly shy, but then draw in a startled breath as he leans forward, planting a chaste kiss upon my forehead. His entire body is shaking, and he stands up abruptly, almost pushing me off my pallet in his haste. “I must away,” he says, and his voice sounds strange, his words too rough, too thick. He bows to Anna, the other girls, but does not look again at me. “Ladies, my thanks evermore. Sophia.” He still does not turn to me but away, and strides hastily out the door.

I blink in confusion, wondering if I am still lost to my dreams, but Beatrice gives a soft laugh.

“He's lost that battle, and lost it hard,” she says.

Meg snorts a laugh. “Completely conquered.”

“He's the one who'll have need of recovery, not Sophia,” Jane agrees, a rare grin lighting her face. “Though he'll never find it, I wager.”

I gape at them until Anna gathers my hands in her own, her candle set aside, her face still wreathed in smiles. “Pay them no mind, Sophia. They're only teasing you,” she says, and I finally understand the others' words. I feel the blush climb up my cheeks, and Anna squeezes my hands more tightly. “That doesn't change the fact that they're right, how
ever,” she says tartly. “Marcus Quinn is quite obviously in love with you.”

Other than having to endure my fellow spies' continued laughter and ribald comments, the next two hours are easy enough, with multiple trips to the garderobe (I must have drunk my body weight in laudanum and herbal tea!) and yet more stiff medicinal concoctions to chase away the intoxication of all that wine. But by the time we enter the Privy Chamber for the convocation of seers, I am more or less upright, more or less steady—and more or less prepared to meet my fate.

The gathering is a small one. In addition to the select group of courtiers the Queen has invited, Cecil and Walsingham are present, as are John Dee and Nostradamus. Marcus is here as well, watching me across the small space, but I dare not look at him. I blame the aftereffects of the poison and the wine . . . but having him here both unnerves and supports me, like I am a woman walking a narrow plank, held steady by both her hopes and fears.

The Queen drifts easily from courtier to courtier, smiling and laughing, confident in her power. There will be dining and dancing, and then she'll excuse the great majority of these men and meet with her champions in secret.

Then this farce will be done.

We dine in easy companionship, and I feel better with each passing minute. I allow myself a measure of relief. I have shared all that I have seen, and in so doing I have saved Robert Moreland—and saved myself, too, if you count the death presaged against the seer.

As the meal draws to a close, a loud burst of laughter at the door to the Privy Chamber breaks across the space, and we all look up, startled. Even Jane straightens in surprise at who is there, brushing off the royal guards as if they were naught more than a nuisance to him.

Troupe Master James McDonald bows before our company, his grin as bold as his manner. The Queen stands, then strides forth from our table to confront him. There is no need for her to do so, but her impulsive actions have ensured that all eyes are upon her, which is her preferred state of being. “What is the meaning of this?” she demands.

“Your Grace.” James does not bow to her. He kneels, one knee sinking to the floor like he is some medieval knight to whom she is about to give her favor to carry into battle. It's a master stroke of flattery, and the Queen's countenance instantly changes, her face alight with interest.

A nervous guard speaks up. “Your Grace, he said you had commanded him to speak to you before he departs the castle, without fail.”

“Did he say that?” Elizabeth's tone is arch, but she is smiling, flirtatiously coy. “I do not recall giving you such an order, Master James. Might you be mistaken?”

“I cannot be,” he says. He does not rise, but he has the audacity to lift his face and stare at her with hot eyes. “If your lips did not grant me entry, Your Majesty surely did, to ensure that the grand spectacle I have planned for the Samhain celebration these few days hence meets with your royal favor.”

I frown, and even Elizabeth seems surprised. Is Samhain
and Master James's
Play of Secrets
so soon? Seers and prophecies have distracted us all.

But she inclines her head gracefully. “Then, Master James, as you have stated your case so prettily, I bid you to rise. What manner of entertainment do you have prepared for us?”

“An event to delight the senses, my Queen,” James says easily as he stands again. “I bid you set the stage as I direct, to ensure your lords and ladies have a tale to share back in Londontown, ere you make your way to that city for the Christmas celebration.”

“You presume much to think we'll leave so quickly.”

Master James laughs. “I presume nothing at all. Where better to showcase your magnificence than on a stage so grand as London? With all your people flooding into the city, waiting for a glimpse of their beautiful Queen in her first holiday spectacle. I'm sure you already have festivities planned to delight your subjects there, yes?”

I can almost hear the Queen's brain churning. I suspect she has nothing planned for London, given how filled her mind has been with Windsor's dire portents of death. But now she can see such revels on the horizon, and the thought clearly pleases her.

“Indeed, Master James. But you run ahead of yourself. It is the festival of Samhain that concerns us at this moment.”

“And what a festival it shall be,” James declares. “Dinner first, something light, with plenty of wine to loosen tongues and spirits.”

The Queen sniffs in derision. “We've had our fill of loose spirits of late, I fear.”

“Say it isn't so,” James says with mock horror. “Then this night will be one to make all forget the troubles of these recent weeks. Sweet confections too should be in evidence, soul cakes and warm bread, all frosted with sugar, so that your tables look like they have been graced with stardust itself, a tracing of fairy silver spread over all. In the candlelight the effect will be stunning.”

“Mmm.” There is little Elizabeth likes more in this world than sugary pastries and candies. “This is something we could arrange.”

“There will be laughter and music throughout the dinner, setting the mood for a night of gentle phantasms and moonlit fantasy,” James continues. I marvel at him as he beguiles the Queen. He is truly a handsome man, and his charisma is breathtaking, even in the company of a figure as striking as Elizabeth's. “And then, when all are well and truly sated, we will adjourn to the Upper Ward for the spectacle itself.”

“An outdoor spectacle?” Elizabeth asks. “Surely that is begging for a storm.”