The old woman held out a bowl of cat biscuits that had been soaking in water, by the look of it. “Here, you can feed him. He’s tried to tear my fingers off a few times already. If you don’t take him, I think I’ll have to get the RSPCA to come in.”
“No, I’ll take him.”
The old woman leaned on her walker, her face suddenly sad. “She said she got the order for the potion back, I don’t know, before Christmas. I don’t know what that meant, exactly, but she took the money. You’ll have to ask the solicitor; he’s got all the details. But she was terrified.”
Jack took the bowl, and the bird cocked its head with interest, but his eyes were set on her face. Suddenly, she became aware how vulnerable she was. “Come on, my lovely boy.” She reached for the door but his beak was there first, stabbing through the bars, clunking off the metal dish. “Wow, you’re quick aren’t you?”
On impulse, she took a softened biscuit and, over a startled objection from Maisie, held out her hand slowly—slowly—and the bird tapped forward with his beak, taking the food and just brushing her fingers. The second biscuit went the same way, and with the third he just pecked her hand a bit harder, as if he was warning her off. She put the bowl in the cage while he was distracted swallowing his food.
“I’ll take him as soon as the builders have gone. He needs to get out of that cage, anyway. It’s miles too small, his tail feathers are broken.”
Maisie snorted. “She used to give him the run of the house. Mind you, it’s a mystery to me how you can tell if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“Body language. He’s one of last year’s babies.” Jack blew softly through the bars of the cage, and the bird lifted the tiny feathers on its forehead. “Look, he’s flirting with me.” She turned to Maisie. “Tell me what you know about Ellen and the Dannicks. What happened when they ordered this potion?”
“I don’t know.” Maisie stepped back into the warmth of the kitchen, rubbing her arms. “But I can tell you they killed her for something in that garden. She knew—we knew—about the wild hunt.”
“Hunt?”
“There’s been rumors for generations that the Dannicks hunt poachers to their death. Ellen believed it was somehow part of the healing ritual, linked to the potion.”
“Say I believe you.” She’d heard stranger things as a dealer in magic-related items. With a last look at the bird, Jack shut the door to the lean-to. “Have you any idea what this hair-root is or how to make the potion?”
“Hair-root is an herb, but I don’t remember seeing it. But there are details in Thomazine’s book.”
“Which we can’t find.”
Jack watched a smile crease Maisie’s face into even more wrinkles. “It’s there. She put it somewhere safe.”
“We went through the whole house, and threw almost everything into Dumpsters. We kept a few bits of furniture to clean up, but there weren’t any old books.”
“You have to know where to look.” She hunched up her shoulders.
“And you know?”
“When Magpie comes. I’ll show her where the book is, but not before.”
“I can’t see the need for all this secrecy.”
Maisie started the slow turn back toward the living room. “Ellen died defending that book.”
“So you say, but…” Jack steadied the old woman by the elbow as she struggled with a step. Maisie coughed a few times, then got her balance.
“Which, means, young Jackdaw, that the Dannicks were prepared to kill for it.”
Chapter 12
It is said that nowhere do diamonds and gold gleam so brightly as against the lagoons and canals of Venice. The Mediterranean moon looks down on us players, and Venice is the stage. All is show, but underneath, all is corrupt like flowers on a corpse.
—EDWARD KELLEY, 1586, Venice
Lord Marinello arranged for me to be transported to the house of Count Contarini at dusk. The count, I had learned from Marinello, was a powerful and feared member of the ruling council. Not the government as such but a far more sinister conclave that had the power of summary judgment and execution upon the people of Venice. I was to travel openly and be observed at all times lest I plot treason. In my borrowed velvets I looked like an English lord, which imposture I planned to maintain. Certainly, had Dee and I returned to England, such honors would likely have followed.
The trip was short and by water. I was handed from one of the narrow boats by a servant, who carried my bag of books. When we entered the beautiful hall, the walls were painted with scenes of nymphs and satyrs. The floor was of polished stones laid in great patterns. I was taken by a different servant up a flight of steps that meandered gently to the upper floor. I protested the loss of my books, but was swept along into a salon much like Lord Marinello’s, if more richly caparisoned. My eyes took in the golden candle holders and gilded plates, portraits with heavy frames dripping with gold leaf over carved fruit. I could see nothing like the ancient carving I had hoped to see; indeed it was my reason for traveling to Venice.
There were six or seven black-suited men standing about the room like guards. The chairs, and there were many, were covered with velvet in a midnight blue. The single nobleman who sat upon one was equally well dressed. Scarlet robes draped his form, and his heavy-lidded eyes regarded me. Brown eyes, I divined, to match brown hair untouched by time, although something in his face made me think him older. If one man may describe another as such, he was a man of dark beauty such as one sees in paintings or frescos all over Venice.
“Lord Kelley. Welcome.” He spoke in English, and inclined his head. As I gave him an English bow, I noticed the servant enter, with my books and papers unpacked in his hand. I decided it was politic to hold my words.
“It is a great honor, your lordship,” I replied in Latin. This seemed the best way to address this great man.
“You have a letter for me, I hear?”
I rose from my bow, and stepped toward the count. As I did so, two of the men around him, whom I had hardly noticed, stepped forward. “I—”
The seated man waved a languid hand much adorned with rings, and the guards stepped back. I reached the servant holding my books and took them, rummaging through them to the missive Lord Dannick had written. The fellow then retrieved my books.
“Here is the letter of introduction written by my patron, my lord.” I held it out to him, but another of the black-clad men took it. For the first time, I glanced at this man’s face, and saw he was an African, as dark-skinned as one of the queen’s pages. Embroideries across his coat marked him as the more senior of the men. He opened the letter, scanned it quickly, and spoke to the count in the liquid notes of the Venetian tongue.
Throughout, the count stared at me, his head inclined toward his servant. Finally, he waved the man away.
“Enrico tells me that your interest here is as a natural scientist, Master Kelley.”
I bowed.
“I have heard of your work with Dee in Prague and Vienna.” His quick eyes stared at me, perhaps to gauge my response. “Your work with King Istvan, in Krakow, also. Magical work.”
I waited, knowing what the letter said, but being unsure as to its entire meaning.
“You lodge with Marinello, I hear?”
“Indeed, your Excellency.” I was still unsure as to the correct honorific. “My lord.”
“Lord Contarini will suffice, Master Kelley.” He flashed a smile at me, baring long white teeth through the dark beard. “I have a great interest in your ‘natural science’ myself. We must compare treatises on the subject.”
Now I knew he would take me seriously. He wanted to see my books, like any scholar.
“I have some in Latin, my lord,” I suggested, “but some are in base German or English. I would be happy to translate anything you have a special interest in. The alchemical text is in Latin, by Sendivogius, recently acquired in Poland. It is in the bundle your man is holding.”
“I read German but poorly, and English not at all.” But his long
teeth smiled in a way that belied his words. “But I would be grateful to see this—Sendivogius, you say?”
“A young man of promise,” I said, knowing King Istvan’s patronage had embraced him, thus enhancing my own reputation. “And one who might visit Venice, with the right sponsor.”
He indicated that I should sit upon one of the chairs, and waved away most of the servants. Enrico stayed close, holding my books even as my fingers itched to take them.
“I shall arrange an invitation.” He pressed the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other, watching me. “The carving your patron wishes you to see is very ancient and precious to my family.”
I smiled and nodded. “My sponsor is a rich and clever man. He simply wishes a sketch so he can compare it to his own artifacts.”
“But perhaps he would wish to publish it.” He pressed his palms together in a position of prayer. “This is the emblem of my family, Master Kelley, the symbol of our name and prosperity. It is not to become the property of the world.”
I stood and bowed, my hands clasped together. This, at least, was part of the plan. “I understand completely. Then, if it is possible, may I simply report privately to Lord Dannick? We have been fortunate to discover a second Roman carving of great magical significance, and my Lord Dannick wishes to discern the differences between them, if any.”
“A second plaque was rumored, but believed ground into rubble by soldiers.” His look was still and piercing, but I saw some interest nevertheless.
“An evil report.” I bowed more deeply. “My Lord Dannick divined your interest and sent me with a likeness of his own stone carving as a gesture of goodwill and scholarliness. He asks only that I compare his stone to yours, by actually viewing it.”
He exchanged glances with his manservant Enrico, who appeared to be following our conversation easily. “Such a drawing—is it in your papers?”
“A drawing of such importance would never be trusted to be carried around when it might be lost.” I did not add that I had carried it into Venice within my underclothes for fear of just such an event, nor that it was almost the only thing Bezio had not divested me of.
He lifted a hand to half cover a smile, and I knew that he had heard the manner of my welcome into Venice.
“Please sit,” he said, “and take wine with me. I feel we shall become friends. After all, we are both interested in the most ancient of magics, of my Roman ancestors.” He waved a white hand at his servant. “Put those books down, Enrico, and get us good wine.”
Enrico placed my books upon a small table, much carved and inlaid with mother of pearl in the pattern of a snarling animal’s head. He served my wine first, bowing as if to a prince.
The count drank his blood-red wine from a glass as beautiful and ornamented as my own, swirling lines of bubbles within the glass, tinted red toward the base such as I have never seen before.
“What is Lord Dannick’s understanding of the carving?” he asked.
I took a deep breath. “Lord Dannick’s family is blessed with great health and strength, my lord, save one weakness. Some of its sons are born with a crippling ‘falling disease’ that weakens them unto death before they reach manhood. The family believes that the tablet describes an ancient cure for this ailment.”
“Interesting.” He stroked his beard, his eyes on my face until I lowered my own.
“Then Lord Dannick’s son took himself a local woman named Thomazine Ratcliffe, and got her with child. This boy developed the family sickness, and Thomazine and her mother, who are renowned healers, found a cure for him. The boy, Amyas, thrived and now acts as steward for the Dannicks.” I did not mention that Lord Dannick’s son had forced himself upon the woman, who was a witch and the daughter of witches, or that he had suffered an accident that had crippled him when he returned to her land.
“Using the ritual from the English tablet?” Contarini looked at Enrico. “And is the boy as the other Dannicks?”
“Nay, my lord. The Dannicks are a fierce, warrior race, reckless and dangerous. Gentle Amyas is much loved upon the estate, even by his father and grandfather. The Dannicks wonder if the stone holds some mystery that they have misread.”
“Perhaps they have. I shall think on it, Master Kelley.” He smiled at me, his head a little tilted, as if trying to divine my thoughts. “I am invited to a private meeting of fellow students of the occult. The only way I can meet with others who share our interest is to do so in secret. Do you understand?”
I nodded, sipping the wine. My glance strayed to Enrico, still as a statue, his face the color of old oak and his fingers hovering over my books. “What is your interest in natural science, my lord?”
“Ah. I would be foolish to answer, even with my loyal Enrico here. Every wall in Venice, every boat and church has ears. And even rumors can be reported to the council.”
I frowned, putting the heady wine back on the table with great care. “My understanding was that you are an esteemed member of this council?”
“I am. Therefore none is more suspected. Our mutual friend, your host, is already under suspicion.”
“I see.” Though, in honesty, I did not understand.
“Will you attend this meeting with me?”
“I should be honored, Lord Contarini.” I was filled with excitement at gaining access so easily into the inner circle of sorcerers I had heard whispers of as far away as Prague, Vienna and London. “My lord, may I ask your advice?”
He smiled, and waved for Enrico to refill my goblet.
I continued. “Lord Marinello asks that I meet an acquaintance of his. He has an interest in an experiment Dee and I attempted last year.”
“Indeed?” He feigned disinterest but I could see he knew something of our sorcery. “He will not dare visit you at Marinello’s. Anyone who did so could be impeached.”
I was confused. “Then how may I meet this gentleman?”
“I too have heard the rumors. This guest of the doge himself has offered many scudi for the pleasure of a private introduction.” He waved his glass at me. “And many more for the person who arranges such an introduction. Do not be fooled by Marinello’s glitter, he is close to bankruptcy.”
“Surely not.” I dissembled, but Contarini just shrugged.
“He is an adventurer, an amusing scoundrel. Let him make the introduction; it will give him a few more months before he has to sell some more land. Or a few more scudi to gamble away.”
“I would be honored to be able to pay back my benefactor, my lord.”
“Have you heard, Master Kelley, about the Carnevale that starts within a few days?”
Lord Dannick had explained this to me, a little. It is a season of events where the people, nobles and commoners alike, make merry behind masks and costumes. “I understand that society takes a holiday.”
“Then tell him to bring you to the ball held at the house of Isabella Grimani, my mistress, two nights hence.” He waved a hand and Enrico gave him a square of card on which he inscribed a message in a flowing hand. He gave it to me—a card of invitation to a dance at a grand house. “I will make the introduction possible under the guise of the entertainment.”
I reached for my books and, after the slightest resistance, tugged them from Enrico’s hands. “Thank you, my lord.” I tucked the card within a book.
“I look forward to seeing you in company with others who share our interests.”
I bowed, and watched Enrico open the door for me. He smiled at me, his even teeth very white against his dark skin, and I found I liked the fellow. I nodded my thanks, and he bowed in response.
I had but to step outside to be bundled by Marinello’s servants into the waiting boat. Clearly my sea captain really did not trust Count Contarini, who seemed a pleasant and educated fellow that I was glad to set among my friends. Wolves indeed.
Chapter 13
PRESENT DAY: BEE COTTAGE, LAKE DISTRICT
The garden stretches against the house, defending itself and its occupants
. The soil flexes under the weight of the life it carries, millions of beings as small as pollen or as large as trees. Everywhere, the strands of death-seeking fungi wind, weaving a story. An elder tree withers, too old to regenerate. The threads reach into the wood, eating it from the inside. Water pools from a broken gutter, filaments of fungus sipping from the dampness. Under the corpse the juices run rich as wine, full of organics that taste like life, and sporing, and growth.
Jack and Sadie had moved into the newly plastered cottage, but the garden was as oppressive as ever. Jack unlocked the back door, which creaked open under the weight of foliage pressing against it. If anything, there seemed to be more branches reaching into the doorway, as if stretching in for Jack. She tucked her gloves into her jacket sleeves, took a deep breath, and started hacking with the loppers. After a few minutes she was hot, the kitchen floor was obstructed by a heap of branches and leaves, and she had barely made a dent in the mountain of green. She piled the cuttings into a heavy-duty bag, flattening it further with one booted foot, before turning back to the task. She couldn’t see where she had been cutting; the hedge seemed to have re-formed. Cursing the low light, she forced herself against the leaves, reaching through layers of brambles so she could reach the thickest branches with the loppers. There—a bramble stem almost as wide as her wrist, which gave way after a couple of hacks. Then, just out of reach, another trunk with maybe a dozen branches arcing off it straight toward the kitchen. She stood on tiptoes to reach farther into the hedge of thorns. It was only when she tried to pull back that she realized she was caught somewhere.
She lifted her arm away from one bramble, only to find it was held above on a bigger one. Pulling back just seemed to lock them into the weave of her coat. She managed to glance at her body, to see stems wound around her jeans, over her shoulders, and when she looked up, one was dangerously close to her face. She couldn’t move as much as a hand. She panicked, trying to move, her breath coming hard, but the spines dug in deeper, through her jacket, catching in her skin. When she tried to lift a knee a dozen thorns reached into her leg, pain shooting through her. She stopped struggling.
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