And so a witch, a daemon, two children, and a dog paid a short visit to Monsieur Vallin that afternoon. That evening I sent out invitations to our friends to join us the next night. It would be the last time we saw them. While I dealt with telescopes and supper plans, Matthew delivered Roger Bacon’s Verum Secretum Secretorum to Mortlake. I did not want to see Ashmole 782 pass toDr. Dee. I knew it had to go back into the alchemist’s enormous library so that Elias Ashmole could acquire it in the seventeenth century. But it was not easy to give the book into someone else’s keeping, any more than it had been to surrender the small figurine of the goddess Diana to Kit when we arrived. The practical details surrounding our departure we left to Gallowglass and Pierre. They packed trunks, emptied coffers, redistributed funds, and sent personal belongings to the Old Lodge with a practiced efficiency that showed how many times they had done this before.
Our departure was only hours away. I was returning from Monsieur Vallin’s with an awkward package wrapped in soft leather when I was brought up short by the sight of a ten-year-old girl standing on the street outside the pie shop, staring with fascination at the wares in the window. She looked just as I had at that age, from the unruly straw-blond hair to the arms that were too long for the rest of her frame. The girl stiffened as if she knew she was being watched. When our eyes met, I knew why: She was a witch.
“Rebecca!” a woman called as she came from inside the shop. My heart leaped at the sight, for she looked like a combination of my mother and Sarah.
Rebecca said nothing but continued to stare at me as though she had seen a ghost. Her mother looked to see what had captured the girl’s attention and gasped. Her glance tingled over my skin as she took in my face and form. She was a witch, too.
I forced my feet toward the pie shop. Every step took me closer to the two witches. The mother gathered the child to her skirts, and Rebecca squirmed in protest.
“She looks like Grand-dame,” Rebecca whispered, trying to get a closer look at me.
“Hush,” her mother told her. She looked at me apologetically. “You know that your grand-dame is dead, Rebecca.”
“I am Diana Roydon.” I nodded to the sign over their shoulders. “I live here at the Hart and Crown.”
“But then you are—” The woman’s eyes widened as she drew Rebecca closer.
“I am Rebecca White,” the girl said, unconcerned with her mother’s reaction. She bobbed a shallow, teetering curtsy. That looked familiar, too.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. Are you new to the Blackfriars?” I wanted to make small talk for as long as possible, if only to stare at their familiaryet-strange faces.
“No. We live by the hospital near Smithfield Market,” Rebecca explained.
“I take in patients when their wards are full.” The woman hesitated. “I am Bridget White, and Rebecca is my daughter.”
Even without the familiar names of Rebecca and Bridget, I recognized these two creatures in the marrow of my bones. Bridget Bishop had been born around 1632, and the first name in the Bishop grimoire was Bridget’s grandmother, Rebecca Davies. Would this ten-year-old girl one day marry and bear that name?
Rebecca’s attention was caught by something at my neck. I reached up. Ysabeau’s earrings.
I had used three objects to bring Matthew and me to the past: a manuscript copy of Doctor Faustus, a silver chess piece, and an earring hidden in Bridget Bishop’s poppet. This earring. I reached up and took the fine golden wire out of my ear. Knowing from my experience with Jack that it was wise to make direct eye contact with children if you wanted to leave a lasting impression, I crouched down until we were at an equal level.
“I need someone to keep this safe for me.” I held out the earring. “One day I will have need of it. Would you guard it and keep it close?”
Rebecca looked at me solemnly and nodded. I took her hand, feeling a current of awareness pass between us, and put the jeweled wires into her palm. She wrapped her fingers tightly around them. “Can I, Mama?” she whispered belatedly to Bridget.
“I think that would be all right,” her mother replied warily. “Come, Rebecca. We must go.”
“Thank you,” I said, rising and patting Rebecca on the shoulder while looking Bridget in the eye. “Thank you.”
I felt a nudging glance. I waited until Rebecca and Bridget were out of sight before I turned to face Christopher Marlowe.
“Mistress Roydon.” Kit’s voice was hoarse, and he looked like death. “Walter told me you were leaving tonight.”
“I asked him to tell you.” I forced Kit to meet my eyes through an act of sheer will. This was another thing I could fix: I could make sure that Matthew said a proper goodbye to a man who had once been his closest friend.
Kit looked down at his feet, hiding his face. “I should never have come.”
“I forgive you, Kit.”
Marlowe’s head swung up in surprise at my words. “Why?” he asked, dumbstruck.
“Because as long as Matthew blames you for what happened to me, a part of him remains with you. Forever,” I said simply. “Come upstairs and say your farewells.”
Matthew was waiting for us on the landing, having divined that I was bringing someone home. I kissed him softly on the mouth as I went past on the way to our bedroom.
“Your father forgave you,” I murmured. “Give Kit the same gift in return.”
Then I left them to patch up what they could in what little time remained.
A few hours later, I handed Thomas Harriot a steel tube. “Here is your star glass, Tom.” “I fashioned it from a gun barrel—with adjustments, of course,” explained Monsieur Vallin, famous maker of mousetraps and clocks. “And it is engraved, as Mistress Roydon requested.”
There on the side, set in a lovely little silver banner, was the legend n. vallin me fecit, t. harriot me invenit, 1591.
“‘N. Vallin made me, T. Harriot invented me, 1591.’” I smiled warmly at Monsieur Vallin. “It’s perfect.”
“Can we look at the moon now?” Jack cried, racing for the door. “It already looks bigger than St. Mildred’s clock!”
And so Thomas Harriot, mathematician and linguist, made scientific history in the courtyard of the Hart and Crown while sitting in a battered wicker garden chair pulled down from our attics. He trained the long metal tube fitted with two spectacle lenses at the full moon and sighed with pleasure.
“Look, Jack. It is just as Signor della Porta said.” Tom invited the boy into his lap and positioned one end of the tube at his enthusiastic assistant’s eye. “Two lenses, one convex and one concave, are indeed the solution if held at the right distance.”
After Jack we all took a turn.
“Well, that is not at all what I expected,” George Chapman said, disappointed. “Did you not think the moon would be more dramatic? I believe I prefer the poet’s mysterious moon to this one, Tom.”
“Why, it is not perfect at all,” Henry Percy complained, rubbing his eyes and then peering through the tube again.
“Of course it isn’t perfect. Nothing is,” Kit said. “You cannot believe everything philosophers tell you, Hal. It is a sure way to ruin. Look what philosophy has done for Tom.”
I glanced at Matthew and grinned. It had been some time since we’d enjoyed the School of Night’s verbal ripostes.
“At least Tom can feed himself, which is more than I can say for any of the playwrights of my acquaintance.” Walter peered through the tube and whistled. “I wish you had come up with this notion before we went to Virginia, Tom. It would have been useful for surveying the shore while we were safely aboard ship. Look through this, Gallowglass, and tell me I am wrong.”
“You’re never wrong, Walter,” Gallowglass said with a wink at Jack. “Mind me well, young Jack. The one who pays your wages is correct in all things.”
I’d invited Goody Alsop and Susanna to join us, too, and even they took a peek through Tom’s star glass. Neither woman seemed overly impressed with the invention, although they both made enthusiastic noises when prompted.
“Why do men bother with these trifles?” Susanna whispered to me. “I could have told them the moon is not perfectly smooth, even without this new instrument. Do they not have eyes?”
After the pleasure of viewing the heavens, only the painful farewells remained. We sent Annie off with Goody Alsop, using the excuse that Susanna needed another set of hands to help the old woman across town. My goodbye was brisk, and Annie looked at me uncertainly.
“Are you all right, mistress? Shall I stay here instead?”
“No, Annie. Go with your aunt and Goody Alsop.” I blinked back the tears. How did Matthew bear these repeated farewells?
Kit, George, and Walter left next, with gruff goodbyes and hands clamped on Matthew’s arm to wish him well.