Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(222)

“And how would you make them more complex?” I wondered aloud, hardly daring to breathe.

“I would combine convex and concave lenses, as the Neapolitan gentleman Signor della Porta suggested in a book I read last year. The human arm is not long enough to hold them apart at the proper distance. So we are trying to extend our arm’s reach with that piece of wood.”

With those words Thomas Harriot changed the history of science. And I didn’t have to meddle with the past—I only had to see to it that the past was not forgotten.

“But these are just idle imaginings. I will put these ideas down on paper and think about them later.” Tom sighed.

This was the problem with early-modern scientists: They didn’t understand the necessity of publishing. In the case of Thomas Harriot, his ideas had definitely perished for want of a publisher.

“I think you’re right, Tom. But this wooden tube is not long enough.” I smiled at him brightly. “As for the joiner in St. Dunstan’s, Monsieur Vallin might be of more help if a long, hollow tube is what you need. Shall we go and see him?”

“Yes!” Jack shouted, jumping into the air. “Monsieur Vallin has all sorts of gears and springs, Master Harriot. He gave me one, and it is in my treasure box. Mine is not as big as Mistress Roydon’s, but it holds enough. Can we go now?”

“What is Auntie up to?” Gallowglass asked Matthew, both mystified and wary.

“I think she’s getting back at Walter for not paying sufficient attention to the future,” Matthew said mildly.

“Oh. That’s all right, then. And here I thought I smelled trouble.”

“There’s always trouble,” Matthew said. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, ma lionne?”

So much had happened that I could not fix. I couldn’t bring my child back or save the witches in Scotland. We’d brought Ashmole 782 all the way from Prague, only to discover that it could not be taken safely into the future. We had said good-bye to our fathers and were about to leave our friends. And most of these experiences would vanish without a trace. But I knew exactly how to ensure that Tom’s telescope survived.

I nodded. “The past has changed us, Matthew. Why should we not change it, too?”

Matthew caught my hand in his and kissed it. “Go to Monsieur Vallin, then. Have him send me the bill.”

“Thank you.” I bent and whispered in his ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll take Annie with me. She’ll wear him down on the price. Besides, who knows what to charge for a telescope in 1591?”

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.”