nothing.
“We need it.”
“He sent you for it?”
“Yes.”
Doctor Dee nodded. He said nothing as he rolled up the map, tied it, and wrote a note to Mr. Raleigh. He didn’t seal his note.
“Be careful when you make your copy,” he said. “I have no other. Return it tomorrow.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
The doctor smiled as he reached out and hugged the boy goodbye.
On the boat downriver, Andrew opened the note:
“For the boy’s sake I lend it. He will go. You will not.”
11
T HE C ONJUROR
That evening, Andrew stayed up with Mr. Harriot through two rounds of candles, copying the doctor’s map. The stink of candle smoke left him queasy.
“This is excellent,” Mr. Harriot muttered as they worked. “The doctor has a nose for mariners’ secrets like a fox’s for rabbits.”
Mr. Harriot kept rubbing his hands together. He noticed Andrew watching.
“They’re always cold,” he said. “Winter and summer, whatever I do. I sleep in mittens.”
The next morning, Andrew ate nothing. He wrapped the map tight and took the ferry back up to Mortlake.
There was a strange hush about the doctor’s place. His garden was trampled. As Andrew turned in at the gate, he saw books and papers strewn in the yard. The door hung on a hinge.
He called out.
No one answered.
The boy’s heart began to pound.
Finally the doctor’s serving man appeared in the doorway, ghastly pale, his eyes bright and darting like a cornered rat’s.
“He’s gone,” he whispered. “People came in the night.”
“People?” Andrew asked. He felt a chill.
“They called him a conjuror. ‘He casts spells to make us sick,’ they screamed, ‘our animals too!’”
Andrew looked around.
“Who? Was it his neighbors?”
“I couldn’t see,” the man blubbered. “It was a mob. I ran to the cellar and hid.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He ran off in the dark when he heard them coming.”
Andrew kept the map. As he left, he spied something black in the brush by the broken gate. It was the doctor’s skullcap. He put it in his pocket.
Back at Durham House, he and Mr. Harriot took the map to Mr. Raleigh.
“He’d been warned,” Mr. Raleigh said, fingering the black cap. “We’d heard that Spanish agents were stirring up his neighbors. That’s why I sent you when I did.”
“Where is he?” Andrew asked.
“Safe,” Mr. Raleigh replied as he turned and put the skullcap in the drawer beneath his writing board.
Andrew started to leave.
“Wait!” Mr. Raleigh called as he turned back. “Be careful what you write home. Use this ink our friend the doctor prepared,” he said, reaching for a stoppered jug.
“We call it onion juice. It isn’t, but that’s what it smells like. Once the liquid dries, your writing will be invisible until the letter is gently rinsed with the doctor’s tincture and held before a flame. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied, “but how will I get the tincture to my family so they can read what I send?”
“Leave that to me,” Mr. Raleigh replied, opening his eyes wide.
12
W ILLIAM
Peter always fell asleep first. The two younger boys got in the habit of whispering back and forth in the dark, glad to have a friend to share things with.
One moonlit night they snuck out of the dormitory and crept downstairs. No one was up. They began a game of silent hide-and-seek, faster and faster, choking back cries and giggles as they swerved around chairs and hid behind and under, until William slipped on a rug and crashed into a table. A huge china jug went over. That brought James. He caught sight of Andrew’s back as the boys scurried upstairs.
A cat got blamed for the jug. For days William’s arm was so sore he couldn’t hold his hawk.
A few nights later, Andrew couldn’t sleep for being hungry. The boys glided down to the cellar kitchen. Andrew stirred up the fire to look around. Again their noise brought James. They slipped into the larder as he came in.
“We need it.”
“He sent you for it?”
“Yes.”
Doctor Dee nodded. He said nothing as he rolled up the map, tied it, and wrote a note to Mr. Raleigh. He didn’t seal his note.
“Be careful when you make your copy,” he said. “I have no other. Return it tomorrow.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
The doctor smiled as he reached out and hugged the boy goodbye.
On the boat downriver, Andrew opened the note:
“For the boy’s sake I lend it. He will go. You will not.”
11
T HE C ONJUROR
That evening, Andrew stayed up with Mr. Harriot through two rounds of candles, copying the doctor’s map. The stink of candle smoke left him queasy.
“This is excellent,” Mr. Harriot muttered as they worked. “The doctor has a nose for mariners’ secrets like a fox’s for rabbits.”
Mr. Harriot kept rubbing his hands together. He noticed Andrew watching.
“They’re always cold,” he said. “Winter and summer, whatever I do. I sleep in mittens.”
The next morning, Andrew ate nothing. He wrapped the map tight and took the ferry back up to Mortlake.
There was a strange hush about the doctor’s place. His garden was trampled. As Andrew turned in at the gate, he saw books and papers strewn in the yard. The door hung on a hinge.
He called out.
No one answered.
The boy’s heart began to pound.
Finally the doctor’s serving man appeared in the doorway, ghastly pale, his eyes bright and darting like a cornered rat’s.
“He’s gone,” he whispered. “People came in the night.”
“People?” Andrew asked. He felt a chill.
“They called him a conjuror. ‘He casts spells to make us sick,’ they screamed, ‘our animals too!’”
Andrew looked around.
“Who? Was it his neighbors?”
“I couldn’t see,” the man blubbered. “It was a mob. I ran to the cellar and hid.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He ran off in the dark when he heard them coming.”
Andrew kept the map. As he left, he spied something black in the brush by the broken gate. It was the doctor’s skullcap. He put it in his pocket.
Back at Durham House, he and Mr. Harriot took the map to Mr. Raleigh.
“He’d been warned,” Mr. Raleigh said, fingering the black cap. “We’d heard that Spanish agents were stirring up his neighbors. That’s why I sent you when I did.”
“Where is he?” Andrew asked.
“Safe,” Mr. Raleigh replied as he turned and put the skullcap in the drawer beneath his writing board.
Andrew started to leave.
“Wait!” Mr. Raleigh called as he turned back. “Be careful what you write home. Use this ink our friend the doctor prepared,” he said, reaching for a stoppered jug.
“We call it onion juice. It isn’t, but that’s what it smells like. Once the liquid dries, your writing will be invisible until the letter is gently rinsed with the doctor’s tincture and held before a flame. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied, “but how will I get the tincture to my family so they can read what I send?”
“Leave that to me,” Mr. Raleigh replied, opening his eyes wide.
12
W ILLIAM
Peter always fell asleep first. The two younger boys got in the habit of whispering back and forth in the dark, glad to have a friend to share things with.
One moonlit night they snuck out of the dormitory and crept downstairs. No one was up. They began a game of silent hide-and-seek, faster and faster, choking back cries and giggles as they swerved around chairs and hid behind and under, until William slipped on a rug and crashed into a table. A huge china jug went over. That brought James. He caught sight of Andrew’s back as the boys scurried upstairs.
A cat got blamed for the jug. For days William’s arm was so sore he couldn’t hold his hawk.
A few nights later, Andrew couldn’t sleep for being hungry. The boys glided down to the cellar kitchen. Andrew stirred up the fire to look around. Again their noise brought James. They slipped into the larder as he came in.
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