preparation.
Rosamund jumped to her feet at once, but Blanche insisted on packing the latest batch of elecampane roots into their baskets before they left. “If thy fears prove well founded, then we must speed home quickly, and I’ll not have our labor wasted,” Blanche said firmly when Rosamund objected. “There; that’s the last. Come now, but have a care.”
Crossing the brook was not difficult; it was a mere trickle of water, less than three feet wide and only a few inches deep. The girls found a spot where the opposite bank was almost clear of brush and jumped the stream. Then they headed back toward the area where Rosamund thought she had seen the fire.
They had gone only a little way when Blanche held out a hand to stop her sister. “What now?” Rosamund said crossly.
“I feel an evil in the air,” Blanche said in a low voice. “Dost thou not sense it?”
“‘Tis only that we draw near the border of Faerie,” Rosamund said with some impatience.
“Nay, ‘tis more than that,” Blanche said. “The crossing into Faerie ne’er made my flesh creep. Be still a moment, and listen.”
Rosamund did as Blanche suggested, and for a long moment the two girls stood like deer tasting the air for a scent of strangeness. “‘Tis nothing,” Rosamund said at last, with rather too much firmness. “Come, we must see about that fire.”
“Perhaps we should not; perhaps we should go home and tell Mother,” Blanche said, but there was more hope than conviction in her voice.
“Nay, if we do that, we’ll never learn what’s toward,” Rosamund replied. “We’ll go on, but with caution.”
“Thou art a stubborn mule,” Blanche muttered, too low for Rosamund to hear. Sighing, she tucked the linen cloth that covered her basket more tightly into place and followed at her sister’s heels.
They reached a fringe of bushes that partially screened the place where Rosamund had seen the fire. Rosamund stopped short. When Blanche started to ask why, Rosamund gestured her to silence. A moment later, Blanche heard the low rumble of men’s voices ahead of them. The two girls exchanged a long look; then Blanche sighed again and slipped her free hand into Rosamund’s. Clutching each other tightly, they crept closer, looking for a place where they would be able to see the fire clearly.
The fire had been burning since shortly after daybreak, when John Dee and Edward Kelly had begun their secret spell-casting. The two men had, with much effort (and a fair amount of complaining on Kelly’s part), carried their carefully prepared tools into the forest before it was quite light, to avoid being seen by the villagers. It had taken them some time to find a suitable place for their work, and the men’s long robes were somewhat the worse for their long trek through the forest. Burrs and twigs had caught on their sleeves, and an oak leaf protruded from the back of John Dee’s collar.
Neither man bothered to correct his dishevelment. They set to work at once, first spreading a large square of red silk out on the forest floor, then placing an iron brazier in the center of the silk and lighting a fire within it. Kelly had tended the fire for some hours, while Dee laid out, in careful order along one edge of the silk square, their remaining tools: two wax tablets bearing inscriptions in Hebrew, a tarnished silver bowl partially filled with wine, a slim dagger, a clay dish of herbs, and an unlit lamp. And as they worked, each of the men kept a sharp eye on the shadows at the far side of the brazier, just beyond the edge of the silk cloth—the shadows whose distorted clarity marked the border between the lands of Faerie and the mortal world.
Now the two men stood half-crouched over the brazier, chanting steadily in low voices. Suddenly, John Dee straightened, then bent backward and seized the two wax tablets. Without pausing in his chanting, he handed one of the tablets to his companion. Then he held his own above the
Rosamund jumped to her feet at once, but Blanche insisted on packing the latest batch of elecampane roots into their baskets before they left. “If thy fears prove well founded, then we must speed home quickly, and I’ll not have our labor wasted,” Blanche said firmly when Rosamund objected. “There; that’s the last. Come now, but have a care.”
Crossing the brook was not difficult; it was a mere trickle of water, less than three feet wide and only a few inches deep. The girls found a spot where the opposite bank was almost clear of brush and jumped the stream. Then they headed back toward the area where Rosamund thought she had seen the fire.
They had gone only a little way when Blanche held out a hand to stop her sister. “What now?” Rosamund said crossly.
“I feel an evil in the air,” Blanche said in a low voice. “Dost thou not sense it?”
“‘Tis only that we draw near the border of Faerie,” Rosamund said with some impatience.
“Nay, ‘tis more than that,” Blanche said. “The crossing into Faerie ne’er made my flesh creep. Be still a moment, and listen.”
Rosamund did as Blanche suggested, and for a long moment the two girls stood like deer tasting the air for a scent of strangeness. “‘Tis nothing,” Rosamund said at last, with rather too much firmness. “Come, we must see about that fire.”
“Perhaps we should not; perhaps we should go home and tell Mother,” Blanche said, but there was more hope than conviction in her voice.
“Nay, if we do that, we’ll never learn what’s toward,” Rosamund replied. “We’ll go on, but with caution.”
“Thou art a stubborn mule,” Blanche muttered, too low for Rosamund to hear. Sighing, she tucked the linen cloth that covered her basket more tightly into place and followed at her sister’s heels.
They reached a fringe of bushes that partially screened the place where Rosamund had seen the fire. Rosamund stopped short. When Blanche started to ask why, Rosamund gestured her to silence. A moment later, Blanche heard the low rumble of men’s voices ahead of them. The two girls exchanged a long look; then Blanche sighed again and slipped her free hand into Rosamund’s. Clutching each other tightly, they crept closer, looking for a place where they would be able to see the fire clearly.
The fire had been burning since shortly after daybreak, when John Dee and Edward Kelly had begun their secret spell-casting. The two men had, with much effort (and a fair amount of complaining on Kelly’s part), carried their carefully prepared tools into the forest before it was quite light, to avoid being seen by the villagers. It had taken them some time to find a suitable place for their work, and the men’s long robes were somewhat the worse for their long trek through the forest. Burrs and twigs had caught on their sleeves, and an oak leaf protruded from the back of John Dee’s collar.
Neither man bothered to correct his dishevelment. They set to work at once, first spreading a large square of red silk out on the forest floor, then placing an iron brazier in the center of the silk and lighting a fire within it. Kelly had tended the fire for some hours, while Dee laid out, in careful order along one edge of the silk square, their remaining tools: two wax tablets bearing inscriptions in Hebrew, a tarnished silver bowl partially filled with wine, a slim dagger, a clay dish of herbs, and an unlit lamp. And as they worked, each of the men kept a sharp eye on the shadows at the far side of the brazier, just beyond the edge of the silk cloth—the shadows whose distorted clarity marked the border between the lands of Faerie and the mortal world.
Now the two men stood half-crouched over the brazier, chanting steadily in low voices. Suddenly, John Dee straightened, then bent backward and seized the two wax tablets. Without pausing in his chanting, he handed one of the tablets to his companion. Then he held his own above the
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