The Celestial Globe: The Kronos Chronicles: Book II by Marie Rutkoski

strong-smelling liquid. He clamped the cloth over her nose and mouth.
    Petra sank back into sleep.
    Below her bed, Astrophil waited, growing hungrier as the days passed.
    S OMEONE WAS STROKING Petra’s hair. Only two people had ever done this: Dita and her father. Maybe her mother had, too, but Petra couldn’t remember. She had been only a baby when her mother died.
    Petra opened her eyes.
    A woman was sitting next to the bed. Her hair was white, pulled back into a simple twist, but her skin was unlined. Her face held no expression. There was no tug of a lip, lift of a cheek, or furrow of a brow.
    “Hello,” the woman said in a flat voice. “I’m Agatha.”
    Petra, I am so relieved you are awake. You have been asleep for several days.
Astrophil’s words buzzed in Petra’s mind.
I was so worried.
    Where are you?
    I am hiding under the bed. It is
very
dusty. I do not think highly of the Dees’ housekeeper.
    Petra glanced at her left arm. The leeches were gone. The welts left by the touch of the Gristleki were healed, but fresh, fierce, and red.
    She turned to Agatha. “There was a man here . . .”
    “Yes. Dr. Harvey.”
    “He put
leeches
on me.”
    “He used them to suck the poison out of your blood.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Agatha,” the woman repeated. “Agatha Dee.”
    “Agatha
Dee
?”
    “Yes. John Dee’s wife.”
    I don’t like her,
Petra told Astrophil.
    Petra, would you try to like her enough to ask for a favor? Because
—the spider’s voice grew embarrassed—
I am extremely hungry.
    Petra bolted upright.
Oh, Astro! You haven’t had any oil in days! I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this right away. You might have died.
    You might have, too,
the spider said gently.
    “Agatha?” Petra leaned toward the woman. “Could I have some brassica oil? Please.”
    “Is something the matter?”
    “No, nothing. But I need brassica. A large jug of it. Now.”
    The woman’s face betrayed no surprise at this unusual request. She walked to the door, unlocked it, and murmured to someone in the hallway. She turned back to Petra. “It will be brought to you shortly.” She locked the door. “I am glad you are well,” she said, though her voice sounded empty of any gladness, “and that I am able to help you.”
    Petra thought that Agatha might mean something more than fetching brassica oil. “Help me?” Hope fluttered inside her. “Will you help me get back to Okno?”
    “No. I am here at my husband’s request. He asked me to teach you English.”
    “Oh,” Petra said resentfully. She knew what this meant. It meant that Dee intended Petra to stay in London for some time. “So when are you going to force the first lesson down my throat?”
    Agatha Dee didn’t seem offended, if only because she didn’t seem
anything
. “It’s done. You already know English.”
    “I—
what
?”
    “Yes. You’re speaking English now. You have no trace of a Czech accent. You know every word I do.”
    “You . . . used magic? Teaching—it’s your gift?”
    Agatha nodded.
    How was Petra ever going to get away from
four
magically talented Dees? She frowned. “I’m surprised that Dee didn’t make me learn English the hard way.”
    Agatha reached to lift Petra’s chin. “Why do that, when everything else will be so hard?”
    “
L OOK AT THAT SCAR . . .”
    Petra touched her neck and turned, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder. Her silver eyes measured the two girls. “The poison didn’t damage my hearing.”
    “It might have done something to your fashion sense, though,” said the freckled girl, raking her gaze over the trousers Petra had worn the day of the attack.
    Petra crossed her arms, brandishing the burnlike wound that reached up to her elbow. “Why are you here?” she demanded. Speaking English felt effortless, like walking without thinking about the fact that her entire body was doing a balancing act with every step. “Do you want a tour of my jail cell? There’s