Throughout the late spring and early summer of 1543, Rhoslyn found herself frustrated at every turn in trying to interfere with Elizabeth's life. She could not herself attempt to watch Elizabeth nor could she send her creatures to watch. The child had retained her ability to see through illusion, and the maid could sense a watcher, which then the child could see and point out for the maid to drive away with her accursed cold iron crosses.
Rhoslyn resented her inability to spy on Elizabeth all the more because she was trying to help the wretched child. If she could not arrange for her to be disgraced and thus placed outside Oberon's rule, she was very much afraid that Vidal would demand the child's death . . . and Pasgen would arrange it. Cold crept about her heart. She could not live without Pasgen, but she could not live with him if he murdered a child. It was a crisis with no solution, unless she found a way to get at the miserable girl.
Fortunately, Aurelia had remained quite determined to take Elizabeth alive, and managed to divert Vidal into other enterprises. That helped, but it did not ease Roslyn's exasperation. Elizabeth's life, under observation of Prince Edward's officers as well as her own governess, was blameless. Rhoslyn suspected that Elizabeth saw Denoriel, but he was an accepted visitor and was never alone with the child. Worse yet, Rhoslyn's conduit to the king, Henry's eldest daughter, Mary, had little to do with Elizabeth these days. Mary lived on her own estates and did not share households with the younger children.
When the king married again in July of 1543, however, the possibilities for involving Elizabeth in misbehavior became better. Rhoslyn knew at once when Mary received an invitation to accompany the king and his new wife on a progress after they were married. Knowing Mary's constant financial difficulties, Rhoslyn promptly presented herself as Mary's old and dear friend Rosamund Scot, bearing a fat purse of gold coins "to help toward her beloved Lady Mary's expenses in traveling."
It was no great surprise that Mistress Scot should be invited along to accompany Mary on the king's progress, or that Rosamund, always thoughtful and considerate, should mention that it was a pity the king's whole family could not be together. Mary thought that the addition of two young children on a honeymoon trip would be too much to ask of Queen Catherine and that the children's lessons would be too much disturbed.
Much though that was an irritation, it was a minor one, and Lady Rosamund was assiduous in continuing with her gentle hints of familial harmony. It wasn't difficult; Mary longed for a family of any kind, having so long lived without more than a shadow of one. So before the progress was over, and once the king and queen settled into a residence, she told Lady Rosamund that she would speak to the queen about bringing all of Henry's children to court.
Always true to her word—and reminded subtly by Mistress Scot—Mary did so. Catherine was delighted with the idea, particularly as Hampton Court Palace where they were now settled was ideal for children.
Henry adored the palace, built by Cardinal Woolsey, and actually given to him by the cardinal as an unsuccessful bribe to avert his own disgrace. It hadn't worked, of course, but Henry could luxuriate in the comforts of an entirely modern palace (unlike some of the other residences he possessed, Hampton Court had been rebuilt from the ground up), and he could look about himself, allow himself a moment of sentimental nostalgia about the builder, secure in the mendacious knowledge that it had been a "gift" and not taken from the unhappy cleric. Then, if he was feeling particularly spiteful, he could gloat over the fact that he had won in the battle of wills between himself and the Catholic Church, and Woolsey, the pope's man, had lost.
The king was pleased with Catherine's request that his younger children be added to the family party, had the apartments in the nursery refurbished, and in early December sent for Edward and Elizabeth to celebrate Christmas with the court.
From a safe distance, where Elizabeth was not likely to comment aloud on her pointed ears or cat-pupilled eyes, Rhoslyn watched Elizabeth. Despite the child's prettiness, Rhoslyn was not particularly drawn to her; there was a too-knowing, too-watchful expression on her thin, pale face, and too sharp a tongue when the other children—excepting only Edward—did not dance to her pleasure. However, Rhoslyn could not deny that Elizabeth was superlatively intelligent and inventive.
Christmas Eve was no longer given over entirely to religious practices as it had been in Catherine of Aragon's time as queen. There was a Christmas mass, of course, and a sermon, which carefully avoided both Catholic and Reformist extremes. From the back of the chapel among the high-born attendants of the royal party, Rhoslyn noted the still intensity with which Elizabeth listened to the sermon. After the music—hymns, but only the joyous and triumphant variety—and a masque of Christ's birth with sweet but not particularly holy choruses, the entertainment was ended and Rhoslyn followed Mary to her apartment.
"It all seems a little . . . a little . . . shallow," Rhoslyn sighed. "I miss the depth and beauty of the eve of Christ's birth as it was celebrated in your blessed mother's time."
Mary looked around, but her other ladies were at a distance and seemed well occupied with their duties. Most, she was sure, loved her, but there were some she suspected were spies and would report anything that hinted of criticism on her part of her father's distortion of the true faith.
"I too," she whispered, "but it is better not to speak of such things."
"Of course." Rhoslyn took Mary's hand and kissed it. "The children were very good, were they not?"
Mary smiled. "Well, good enough not to call down a punishment on themselves, but little boys will be little boys and I am so happy to see Edward plump and rosy despite what I hear about him loving his books so well, that a little nudging and whispering during a sermon can be excused."
"Yes. That Edward have good health is the best news for us all. Elizabeth looks well, too, but she seemed almost fascinated by the sermon, especially the parts about sin. I do not suppose it possible that she could have any reason to be concerned with the redemption of sin . . . unless some lingering memory of her mother—"
"She is only a child," Mary interrupted sharply. "I do not believe she has any memory of that . . . that woman."
"She was almost three. Children of three remember." Well, that hint was not taken well. Time to try a different direction. Rhoslyn sighed heavily and then said brightly, "It is a real delight to see how Edward loves her. Did you see how he ran to her after the sermon? He asked her what she thought of some passage as if she were the authority instead of the priest."
"I think it was only a word he did not understand," Mary said, but a faint frown creased her brow.
"They have both grown very fond of the queen." Rhoslyn's voice was bland, but she fingered the golden cross that hung from a handsome string of pearls. Mary did not seem to notice.
"Yes," Mary said, smiling again. "I, too, am fond of Queen Catherine. She is a delightful woman—kind, intelligent, and very warmhearted."
"That she is," Rhoslyn agreed heartily, lifting the cross and jiggling it so the glittering gold caught Mary's eye. "But you are of an age where affection has no power to lead you away from the truth. For those much younger, what the beloved espouses very often becomes belief."
Mary was silent, staring at the cross which Rhoslyn now allowed to lie quietly on her breast.
"Elizabeth is particularly enamored of the queen, and they tell me she strains to be the foremost student of Cooke and Cheke . . ." Rhoslyn said, meditatively. "Perhaps this is because they have the queen's favor, but perhaps it is because what they say is pleasing to the child." She shrugged. "This will not matter, of course—unless she bends the prince in the same direction."
"I see," Mary breathed. "And the queen would not correct it, as it was she who appointed Cooke and Cheke, and she—"
Mary stopped as Jane Dormer, her long-time and most trusted lady-in-waiting, approached and curtsied. Rhoslyn examined the woman's face anxiously, hoping that Jane had not overheard their conversation, divined danger, and come to put a stop to it. What Jane heard was not important; she was utterly devoted to Mary and would never repeat a dangerous conversation. But if Jane had heard, others less trustworthy might also have heard.
Rhoslyn knew it was important not to get Mary into trouble with her father. Unfortunately Henry knew quite well that silently, in the depths of her heart, his eldest daughter rejected his claim to be head of the English Church and bitterly repented her submission on rejecting the pope. Thus far, outward conformity kept Henry satisfied, but Rhoslyn did not want him to hear any hint that Mary's conformity and outward obedience was not perfect.
Jane brought no warning, only asked whether Mary wanted anything to drink before retiring. However, Rhoslyn noticed a quick glance in her direction and was forced to stifle a sigh. So, it was a complication that Rhoslyn had not anticipated; Jane was jealous. That was unfortunate, as Mary warmly reciprocated Jane's affection and Jane could turn Mary against Rosamund Scot—well liked and trusted, but not loved as Jane was.
"Here, take my seat, please," Rhoslyn said, getting to her feet and curtseying to Mary. "I was only telling Lady Mary how devoted Prince Edward seems to be to Lady Elizabeth. It is pretty to see them together, he, like a little brother, hanging on her words."
"Yes," Jane agreed, her expression changing from deliberate blandness to thoughtfulness; her glance at Rhoslyn perhaps held even a touch of gratitude. "I remember how much joy the prince took in Lady Mary's visits when he was younger. Now that we are so close and a visit does not mean a whole cavalcade and elaborate arrangements, it would be delightful to see more of the boy."
"Indeed." Rhoslyn curtseyed again. "I agree with you with all my heart, Mistress Dormer. It would be good for Lady Mary to have her family truly about her again, and good for the prince to have Lady Mary to emulate. Lady Elizabeth makes a charming friend for him, but a child should have an adult as a proper model."
Returning to her own chamber—which was small and high under the roof, but private, and thus a mark of great favor (since most of Mary's attendants were bundled together four to a chamber not much larger)—Rhoslyn allowed her maid to undress her and make her ready for bed. Reviewing what she had done, she was well satisfied.
Doubtless Mary would repeat what she had said to Jane, and Mistress Dormer, as passionately and even more cautiously devoted to the old religion than Mary, would understand Rhoslyn's hints more quickly. Queen Catherine obviously had reformist leanings and Elizabeth was absorbing those from the queen and from her teachers . . . and drawing Edward along with her.
Now Mary would try to replace Elizabeth in Edward's affections and counteract the influence of the queen and his teachers on his religious opinions. She would doubtless fail, since it was unlikely that Edward, already showing the headstrong nature of the Tudors, would be moved from the course on which his small feet were set. Edward's stubbornness would make Mary even more resentful of Elizabeth. That would make her quick to accept and believe any ill tales about Elizabeth. And ill tales there would be.
Rhoslyn sipped the tisane her maid had brought her and considered which of the boys being schooled with the king's children she should implant with the need to spy on Elizabeth. There were more than a dozen of them. Of those, three or four were too young, playmates and fellow scholars for the seven-year-old prince. All of the younger ones were overseen very strictly; it was unlikely that they could observe Elizabeth without drawing notice.
Two of the boys were more likely to run to the queen or one of their teachers and complain that they had been asked to spy by one of Mary's ladies. Lord Strange, already imbued with reformist principles and eager to find fault with Mary, and Henry Brandon because of his pride in being close to the king, a nephew, and rather besotted with Elizabeth.
That left the cadre of five older boys, all of whom were intent on gaining Edward's affection—which made a difficulty, as Edward was very fond of his sister and would not thank anyone who made trouble for her. Francis, Lord Russell, was the eldest, but he was so strong a reformist that he would not wish to oblige anyone in Mary's party. The two most likely for her purpose were Lord Stafford and Lord Mountjoy.
Rhoslyn put aside her cup, slid down under the coverlet . . . and sighed. She tried to be comfortable on the lumpy mattress and thought of her cloud-soft bed Underhill. She wondered whether saving Elizabeth was worth all this anxiety and discomfort. Perhaps she should just let Pasgen kill the child.
The breath caught in her throat. Saving Elizabeth was not for Elizabeth's sake. If the girl fell into Aurelia's hands, death would be far kinder. It was about Pasgen. If Pasgen could murder a child without a thought . . . She would not think of that. Nothing could be done until the twelve days of celebration were over, but after that she would choose one of the two boys who would best serve her purpose.
Rhoslyn did not even need to remind Mary about the need to make Edward love her. On the seventh of January 1544 she learned, when she was admitted to Lady Mary's apartment, that Mary had sent a message that she would like to visit the prince. A cordial invitation had been received in reply, and they were to go soon after breaking their fasts.
Rhoslyn was faced with a dilemma. If she went with Mary there was a chance that the little devil Elizabeth would see her and cry out, but if she went, there was also the opportunity to watch both boys. In the end she decided to go, only taking the precaution of raising so heavy a shield that all her magic was trapped within. If her essence as Sidhe did not leak out, there would be nothing to draw Elizabeth's attention.
Elizabeth was said to be very circumspect in her behavior now. Rhoslyn thought that even if she was unlucky and Elizabeth noticed her and saw through the illusions that made her look human, the child might not raise an alarm. No, of course she would not. Surely she would not be willing to point out attributes that no one else could see on one of Mary's ladies-in-waiting.
Both decisions were the right ones. Rhoslyn was reasonably sure that Elizabeth had not noticed her among the gaggle of ladies that accompanied Mary to the nursery schoolroom; certainly the child said and did nothing unusual. And it was immediately apparent that Lord Stafford would serve her purpose best. His expression was calculating, as if he measured every person and situation for the best advantage to himself. A perfectly natural result of the execution of his father, the duke of Buckingham, Rhoslyn thought. The sentence had been for treason and the attainder that followed had cost Stafford all his father's estates. Stafford needed preferment from someone, and he was old enough to know it, but young enough to be reckless about whom he sought it from.
Mountjoy, on the other hand, seemed rather uninterested in those around him, working some strange formulas at a small table near the windows. To make him attend closely to what Elizabeth said and did would be against his natural inclination
Tomorrow she would find Stafford and bespell him. The spell she planned to use would be very small and unobtrusive. It would not twist the boy's mind or nature, only intensify his natural desire to learn all he could about those likely to have power, and it would center that interest on Elizabeth rather than Prince Edward.
Soon Rhoslyn was assured that her spell would draw no attention, because it would have little effect on Stafford's normal behavior. Without any spell she saw that Stafford watched intently when Edward brought something he had written to his sister, who laughed and kissed him and told him he was a wonder. The child glowed with pleasure, and Rhoslyn saw that Stafford noted that also.
Mary saw the same little byplay, and she joined her two half-siblings. But Mary was no scholar, at least not in the class of those two precocious royal creatures. She frowned when Elizabeth, still laughing, challenged Edward to turn the Latin sentence he had brought to her into Greek and gave him three words to start.
Edward was silent, considering, his lips pursed as if he were about to kiss Elizabeth. And Mary made the mistake of saying—as if she thought that Edward would not be able to rise to Elizabeth's challenge—that Edward was indeed a wonder but he should rather play at tennis, for which the other boys were making ready.
Elizabeth laughed again. "Do you think he cannot do both? Dear Edward does not need to study for an hour to make a Greek sentence."
Rhoslyn saw Mary change color when Edward laughed too, and spouted a dozen words, which made Elizabeth clap her hands and kiss his cheek. And seemingly, having her accolade he waited for no more, but ran to join his fellows, who had collected his raquette and balls as well as their own, and were obviously waiting for him to go to the tennis court.
For a long moment Elizabeth and Mary stood confronting each other in the near-empty room. Then Elizabeth curtsied and said in a soft, apologetic voice, "He does so love his books and takes such pleasure in his learning. And you saw that he ran away to take his exercise."
"Yes, of course," Mary replied stiffly. "I am sure you wish your brother no harm."
"No! No, indeed I do not," Elizabeth said with passionate sincerity. "I wish him health and strength and wisdom and all the good that can possibly befall anyone."
"As do I, naturally."
Mary's voice was so cold that Elizabeth stared at her in consternation, and then, recalling that Mary was Edward's heir and might be suspected of not wishing him well, compounded her crime by blushing violently.
"No one could doubt it," Jane Dormer said, stepping forward smartly and glaring at Elizabeth.
"Never!" Elizabeth exclaimed, but her glance had for one instant passed over Mary's shoulder when Jane Dormer moved, and she shivered slightly as she brought her gaze back to her sister's face. "So loving a sister you have always been to him, and, indeed, to me for all the years of my life."
Rhoslyn was annoyed with both Mary and Jane Dormer for frightening Elizabeth. The child needed to be confident to act or speak with boldness. If she felt threatened she would commit none of the faux pas that could bring her father's wrath down on her head. With her magic confined, there was nothing Rhoslyn could do, but Mary still retained some of the fondness she had felt when Elizabeth was a babe. Seeing her sister's painful blush, Mary changed the subject to an inquiry about Elizabeth's musical education.
Before Elizabeth could reply, loud shouts and laughter drifted back to the ladies from the open door of the tennis court and Jane, with a single glance at Elizabeth, urged Mary to go and see how well her brother did. Mary hesitated just for a moment and then invited Elizabeth to accompany them.
Elizabeth thanked her with what seemed to be sincerity but, smiling and curtseying deeply, excused herself. She explained that she generally worked with her needle during the time that Edward played games with his male friends.
"I would gladly accompany you to watch Edward play," she said, with evident sincerity, "except that I have started work on Edward's Christmas gift and fear any delay."
Mary seemed to take no umbrage at this excuse and bestowed a pleasant smile on Elizabeth as she and her ladies walked away. Elizabeth stood staring after her sister and her attendants, her eyes following one of the women who seemed to be trying to keep in the center of the group.
"It's all right, love," Blanche Parry whispered in Elizabeth's ear. "She didn't mean any harm to you. Who knows what's in her heart that she regrets and causes her pain? She knows you didn't mean anything more than that you love Edward and wish him well."
"It wasn't Mary. It was that other lady," Elizabeth murmured in reply.
"You mean Jane Dormer? Jane will do you no harm. She only loves Lady Mary and is quick in her defense."
"No, not Jane. I know Jane well. The other one. The dark-haired one who always seemed to be trying to raise her hood to hide herself . . . and I know why." Elizabeth shivered.
"You are cold, m'lady," Blanche said a little too loudly so that anyone possibly watching from concealment would hear. "Come back to your chamber and I will find a warmer gown."
Elizabeth pulled on her cloak and followed Blanche at once, but as soon as they were in her bedchamber with the door closed, she said, "I must speak to Lord Denno. Go down to the stables and bid Ladbroke find some excuse to ride into London so that he can tell Denno to come at once."
"Come? Come where?" Blanche asked softly. "Mistress Champernowne has not yet requested that he be put on a visitor's list because the prince's officers have not yet submitted one. He has to see a place before he can come to it."
"Does he?" Elizabeth uttered a stifled sob. "Tell Ladbroke to describe the maze to him. Perhaps that will do. If not, I will have to . . . oh, I do not know what, but I know we are in danger."
"What danger?" Blanche frowned suddenly, as if recalling an uneasiness that she had not previously thought was of any importance. "Grace of God, then I did feel something. But it was so small, so . . ."
"It was one of the others, the bad ones." Elizabeth shook her head. "I only caught one glimpse of her face and I could see—you know what I could see. I must speak to Denno. I must tell him."
"Ladbroke will tell him that you saw one of the Fair Folk in Lady Mary's entourage. He must know that at once!" She drew a deep breath, wringing her hands. "Oh, my lady, my lady, I fear I am useless to you. I did not feel her presence at all—and I should have. She was not so far from us. Even if I could not see her because she hid herself among the other women, I should have felt her."
Elizabeth's eyes widened. "I did not feel her either," she whispered. "It was only when Jane stepped forward so suddenly that I saw the woman behind her and I saw . . . her ears and her eyes. Oh, heaven, Denno must come."
"Yes, yes. Ladbroke will do his best, you know that." Blanche stared into nothing, thinking for a moment. "But, think, my love, it may not be one of the evil ones. It is not impossible that a watch is being kept on Lady Mary. Lord Denno will know. And for now, you do just as you said. Take up your needle and work on embroidering the book cover. Dunstan will watch over you."
Elizabeth was trembling again, and Dunstan, who had to be in and out on his duties, could not sit with the child. Nor could Kat Champernowne, who—unaware of any unusual circumstance—had gone into London on some private business. After one look at the wide-eyed, pale-faced girl, Dunstan summoned Gerrit into the room. The guardsman's familiar, bulky presence was immediately comforting, especially because Elizabeth knew he was wearing the amulet that protected him from sleep spells. And Dickson, Elizabeth reminded herself, similarly protected, was watching outside the chamber door.
For further comfort she recalled the unsuitable demands she had made of her faithful guardsmen as a baby and teased Gerrit that she needed help in winding embroidery silks. Only once did Gerrit's eyes flick to Blanche, who was pale and fingering the iron crosses under her gown. Then he nodded brusquely, moved his sword so his draw would be unimpeded and held out his thick hands for the skein of delicate silk. Elizabeth blinked back tears and began to wind the bright threads onto small silver spools.
Fortunately, there was no family dinner and Kat was dining with a cousin in town, because Elizabeth could eat nothing. However, her suspense did not last much longer; Ladbroke returned soon after the uneaten meal was taken away with a flat packet wrapped in a clean cloth.
"Your ribbons, m'lady," he said. "Sorry it took so long, but the fool of a merchant didn't understand that they were to be only of three colors to mark the passages in the maze. I hope he chose what would best be visible, but he did suggest that you take them into the maze when you walk there this afternoon to be sure you will be able to see them."
Elizabeth blinked. Ribbons? She had ordered no ribbons. And to mark the passages in the maze would be a sad cheat. But she had known from the age of three how to hold her tongue and she only nodded as he handed over the packet. He proffered it carefully so that Elizabeth's hands were forced to take hold in a certain way, and Elizabeth's breath eased out as she felt something hard, flat, and oval under the cover cloth.
She needed no further explanation. That must be an amulet that would "call" to Denno so he would know where to open a gate. She smiled up at the groom.
"Thank you, Ladbroke. I shall certainly take the ribbons with me when I go for a walk this afternoon."
"And m'lady," Ladbroke said, with emphasis, "If you have any trouble seeing the color, he said to wait a few moments until your eyes adjust and look again."
She nodded as emphatically as he had spoken. "I will surely follow that advice, Ladbroke. Now you may go and have your own dinner. I am sorry it is so late."
The groom glanced at Gerrit, still holding a skein of silk; he did not laugh. He nodded to the guardsman, bowed to Elizabeth. "It is a pleasure to serve you, m'lady."
Elizabeth let the packet lie on her lap while she finished winding up the skein of silk that Gerrit was holding. Then she thanked the guardsman, made a little joke about the odd tasks that came from serving a lady, and dismissed him.
But all the while she had been wondering why Ladbroke was talking about ribbons and marking the maze instead of just telling her that Denno would meet her in the maze during her afternoon walk. And why had Ladbroke not simply handed her the amulet instead of concealing it in the packet of ribbons?
She was certain Ladbroke was acting on Denno's instructions and that those instructions had been given because neither she nor Blanche had been able to sense the Sidhe who had been with Mary. The secrecy raised her fears again. Denno was warning her that if they could not sense the dark Sidhe they would also not be able to sense any watchers.
Elizabeth swallowed. That meant the Sidhe knew she and Blanche could sense magic and that she could see through illusion; the watcher would be well hidden. But if the watcher could feel the amulet . . . or, no. Elizabeth remembered that she had been warned a strong enough shield would prevent her from feeling magic.
So, if the watcher was shielded so strongly that it could not feel the amulet's magic, the watcher would not be able to sense the amulet as being magical. The watcher would be able to see what she did and hear what she said but if the amulet seemed to be an old possession, it would not tell the Sidhe the amulet was a "caller." Elizabeth rose, clutching the packet carefully so the amulet would not slip out.
"You are right, Blanche," Elizabeth said to her maid, who was sitting near her arranging the spools in a workbasket. "I was a little chilled this morning. I will need my warmest cloak and gown, but I still wish to take my walk this afternoon."
"Why do you not change at once, then. You look quite pale with the cold. It is so kind of you, Lady Elizabeth, to make a trail that Prince Edward will be able to follow by tying ribbons to the paths in the maze."
Elizabeth smiled gratefully at Blanche, who had provided a reasonable excuse for marking paths in the maze. She was too old to need such help, but it was reasonable that she would not want her little brother to be lost and frightened.
"Quite right. Let us go and look over my gowns."
In the safety of her bedchamber, with the doors of the wardrobe open to shield any view from either side and her own body blocking the view from the front, Elizabeth knelt to open the packet she had laid on a footstool. There were half a dozen narrow ribbons in each of bright crimson, bright blue, and bright yellow.
"I wonder," she said to Blanche, "whether I should tie these down where Edward could not fail to see them at once or tie them higher up?"
But as she spoke, her hand reached to cover the pretty golden oval on a golden chain showing the lion and the lamb lying together. With it she picked up the ribbons, sat on the stool, and dropped the ribbons into her lap. Blanche leaned over her, seemingly looking at the ribbons, which she picked up and carried to a table. She returned with Elizabeth's trinket box. This she set in Elizabeth's lap while she loosened Elizabeth's necklace. She handed that to Elizabeth, who dropped it into the box, and then removed Elizabeth's earrings. Those, too, went into the box.
Elizabeth was quivering with the desire to take the amulet in hand and run to the maze, but she knew she must not. She waited patiently to be clothed anew and even contributed to a brief conversation about which pieces of jewelry would best befit the new gown; that permitted her to scrabble in her trinket box and take out the amulet, which Blanche hung around her neck well away from the cross beneath her clothes. At long last, after what seemed like hours, Blanche allowed her to pick up the ribbons, leave the apartment, and make her way along the graveled walk to the wilderness.
They went first to the central pool, around which were low beds prepared for flowers in the spring. Both searched the surrounding mostly leafless trees and bushes for any movement. There was no hint of any unnatural watcher, but just entering the most direct path into the Wilderness they saw two of the boys from the school. Elizabeth squeezed Blanche's hand and complained that the wind was far sharper than she had expected. Blanche, pushing Elizabeth to the side where they would be less visible from the straight path to the entrance, said that they should walk by the maze where the thick yew bushes would shield them from the wind. Trembling with anxiety, Elizabeth agreed.
They took a side path to the left and then another going right, pausing as soon as they were around the corner to listen, then to peer out and watch. Neither saw or heard anything, but Elizabeth whispered to Blanche that it was not right. She knew the boys from the school; they should have been talking. Blanche nodded.
Now they hurried, stepping as softly as possible and holding their skirts close so they would not catch on or touch any bushes. A last turn to the left brought them to a wider path, across which were the tall, arched yews that marked the entrance to the maze. They stopped in the last shelter of the path and listened. Nothing. Cautious glances along the path showed it empty. Elizabeth shivered.
Perhaps the boys had not stayed in the Wilderness or had taken the most direct path to the Lion Gate, which would take them out to the park. Wait, Elizabeth's head said. You can come back later or tomorrow to use the amulet. But her heart pounded and her teeth were so tightly clamped that her jaw hurt. Perhaps it was not wise, but Elizabeth wanted her Denno. She needed him.
Knowing she should not, Elizabeth pulled Blanche across the path through the entrance to the maze. Inside they waited just out of sight of the entrance but there was still no sight or sound of the boys. They scanned the trees and bushes opposite and the ground around the base of the bushes and paths, but there was no sign of any watcher either.
Elizabeth shivered again and hurried Blanche along toward the center, feeling a little less frightened. She was sure that neither the watcher, if there was one, nor the boys if they had followed, could see any farther through the thick walls of yew than she and Blanche could see themselves.
By choice, Elizabeth would have set the amulet down in one of the dead-end paths, but she had no idea how much space a Gate needed. Those she had seen, at Logres and Avalon, were large enough for several horses. At the center she looked around with great care and examined each of the three pathways. Blanche looked, too. Neither saw anything they thought could be a watcher.
"What if it is a cricket? Or a mouse?" Elizabeth whispered.
"I do not know," Blanche whispered back. "I looked for mice, but I do not believe it could be much smaller and still be able to remember anything. What about those boys?"
For answer, Elizabeth put her fingers to her lips and held her breath as she listened. There was no sound of footsteps or sense of anyone brushing against the tall yews that bordered the paths. Another sweep of the open area and Elizabeth sighed and opened her cloak. Blanche undid the golden chain over her dress and replaced it with another gold chain and locket which she took from her pocket. Elizabeth laid the amulet on the bench and stepped away.
She thought perhaps Ladbroke's warning about looking around if she did not see the "ribbons" at first meant that she should not watch, but she found it impossible not to stare at the amulet. Nor did she have much time to wait with a pounding heart and dry mouth. She had barely retreated far enough to seize Blanche's hand, when a pinpoint formed; a blackness so black that it drew attention like a spot of brightness.
In moments it had enlarged to the size of a window, then to an open door, through which Elizabeth glimpsed a handsome bedchamber. Before she could see more than the edge of a large curtained bed and a sliver of window, Denoriel stepped through . . . and, his arms fettered by his tight-drawn cloak, took another step forward into empty air—
—and fell off the bench into a bed of dead plants.