secrets if I gazed at it long enough. “They all needed improvement. My father thought they were poor imitations of the love poems written by native speakers of Italian.”
My younger self had recorded additional information: Mr. John Rouse, then the librarian at the Bodleian Library, in Oxford, had purchased a copy of Father’s first book of poems in the 1640s. My father must have seen his inclusion in the Bodleian Library’s collection as a literary stamp of approval, or he wouldn’t have bothered to have me write down the information. Quickly I scanned the bookshelf, but all of the works my father had written were gone. Betty must have taken them to London.
I could hardly go after her and demand to see the book, not when the king’s men were keeping an eye on her and the restof my family. And the places where I could find this volume of poetry were likely few, seeing as many of Father’s works had been banned or burned after the king’s return. But the Bodleian had probably kept its copy—Father had often praised the library, saying that although it was a new institution it was already the finest in England, with books from all over the world and a librarian who was committed to preserving knowledge for the generations of students to come. High praise from a Cambridge graduate, I used to think, but now I wondered if he had emphasized the Bodleian Library for another reason.
So I would remember it.
Although Viviani leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression bored, I saw the way the muscles in his shoulders pushed against the velvet of his doublet. He was tense, ready to spring into action at an instant’s notice. He could be a valuable ally—if he was trustworthy.
Father summoned him here , I reminded myself. And your options are distressingly few .
I shoved the booklet onto a shelf. “Do you still want to help, Signor Viviani?”
“It isn’t a question of wanting to—I must, for my master’s sake.”
I took a deep breath. “Then we must prepare ourselves for a long journey. We leave for Oxford as soon as we can.”
Gathering our supplies took several hours. Viviani returned to the village inn to hire two horses, and I crept alone through the fields, weaving between the lines of crops and praying no one would see me making my way to the Sutton estate. The fewerpeople who knew of my plans, the safer I would be.
I found Francis walking the edge of his property, white faced and shaking. After I promised him that my family was fine—the truth was too dangerous to share—I asked him for directions to Oxford, as he had recently completed his university studies there. Once he’d agreed to tell no one about my intended journey, he drew a crude map of the route we should take and advised me on the best times to visit the Bodleian Library. Students woke at five in the morning for prayers, he said, then broke their fast at six and worked in study halls for four hours, then for two more hours after the midday meal. Therefore the Bodleian would be emptiest in the later afternoon. We would visit the library then.
Back at the cottage, I fixed a simple supper of bread and the soup that Luce had left cooking in the hearth. In the dining room, Viviani sat across the table from me. The candlelight threw lines of gold all over him. Under the steadiness of his gaze, I found myself flushing like a child. I let my own gaze fall to the pewter dishes.
“When should we leave?” His voice broke the silence and I nearly jumped in my chair.
“Tomorrow morning at first light. In my country, highwaymen roam the roads at night. We’ll be safer if we set off at dawn.”
He shrugged. “As you wish.”
“What do you think the secret is?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
He sipped wine. “I don’t know. According to your father, he never met my master and they have little in common.”
“I can’t understand why the king would imprison my father now, after ignoring him for the
My younger self had recorded additional information: Mr. John Rouse, then the librarian at the Bodleian Library, in Oxford, had purchased a copy of Father’s first book of poems in the 1640s. My father must have seen his inclusion in the Bodleian Library’s collection as a literary stamp of approval, or he wouldn’t have bothered to have me write down the information. Quickly I scanned the bookshelf, but all of the works my father had written were gone. Betty must have taken them to London.
I could hardly go after her and demand to see the book, not when the king’s men were keeping an eye on her and the restof my family. And the places where I could find this volume of poetry were likely few, seeing as many of Father’s works had been banned or burned after the king’s return. But the Bodleian had probably kept its copy—Father had often praised the library, saying that although it was a new institution it was already the finest in England, with books from all over the world and a librarian who was committed to preserving knowledge for the generations of students to come. High praise from a Cambridge graduate, I used to think, but now I wondered if he had emphasized the Bodleian Library for another reason.
So I would remember it.
Although Viviani leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression bored, I saw the way the muscles in his shoulders pushed against the velvet of his doublet. He was tense, ready to spring into action at an instant’s notice. He could be a valuable ally—if he was trustworthy.
Father summoned him here , I reminded myself. And your options are distressingly few .
I shoved the booklet onto a shelf. “Do you still want to help, Signor Viviani?”
“It isn’t a question of wanting to—I must, for my master’s sake.”
I took a deep breath. “Then we must prepare ourselves for a long journey. We leave for Oxford as soon as we can.”
Gathering our supplies took several hours. Viviani returned to the village inn to hire two horses, and I crept alone through the fields, weaving between the lines of crops and praying no one would see me making my way to the Sutton estate. The fewerpeople who knew of my plans, the safer I would be.
I found Francis walking the edge of his property, white faced and shaking. After I promised him that my family was fine—the truth was too dangerous to share—I asked him for directions to Oxford, as he had recently completed his university studies there. Once he’d agreed to tell no one about my intended journey, he drew a crude map of the route we should take and advised me on the best times to visit the Bodleian Library. Students woke at five in the morning for prayers, he said, then broke their fast at six and worked in study halls for four hours, then for two more hours after the midday meal. Therefore the Bodleian would be emptiest in the later afternoon. We would visit the library then.
Back at the cottage, I fixed a simple supper of bread and the soup that Luce had left cooking in the hearth. In the dining room, Viviani sat across the table from me. The candlelight threw lines of gold all over him. Under the steadiness of his gaze, I found myself flushing like a child. I let my own gaze fall to the pewter dishes.
“When should we leave?” His voice broke the silence and I nearly jumped in my chair.
“Tomorrow morning at first light. In my country, highwaymen roam the roads at night. We’ll be safer if we set off at dawn.”
He shrugged. “As you wish.”
“What do you think the secret is?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
He sipped wine. “I don’t know. According to your father, he never met my master and they have little in common.”
“I can’t understand why the king would imprison my father now, after ignoring him for the
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