“I . . . I thank you, Master Roydon,” Dee stammered, exchanging glances with his wife. “It is kind of you to see to the queen’s business. Matters of state must always take precedence over our difficulties, of course.”
“Her Majesty does not forget those who have given her good service,” Matthew said. It was a blatant untruth, as everyone standing in the snowy garden knew, but it went unchallenged.
“You must all take your ease inside by the fire,” Jane said, her interest in hospitality sharply increased. “I will bring wine and see that you are not disturbed.” She dropped a curtsy to Henry, an even lower one to Matthew, then bustled back in the direction of the door. “Come, John. They’ll turn to ice if you keep them out here any longer.”
Twenty minutes spent inside the Dees’ house proved that its master and mistress were representatives of that peculiar breed of married people who bickered incessantly over perceived slights and unkindnesses, all the while remaining devoted. They exchanged barbed comments while we admired the new tapestries （a gift from Lady Walsingham）， the new wine ewer （a gift from Sir Christopher Hatton）， and the new silver salt （a gift from the Marchioness of Northampton）。 The ostentatious gifts and invective having run their course, we were—at long last—ushered into the library.
“I’m going to have a hell of a time getting you out of here,” Matthew whispered, grinning at the expression of wonder on my face.
John Dee’s library was nothing like what I had expected. I’d imagined it would look much like a spacious private library belonging to a well-heeled gentleman of the nineteenth century—for reasons that now struck me as completely indefensible. This was no genteel space for smoking pipes and reading by the fire. With only candles for illumination, the room was surprisingly dark on this winter day. A few chairs and a long table awaited readers by a south-facing bay of windows. The walls of the room were hung with maps, celestial charts, anatomical diagrams, and the broadside almanac sheets that could be had at every apothecary and bookshop in London for pennies. Decades of them were on display, presumably maintained as a reference collection for when Dee was drawing up a horoscope or making other heavenly calculations.
Dee owned more books than any of the Oxford or Cambridge colleges, and he required a working library—not one for show. Not surprisingly, the most precious commodity was not light or seating but shelf space. To maximize what was available, Dee’s bookshelves were freestanding and set perpendicular to the walls. The simple oak bookshelves were doublefaced, with the shelves set at varied heights to hold the different sizes of Elizabethan books. Two sloped reading surfaces topped the shelves, making it possible to study a text and then accurately return it.
“My God,” I murmured. Dee turned in consternation at my oath.
“My wife is overwhelmed, Master Dee,” Matthew explained. “She has never been in such a grand library.”
“There are many libraries that are far more spacious and boast more treasures than mine, Mistress Roydon.”
Jane Dee arrived on cue, just when it was possible to divert the conversation to the poverty of the household.
“The Emperor Rudolf’s library is very fine,” Jane said, heading past us with a tray holding wine and sweetmeats. “Even so, he was not above stealing one of John’s best books. The emperor took advantage of my husband’s generosity, and we have little hope of compensation.”
“Now, Jane,” John chided, “His Majesty did give us a book in return.”
“Which book was that?” Matthew said carefully.
“A rare text,” Dee said unhappily, watching his wife’s retreating form as she headed for the table.
“Nothing but gibberish!” Jane retorted.
It was Ashmole 782. It had to be.
“Master Plat told us about just such a book. It is why we are here. Perhaps we might enjoy your wife’s hospitality first and then see the emperor’s book?” Matthew suggested, smooth as a cat’s whisker. He held out his arm to me, and I took it with a squeeze.
While Jane fussed and poured and complained about the cost of nuts over the holiday season and how she had been brought to near bankruptcy by the grocer, Dee went in search of Ashmole 782. He scanned the shelves of one bookcase and pulled a volume free.
“That’s not it,” I murmured to Matthew. It was too small.
Dee plunked the book on the table in front of Matthew and lifted the limp vellum cover.
“See. There is naught in it but meaningless words and lewd pictures of women in their bath.” Jane harrumphed out of the room, muttering and shaking her head.