“You don’t think we’re being too philosophical?” I wondered aloud, worrying at my lip with my fingers.
“This is the court of Rudolf II,” Hoefnagel said drily. “There is so such thing as too philosophical.”
On the night of the celebration, the court filed in for the banquet and gasped in amazement at the scene we’d set.
“They like it,” I whispered to Matthew from behind the curtain that concealed us from the crowd. Our grand entrance was scheduled for the dessert course, and we were holed up in the Knights’ Staircase off the hall until then. Matthew had been keeping me occupied with tales of olden times, when he had ridden his horse up the wide stone stairs for a joust. When I’d questioned the room’s suitability for this particular purpose, he quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Why do you think we made the room so big and the ceiling so high? Prague winters can be damn long, and bored young men with weapons are dangerous. Far better to have them run at each other at high speed than start wars with neighboring kingdoms.”
With the free pouring of wine and the liberal serving of food, the din in the room was soon deafening. When the desserts went by, Matthew and I slipped into our places. Master Hoefnagel had painted some lovely pastoral scenery for Matthew and grudgingly allotted him one of the orange trees to sit beneath on his felt-covered stool meant to look like a rock. I would wait for my cue and then come out of the chapel and stand behind an old wooden door turned on its side and painted to resemble a chariot.
“Don’t you dare make me laugh,” I warned Matthew when he kissed me on the cheek for luck.
“I do love a challenge,” he whispered back.
As strains of music filled through the room, the courtiers gradually hushed. When the room was fully quiet, Matthew lifted his astrolabe to the heavens and the masque began.
I had decided that our best approach to the production involved minimal dialogue and maximum dancing. For one thing, who wanted to sit around after a big dinner and listen to speeches? I’d been to enough academic events to know that wasn’t a good idea. Signor Pasetti was delighted to teach some of the court ladies a “dance of the wandering stars,” which would provide Matthew something heavenly to observe while he waited for his beloved moon to appear. With famous court beauties given a role in the entertainment and wearing fabulously spangled and jeweled costumes, the masque quickly took on the tone of a school play, complete with admiring parents. Matthew made agonized faces as though he weren’t sure he could endure the spectacle for one more moment.
When the dance ended, the musicians cued my entrance with a crash of drums and blare of trumpets. Master Hoefnagel had rigged up a curtain over the chapel doors, so that all I had to do was push my way through them with a goddess’s éclat （and without spearing my moon headdress on the fabric as I had done in rehearsal） and stare wistfully down at Matthew. He, goddess willing, would stare raptly at me without crossing his eyes or looking suggestively at my breasts.
I took a moment to get in character, drew in a deep breath, and pushed confidently through the curtains, trying to glide and float like the moon.
The court gasped in wonder.
Pleased that I had made such a convincing entrance, I looked down at Matthew. His eyes were round as saucers.
Oh, no. I felt with my toe for the floor, but as I suspected, I was already a few inches above it—and rising. I reached out a hand to anchor myself to the edge of my chariot and saw that a distinctively pearly gleam was emanating from my skin. Matthew jerked his head up in the direction of my little silver crescent moon. I’d worn my hair loose, the waves rippling down my back and the front caught up with a tiara-like band of wire that held the moon. Without a mirror I had no idea what it was doing, but I feared the worst.
“La Diosa!” Rudolf said, standing up and applauding. “Wonderful! A wonderful effect!”
Uncertainly, the court joined in. A few of them crossed themselves first. Holding the room’s complete attention, I clasped my hands to my bosom and batted my eyes at Matthew, who returned my admiring looks with a grim smile. I concentrated on lowering myself to the floor so that I could make my way to Rudolf’s throne. As Zeus, he occupied the most splendid carved piece of furniture we could find in the palace attics. It was unbelievably ugly, but it suited the occasion.
Happily, I was not glowing so much anymore as I approached the emperor, and the audience had stopped looking at my head as if it were a Roman candle. I sank into a curtsy.
“Greetings, La Diosa,” Rudolf boomed in what was meant to be a godlike tone but was only a classic example of overacting.