"I'm concerned," John began. "We haven't heard anything from Houdini and Doyle. Perhaps we should have Laura Glue out looking for them."

"Oh, please," said Burton. "You're worried about them, but not the effect that might be caused by a flying girl being spotted in London?"

"What else can we do?" asked John.

"Wait," Burton said firmly. "Simply wait. They'll find their way to us."

Jack's eyes narrowed. That was too pat an answer, too assured. "Sir Richard," he said casually, "is there something you're planning that we should know about? After all, they are your acolytes."

"I'm here as your ally, Caretaker," Burton replied. "Don't question my motives or take me for a fool."

"All right, enough," John said, standing. "We don't need to be arguing. Houdini and Doyle will just have to look after themselves."

Theo had basically taken up the post of watchman at Franklin's house, which was serving as their de facto headquarters on Craven Street, and Laura Glue was helping him. Fred had been conversing with Franklin on a number of topics and chose to stay. So John, Jack, Burton, Rose, and Archie followed Edmund and Lauren back to Ernest McGee's.

The Caretakers' second reception at the house of Ernest McGee was much warmer than the first. He had been poring over his father's journals and seemed to have found something that changed his outlook on the strange visitors his son had brought to his house. Ernest set Edmund and Lauren to doing other tasks in the house while he opened one diary for his guests.

"Here," he said, showing them a particular passage he'd underlined, "in one of his diaries, from when he was very young. He had been working closely with his two best friends on their History, and on the Pyratlas, and he mentions that they were doing it in hopes to become apprentices to someone called a Caretaker."

John and Jack didn't respond to this, but Burton let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. Rose scowled at him, and Archie simply looked on.

"That's, ah, very interesting," said John. "Why are you showing this to us?"

"Because," Ernest said as he led them upstairs, "I remember once, when I was very young, sneaking into my father's study and seeing the Caretaker. He was a Frenchman with a high-born manner and a very prominent nose. I remember little of what they discussed, but I will never forget," he added as he opened the door to a large room, "that he wore a silver pocket watch, with the picture of a dragon on the case."

"Centuries," John whispered as they followed McGee into the room. "We spend centuries trying to keep the secrets of the Archipelago, and when we drop, unannounced, into eighteenth-century London, everyone we meet seems to know about the Caretakers."

"A validation of my arguments," Burton said with a wry smile, "and a preview of your life to come, eh, Jack?"

"I don't even want to think about it," said Jack.

"Excuse me," said a voice from somewhere in the back of the cluttered workshop, "but if you're burglars, as I suspect you must be, then I'd ask that you take me along with you. It's dreadfully boring being in here all the time, and I'd do just about anything for a change of scenery."

"I'm sorry," Ernest said as he cleared away some of the debris that blocked the space between the shelves. "I didn't mean to leave you here so long, Charles."

"I know that voice!" Rose exclaimed. "Archie, don't you? Do you remember?"

Ernest pulled aside a tarpaulin and uncovered a large oil portrait inside an elaborate oval frame.

It was Captain Charles Johnson.

"Hello," Rose said. "It's nice to see you again, Captain Johnson."

"How is it that you know me?" Johnson said, the suspicion in his voice quite clear. "To the best of my recollection, we haven't met."

"We have," said Rose, "or rather, we will. In your future. You may not remember, but I do."

"Ah, the future," said Johnson. "That would explain it. You aren't old enough to have met me in the past, when I was still among the living. Not that I'd remember you anyway, young lady. I was quite the rake, you know. I do like your bird, though."

"Pardon me for saying this," offered Archimedes, "You may not be among the living, but you aren't exactly dead, either."

"I might as well be," Johnson retorted. "I'm stuck in this stupid painting, and even my best friend's son manages to forget I'm here."

"I did say I was sorry," said Ernest.

"What are you doing in here?" asked John.

"I'm a spy, don't you know," said Johnson. "I'm spying on the family McGee for Daniel Defoe."

"Pardon my asking," Jack said, looking at Ernest then back at the portrait, "but isn't part of the point of being a spy that you try to keep it a secret from the people you're spying on?"

"Yes," said Johnson, "except that I really, really hate Daniel Defoe."

"That would do it," said Burton.

"The last thing I remember before waking up in this portrait," said Johnson, "was one of my best friends, Daniel Defoe, pointing to something interesting over the side of a ship. One good shove later and I'm condemned to a glorious second life in oil paint."

"He murdered you?" asked John. "Not really a very good best friend."

"Don't I know that," Johnson said glumly. "Anyroad, he told me that if I spied on the McGees for him and tried to discover where the treasures were hidden by watching the maps they made, then he'd make sure I got credit for my book."

"You're speaking of A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates, aren't you?" said Jack. "Well, I've got some good news and some bad news for you."

"I don't care what the bad news is as long as my name's on it," retorted Johnson. "It's practically the only thing that proves I ever existed."

"Uh-oh," said John.

"Never mind that," Rose said, steering them to another topic. "Can you tell us anything about Henry Morgan?"

"Ah, Morgan," said Johnson. "A gentleman and a pirate, in that order. He was the one who taught Elijah McGee how to make maps, and started this whole family down the pirate road. He never made much noise about his own skills, although he certainly could teach. It's funny." He paused, thinking. "He's the one who pressed Elijah to teach Eliot, and young Ernest here. He said it would take generations for them to be 'good enough,' although I never got to ask him what they needed to be good enough for."

"Why not?" asked Rose.

"Because," said Johnson, "after old Elijah gave him the last map he requested, Morgan up and vanished."

"You mean he died?" Burton asked.

"No," said Johnson. "I mean he disappeared, right in front of Elijah. All he left behind were the treasure maps and a note I stuck in my other book, The Maps of Elijah McGee. He said that the note was to be given to anyone who came looking for him who wore a silver pocket watch."

"Do you still have the note?" John said excitedly. "Is it still in your book?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," replied Johnson. "I'm afraid I lost it. I haven't seen it, page or cover, in over fifty years."

It took the Magician and the Detective the better part of a day and a night to deduce the answer they were seeking. They bribed, cajoled, and otherwise sweet-talked half of lower London into giving them clues, and finally they found the shop they were looking for-although it was not the one they had expected to find.

A young man, not quite a master, but obviously not merely an apprentice, was sitting in the open door. He was working over a piece of leather on a stool that seemed designed for the purpose. His tongue stuck out from his mouth as he concentrated on the leather.

"Pardon me," Doyle said to the man, "but we're looking for your master."

"He isn't here," the man said without looking up. "Come back tomorrow. It'll be done then."

"What will be done then?" asked Houdini.

"Whatever book it was you ordered," said the man. "It'll be done tomorrow, I swear."

"We're not looking for a book," said Doyle, "just your master. Is he"-he leaned back and looked over the shop-"is he really a bookbinder?"

"My master?" the young man asked, surprised. "Of course he is-the only one-armed bookbinder in London, as a matter of fact."

"A one-armed bookbinder," Houdini said, scowling at Doyle. "Who would have thought?"

"It's not my fault," said Doyle. "The last I knew of him, he was a blacksmith."

"I wouldn't know about that," the man said as he resumed his work, "but if you want to see him, he's in the back room."

Houdini and Doyle walked through the small but clean shop, which was filled with decoratively bound books, sheaves of paper and parchment, and new leather, waiting to be tooled. Toward the rear, with his back to the door, a large, stout man was working with a brush and paint on a large illuminated manuscript.

"He's a good boy, is Roger," the man said without turning around. "Mark me-in a few years Roger Pryce will be known as the greatest bookbinder in Europe."

He turned around on his stool, and Houdini couldn't help but gasp as he saw the arm that ended in a bright, curved hook.

"What can I do for you?" Madoc asked.

Doyle swallowed hard and looked at his friend, who took another step forward.

"Not to put too fine a point on it," said Houdini, "but we've come seeking a Dragon."

"More specifically," Doyle added, "a Dragon's apprentice. And we were hoping you might be able to tell us where we might find him."

Madoc's self-control was such that he didn't immediately react to their question. Instead he silently regarded them for a moment, then turned and strode to the door. He said something to his apprentice, who rose and left. He closed the door, then lifted the heavy crossbar that was leaning next to the frame and dropped it into the brackets.

"Uh, begging your pardon," Doyle asked, tugging at his collar, "but are you hoping to keep someone out, or keep someone in?"

Madoc ignored the question and walked to the cupboard in the corner, where he retrieved a small stoppered bottle. He pondered the bottle for a few minutes, turning it over and over in his hand before finally opening it and shaking a few drops of the liquid inside it onto his other arm, just above his scars.

"I was never much for scented oils," he said slowly, "but my brother favored them in our youth, and he once concocted a mix that was mostly cinnamon. I could always tell when he had been in a room by the lingering scent it left behind."

He turned and looked at them. "It smells of Greece to me, and of happier days."

Houdini and Doyle said nothing. Both were experienced enough showmen to know when someone was speaking in preamble. They waited, and Madoc continued to speak.

"The Dragon's apprentice," he said, voicing the words as if he were rolling them around in his mouth, tasting them. "That's something I never expected to hear spoken of again, not in this lifetime or any other. Especially now that the Dragons are all gone."

"We were told that Samaranth took on an apprentice once, long ago," said Doyle, "and as you are the only person we know in London who was there at the time, we were hoping you might be able to tell us who the apprentice is."

Madoc puffed on the pipe for a while, appraising them.

"Your watches give you away as Caretakers or their ilk," he said finally, "so I'm guessing that they are whom you represent."

"They are," Houdini said with a straight face, only slightly hesitant about the white lie. "Did Samaranth have an apprentice?"

"He did," Madoc confirmed. "He had exactly one apprentice ...

"me."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Namers and Un-Namers

The Bard wiped his brow and set his quill aside. It was done-or at least, as done as it was likely to be. Tycho Brahe had been of more help than he'd anticipated, but then, he was the only one among the Caretakers Emeritis who had been personally acquainted with Dee while they were still living, and before they had become Caretakers.

The fact that Brahe was looked down upon by some of the other Caretakers made his contributions especially sweet. Hierarchies were troublesome, especially among equals. And if they were not truly equal, being dead, then what was the use in trying to be accepted at all?

He shook his head to ward off the thought. That was past, when his facade was up. Now all the ruses had fled him, and he was being looked to for a glimmer of hope-even by those who had mocked him for a simpleton.

But, he reminded himself, that was yesterday. Today the name of Will Shakespeare might mean something different.

At least, he hoped it would.

"All right," he called out to the others. "I think I've gotten it. Let's see what we may see."

Several of the other Caretakers who had chosen to remain out of their portraits for the vigil clustered around the Bard to view his handiwork. "I've adapted the trump so that we might be able to see what's happening in the Archipelago," Will explained. "I used some of Tycho's calculations and a few of Jules's notes from the Watchmaker to give us a clearer image."

"Will we be able to use it to go through?" Kipling asked. "If so, I'd like to mount a rescue for our friends."

Shakespeare shook his head. "I don't think so. The time differential is too great-that's why we can't see anything through the trump. The passage of night and day is creating a strobing effect that renders the card gray to us. Our side of the card simply can't keep up.

"What I hope I've managed to do is to convert the card to resemble a one-way mirror," Will continued, noting the new symbols he'd etched onto the card. "Instead of a portal that must take both sides into account, it will simply function as a window we can look through."

"Will you be able to convert it back?" Chaucer said with concern in his voice. "These cards are willing scarce."

Will shrugged. "Who's to say? But we can't use it now, so there's no harm in trying."

"Go ahead," said Chaucer, nodding approval to open the card. "Let us see what we can."