Traitor Angels Read Online Free PDF Page A

“I’ll take you—”
    Footsteps clicked in the corridor. “Elizabeth? Who is this man?”
    Recognizing the sharpness of Betty’s voice, I stifled a sigh and turned. Betty stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. “This is Signor Antonio Viviani,” I told her. “He’s the assistant to the mathematician of the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Father has invited him here as our guest. Signor Viviani, this is my father’s wife, Mrs. Milton.”
    Viviani’s arm brushed mine as he swept off his hat and bowed to my stepmother. Her eyes flickered over him, widening as she took in his fine clothes.
    “I apologize for the simplicity of our home,” she murmured. “We weren’t expecting you, Mr. Viviani.”
    He straightened. “Mrs. Milton, I realize my appearance must be a surprise. As I wasn’t certain of the reception I’d receive when I arrived last night, I sought lodging at the village inn, but now I see my fears were unwarranted, as you’ve welcomed me so graciously.”
    I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. How cleverly he had forestalled my stepmother’s protests over his arrival! I couldn’t figure him out, for each moment seemed to draw forth a different part of his character, as though he were made of many shifting parts—like the interior of the newfangledclocks I’d seen once, orderly on the outside, a mass of whirring gears and pieces within.
    “I’m afraid you’ll find your accommodations somewhat rough,” Betty said, “but you’re most welcome to them. Elizabeth, he’ll take your room and you may share with Anne. Get him settled.”
    “I must bring him to Father first.” And clear up this matter before it went much further. I jerked my head at Viviani, signaling for him to follow me. With each step I took, I felt his eyes boring into the space between my shoulder blades. Could he tell how unaccustomed my family was to visitors? How unsophisticated we were? And why did I care what he thought anyway?
    In the sitting room, my father was perched in his usual chair, a brazier of burning coals at his feet to warm his aching joints. Behind him stood his most prized possession—a glass-fronted bookcase, its shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes. The books were a terrible extravagance, but one both Father and I had thought was necessary. They were like air to us.
    “Elizabeth?” Father’s head turned in my direction. “Who’s with you? Those aren’t footsteps I know.” His voice held a note of fear, and I hastened to his chair, taking his cold hands in mine.
    “A young man called Antonio Viviani is here,” I whispered. “He says you summoned him to England.”
    Father’s weathered face split into a smile. “Viviani,” he said under his breath. “Thanks be to God.”
    My mind whirled. “But . . . you always warned me not to enter into dealings with Catholics! Don’t you remember? You said their nations have grown too powerful and pose a terrible danger to England’s security. You told me their faith is the only one we mustn’t tolerate.”
    “Don’t question me, daughter.” A dull red crept up Father’s neck. “This young man’s master and I have never met, but our task has tied us together for nearly thirty years.”
    “But, Father—”
    “You’re my child.” He gritted the words out, as though they were bits of gravel trapped in his mouth. He leaned forward, a signal that I was supposed to come closer. I brought my face so near to his I could see the tiny lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. “It’s your duty to obey me without dissent. To have you question me again in front of a stranger would grieve my heart.”
    I reared back as though he had slapped my face. “Father, I beg your forgiveness,” I murmured.
    He ignored me. “Sit down, Signor Viviani,” he said in Italian, “and tell me about your life in Florence. I’m most eager to learn about your experiments. Elizabeth,” he added, frowning, “surely your stepmother