Perenelle remained silent. She felt the twinge in her shoulder where she’d been shot in the attack following Shakespeare’s betrayal, but unlike Nicholas, she had never held any grudge against the boy. She knew how dangerously persuasive Dee could be. Finally, she inclined her head. “Master Will. You are looking well.”

“Thank you, madam. Almost four hundred years ago, I wrote a line in your honor-‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety’-it seems that line still holds true. You are as beautiful as ever.” He drew in a quick shuddering breath. “I owe you an apology, madam. Because of what I did, you were nearly slain. I made a mistake.”

“You chose the wrong side, Will.”

“I know that, madam.” The sadness in the immortal’s voice was almost palpable.

“But you did not make a mistake: surely the mistake would have been remaining on that side?” she asked lightly.

The Bard smiled and bowed his head, silently thanking her.

“Perry, I have wronged Mr. Shakespeare. He is no friend to the Magician.” Nicholas waved his hand. “And he has made this communication possible.”

Perenelle bowed. “Thank you, Will. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see Nicholas safe and well.”

Color touched Shakespeare’s cheeks and flowed up over his balding head. “It is my pleasure, madam.”

“And you, Josh. How are you?”

The boy nodded. “Good, I guess. Really good.”

“And Sophie?”

“Great. She learned Fire and Air. You should have seen what we did to the gargoyles at Notre Dame.”

Perenelle turned her green eyes on her husband, and her eyebrows rose in a silent question.

“As I said, much to tell you.” The Alchemyst leaned forward. He started off speaking in English but slipped into the French of his youth. “We were trapped, surrounded, facing the Guardians of the City. The boy fed the girl’s aura with his own-silver and gold together. Their power was incredible: they defeated the combined magic of Dee and Machiavelli. Perenelle, we have them: finally, we have the twins of legend!”

The spiderweb rippled as a sudden foul gust blew down the corridor. Nicholas’s image dissolved into a million tiny faces, each one reflected in the droplets on the web. Then the drops flowed back together again and the reflective surface reappeared.

“Madame…,” de Ayala whispered urgently, “something approaches.”

“Nicholas,” Perenelle said quickly. “I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll get to you as fast as I can,” the Alchemyst responded.

“I know you will. Just be careful, Nicholas. I can see age upon your face.”

“Perry, a last word of advice, please,” Nicholas added. “Mr. Shakespeare thinks that we need to stand and fight. But we are in the heart of Dee’s London and desperately outnumbered. What do you think we should do?”