The Watchtower

replied. “A not uncommon trauma, in a world that has not been forged to perfection, in affairs of the heart least of all. The only drawback being, such potions usually need to be made to order and are not inexpensive.” Liverpool ran a surveying gaze again over Will’s attire, wondering, Will conjectured, how much of a love-blind spendthrift he might turn out to be if he was so miserly regarding his attire.
    “This is not a matter of unrequited love,” Will told Liverpool. “This is a question of one lover needing transformation so two lovers can be together. An insurmountable challenge for any alchemist, I fear.”
    “Transformation,” Liverpool repeated, twisting his hands as if, by their becoming better acquainted with each other, they might help with a solution. Rather than admit his ignorance of Will’s meaning, he then tried a little humor. “You are in love with your hunting falcon, perhaps? Or a deer? And you want to cross that natural boundary between them and you? Yes, I’m not sure the alchemist’s craft is advanced enough for that.”
    Disappointment and exasperation merged in Will’s expression. He sat in sullen silence and listened to Liverpool’s continued rant.
    “There is indeed a transformation impending in currency that can grow like a gargantuan, in coins that will jangle louder than an avalanche, and in certificates that will glitter with an aura brighter than the sun’s.
    “Transformed commerce lies at England’s feet now, carried here by secular angels of markets and math. Dee himself spoke of our nation’s mathematical future in his brilliant introduction to Henry Billingsley’s Euclid, recently reprinted. You can be a leader of this new world, son. All it will take is a small investment and the larger portion of your rational mind!”
    “Lord Liverpool, what I mean by transformation has nothing to do with the crassness of commerce. I have found a love so exalted I could not find the smallest trace of the material world in her if I looked with the finest magnifying glass. I am referring to the plight of a mortal like myself who falls in love with an immortal and cannot cross that boundary to be with her forever. And who therefore requires help in crossing that line, whether from sorcerer or preacher, alchemist or poet, wizard or astronomer, or the devil himself matters not! Your employer, Sir Dee, is rumored to have the most extraordinary powers. Can he help me? Can you? Can anyone in England? In the world?” Will stifled a sob. The solitude of his dilemma, the inability of anyone else to comprehend it—not that he had tried to communicate it before now—seemed one of the most hurtful things about it.
    Then he observed out of the corner of his eye a sudden darkening in the street. A corresponding shadow came over Guy Liverpool’s features, as if Will’s emotional outburst had unnerved him. Sudden clouds must be smearing the sun, but they had arrived with incredible speed, since Will had entered the tavern under a sheer blue sky.
    Looking about nervously, as if the change in weather showed the moral darkness of even discussing such a topic as Will brought up, Liverpool then retrieved an engraved card from a purse tied around the peasecod belly of his doublet and proferred it to Will. When Will glanced at it, he saw this card’s design was different from the one Liverpool had previously given him. The first card had tiny gold bars superimposed on lead ones, but this one’s was simpler: white lettering on a black background, with a few stars here and there. It read, Sir John Dee, Master of Night. 22 Rufus Lane, Mortlake. By Appointment Only.
    “You may approach Sir Dee, any time after sunset, on this matter of which you speak. I will let him know you are coming. But best to be subtle, even obscure, at first. As you have been with me.”
    “I did nothing of the kind,” Will protested. “You wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
    Liverpool waved off Will’s protest as if it were a buzzing fly. “Yes, strike a misleading chord with Sir Dee, so he may think you’ve come to him on the topic of commerce. He may let his defenses down. Perhaps you will gain his sympathies. And don’t think that I’m not sympathetic; I have no doubt your worry is real, but it is a bit beyond my own area of expertise, so that I cannot help you personally. Indeed I wish you well and will only expect suitable compensation, which can be paid me right in this very tavern, if you