Читать книгу A Beggar’s Kingdom - Paullina Simons - Страница 19

A NOXIOUS COMMOTION AWAKENS THEM A FEW HOURS LATER. Sitting up against the headboard, Mallory looks like a cornered animal.

“Margrave is dying! Margrave is dying!” Julian hears as he opens the bedroom door.

Casting Mallory a long backwards glance, telling her to stay in his room and not come out, Julian runs upstairs, hoping it’s hyperbole.

But Margrave does not look well. She’s winded, profusely hot, abnormally thirsty, wet, and gray. He crouches in front of her low bed. No one else wants to get near her; the other girls are afraid it’s pestilence (though Julian doesn’t think so); most of them have cleared the room. Only the lowly and unwanted Greta remains unafraid by Margrave’s side, holding her hand.

“I didn’t feel well all night, sire,” the girl whispers, reaching for Julian. Her swollen tongue is bleeding. She has foam around her mouth.

Julian races downstairs to the kitchen, grabs a few coals from the basket by the hearth, and shaves them down with a knife until fine powder lines the bottom of a mug. He fills the mug with a bit of ale and flies upstairs. In the ten minutes he is gone, Margrave has gotten worse. Her body is jerking. She mumbles incoherently. Greta is down on her knees. “Margrave, drink this,” Julian says. “It doesn’t taste great, but it will help you.”

The girl takes a sip, makes a face.

“I know,” he says. “It’s activated charcoal. It’ll absorb whatever’s making you sick. It’s an antidote for poison. Please, drink all of it.” God help them all, is it the rosary pea?

Margrave drinks all of it. He waits with her while Greta mouths words of extreme unction from the Gospel of James. Is any among you afflicted? Is any among you sick? The prayer of faith shall save you. The Lord shall raise you. The hot burning wind blowing in through the open windows isn’t helping. Carling and Ivy reluctantly bring wet rags and Greta wipes Margrave down while Julian paces the room, smelling the wind. A rat king of anxiety is gnawing out his guts.

Greta lays down her rags. Carling and Ivy cry.

“What?” he barks. Margrave has stopped convulsing.

From down below, he hears the Baroness holler. “Fire! There’s a fire!”

Shrieking, Carling and Ivy push past Julian and plummet down the stairs. “You’ve done all you can for Margrave, O noble sire,” Greta says. “But she is gone.”

Alas it’s true. Poor Margrave. Julian can’t bear to return to his room, where Mallory is waiting. Instead he follows the maids downstairs to inform the Baroness of the girl’s demise.

Constable Parker stands grimly at the front door. The Baroness is with him. Parker is dressed in his most formal attire, a black uniform and a tall red hat. Next to him is the High Constable of Westminster with a royal staff in his hand. Behind them are foot guards from the King’s Regiment and horse guards from the Lord General’s Troop. What’s going on? Julian stops hurrying down the stairs.

“By the proclamation of the Honorable High Constable of the City of Westminster—” Parker reads from an unrolled parchment.

The Baroness interrupts him. “Wait, constable—where’s the fire?”

“The City. Started near a bakery in Pudding Lane.” Parker is thrown off his officious manner.

“Pudding Lane!” The Baroness utters a shrill cry. “Pudding Lane?”

“Baroness, Margrave is dead!” Ivy wails, clutching the Baroness’s elbow. “She’s dead, madam!”

“She’s been poisoned!” Carling joins in. “For sure, she has!”

Baroness Tilly turns from the wailing girls, from the frowning constable, her gaze seeking out Julian, who stands motionless at the foot of the stairs. He wishes he could vanish before she catches his eye. “You said there wouldn’t be a house left standing between Temple Bar and London Bridge after the fire at Pudding Lane … And a prostitute’s been murdered …”

Julian remains silent. Walk lightly, Devi told him. Carry no stick. Do not disturb the order of the universe.

“How could you have known any of that?” the Baroness hisses.

Parker thinks she’s addressing him. “Everybody knows it by now, madam,” the constable replies. “Fire started around midnight last night. It was small at first. Can you smell it? The Mayor of London is refusing to demolish the burning buildings to help contain it. He believes it’s not necessary. As if to prove him wrong, the fire’s been burning uncontained for over fourteen hours.” Clearing his throat, Parker raises his voice. “The fire is not why we’re here, Baroness. Where’s your niece? We’ve come to take her into custody for the murder of Lord Fabian. His body was found this morning in the Savoy Canal. We have reason to believe he’s been poisoned in your very house. And did I just hear correctly that Margrave has also been poisoned?”

The Baroness pierces Julian with her glare. It’s too late for regrets. In the Baroness’s eyes … Julian can’t put a finger on it. There’s hatred, disbelief, incomprehension, and a terror of sorcery. That’s how she stares at him. As if he is the other.

“Constable—arrest that man!” the Baroness shrieks to Parker, pointing her finger in Julian’s direction. “Arrest him for the lord’s murder, and for treason to the Crown! Arrest him for witchcraft. My niece is innocent! He’s the one who killed Lord Fabian!”

“No, it wasn’t the kind master!” Greta cries. “Mallory killed our Margrave when she threw poisoned water in her face.”

The other girls squeal their assent. It was her! It was her! Our kind master is innocent of wrongdoing.

“He is sent by the devil, constable!” the Baroness yells. “He’s a warlock! He carries knowledge of all the poisons right here.” She taps herself violently on the head. “I can prove it. Ilbert, get over here! Where are you?”

Julian is frozen. He can’t run out the front door, the constable and the palace guards are blocking the way. And what does he do about Mallory? He can’t leave her. The Baroness continues to screech, flinging her pink velvet arm at him, her manicured nails shaking the air. “Don’t let him get away!” She, too, is blocking the narrow entry in and out of the Silver Cross. No men can move past her to grab him. Meanwhile, the florid girls have formed a line of defense in front of him.

Tilly’s high-pitched screeching mentally and physically paralyzes Julian. The High Constable bangs the floor with his heavy staff. “Out of the way, madam! Out of the way, ladies!” In one second, Julian won’t have the luxury of wavering, he won’t be able to move even if he wishes to.

From behind, he feels a shadow barreling down the stairs. There is a hard knock into the center of his spine, and a shove forward. “Don’t just stand there—run!” Mallory says, already in front of him. “Back alley, go!”

The Baroness shouts hysterically. “Mallory, Mallory, darling, no!”

Julian and Mallory race through the kitchen, down the narrow corridor.

The back door is blocked by Ilbert, who is curved over a broom and a metal bucket.

“Move, hunchback!” Mallory yells.

“Where are you two off to?” Ilbert straightens and raises the broom as a weapon and moves nowhere.

Julian lunges past Mallory and slams into Ilbert, knocking the man down with the force of his body, broom, bucket and all. As Ilbert’s spindly fingers grab at their feet, Julian and Mallory jump over him and run down the winding alley that leads to the Strand.

The entrance to the Strand is blocked by a single royal guard. The uniformed man jumps off the horse and draws his sword. “Stop right there!” he says.

“Mallory, for God’s sake, move!” Why is the girl always in front of him? Does she plan to fight? Match the sword with her fists? Pushing her out of the way, Julian charges the guard.

“Julian, no! He’ll kill you!”

The guard lowers his sword slightly. “Julian?” he says. “Did you just say Julian?”

“Don’t tell him anything!” Mallory yells.

“What’s it to you?” Julian says, ready to bust his way out.

“Julian what?” the guard asks, the metal blade still pointed.

“Julian Cruz—why?”

The sword is lowered for good.

Julian remains in a fighting stance. His fists are up. His guard is not lowered. He and the Mountie stare at each other. The young man in uniform wears a tall red tubular hat. Julian’s certain he’s never met him before. He doesn’t recognize him. “Do I know you?”

“Are you related to a Julian Cruz, from Wales?” the guard asks.

Julian doesn’t know how to answer that. “Yes!” Mallory answers for him, clutching the back of his tunic.

“Who are you, his grandson?”

“Yes!” Mallory says from behind. “Tell him yes.”

“Yes?” Julian replies uncertainly.

The guard steps aside. He points his sword to the Strand. “Go this way, straight to Temple Bar.” He speaks quickly. “Then try to get into the City through the entrance at Aldgate. It’s unmanned because of the fire. Hide inside the walls. There’s nowhere else for you to go. You’re both wanted for the murder of the Master of the Mint. But the City is on fire, and no one will look for you there until it dies down. Don’t stick around. As soon as you can, get out. Whatever you do, don’t take the bridge south or any of the river crossings. You’ll be stopped. Find another way out. Now go!”

Mallory doesn’t have to be told twice. She grabs Julian’s hand.

Slowly, Julian walks by, considering the man. “I don’t understand,” he says perplexed. “How do you know me?”

“I don’t know you,” the guard replies. “But I know Julian Cruz. He is my grandfather’s favorite story, I heard about him many times when I was growing up. Grandfather was about to die, but a man named Julian Cruz appeared out of nowhere, like an angel of the Lord, and saved his eyes and saved his life.”

“Cedric is your grandfather?” Julian says, astonished.

“How did you know my grandfather’s name?” The guard is stunted by confusion. “I’m only here because of Julian Cruz. My grandfather got married, had children, had my father. He never forgot.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Julian, we must go!” Mallory cries.

“Yes, alive … but for the love of God, the girl is right, run, sire! You’re out of time. They’re coming.”

Julian shakes the royal guard’s hand. “Tell my friend Cedric,” he says, pointing to the impatient girl waiting on the Strand, “that is Lady Mary. The Lady Mary.”

The man’s uncomprehending eyes well up. With a trembling hand, he salutes Julian. Mallory and Julian run, bobbing and weaving through the crowd.

“Who is Cedric?” Mallory asks.

“I think a better question, especially from you,” Julian says, “would be who is Lady Mary.”

“Okay, who?”

Julian smiles. “Take my hand,” he says. “When we get out of here, I will tell you everything.”

The dry east wind carries the smell of burnt dwellings, clothes, wicker, trees, wood. It’s already harder to breathe, and they’re still so far from the fire. In the distance beyond Temple Bar, beyond the Roman wall, black smoke swirls.

Behind them—though not far enough behind them—the horsemen and footmen give chase, forging a path through the panicked crowd.

It’s the stampede out of the fire that saves Julian and Mallory. Of all the people on the Strand, only they are headed inside the burning City. Everyone else hurries in the opposite direction. Barging past the fleeing crowd, the royal horses get spooked. The guards—in their heavy uniforms, big boots, big hats, and big swords—can run, but Julian and Mallory are faster. Hearing the fading equine cry, Julian glances behind him (or is he Orpheus and is not supposed to?). The cavalry and infantry have mercifully dropped back.

“We’re okay, we’ll make it,” Julian says to her, panting. “We’re almost at Temple Bar.”

But they can’t get through Temple Bar. The guard isn’t letting people in, only out. “Are you crazy?” the gatekeeper says to Julian, as frantic people shove past them. “Where do you think you’re going? To a river crossing? Impossible. The Thames inside the gates is cut off by the flames.”

People push past, adult daughters dragging their mothers, little children hanging onto their mothers’ skirts, mothers and children everywhere. As soon as the guard loses track of them, Julian pulls Mallory offside, and they inch through the gate unnoticed.

It’s another five long city blocks from Temple to Aldgate with the thick hot smoke blowing in their faces. They don’t run anymore, they walk, gasping to catch their breath. Julian wishes he could express to Mallory how much he doesn’t want to head inside the inferno. She must feel ambivalent herself because after a few blocks, she stops walking. Her hands fall, her head hangs. She slides down to the sidewalk near Primrose Hill. “Forget it,” she says dejectedly. “What’s the point? Where are we going to run with nothing?”

Julian crouches in front of her.

“The entire City’s on fire. Even if we make it out somehow, what then?”

He takes a hot gray breath. He doesn’t want to confess. But sometimes, you must trust the one you love. Sometimes, you must trust her even if she breaks your heart with murder.

And sometimes, you must trust her even after.

“Mallory, I have the gold,” Julian says. “Ilbert didn’t take it. Margrave didn’t take it. I took it. Now get up and let’s go find a place to hide.”

She stares at him for several fiery seconds. “You took my gold?”

“Well …” Julian draws out. “Yours, really?”

“It wasn’t yours!”

“I thought it was his.”

“It wasn’t his anymore. He was dead. The dead own nothing.”

“Semantics, I know,” Julian says, “but he was dead only after you killed him.”

Angrily, Mallory jumps to her feet.

“I took it for you, Mallory,” Julian says. “So you and I could run from here. You know, like together.”

“You stole my money to help me?”

“To help us, yes. I thought you and me … I thought there was a you and me,” he says. “That was before I knew you were planning to run off, ditching me to be boiled in oil for a murder I didn’t commit.”

“Don’t look all wounded, you thief! Why didn’t you just pay off Ilbert if you had the coin? You could’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”

“Because I don’t have it. I hid it.”

“Where, back at the house? Bloody hell! A lot of good that’ll do us now.”

“Not at the house.”

“Where, then?”

“Inside the London Wall,” Julian says. “Next to St. Giles Church by Cripplegate.”

“What do you mean, inside the wall?”

“I bought a chisel and a hammer,” Julian says, “popped out two Kentish ragstones, scraped out a hole in the interior bricks, hid the purse, replaced the boulders and spackled mortar around them to seal them. I’m not saying it was easy.” Gouging out a space in the interior stone with an inadequately short chisel, piece by piece, chunk by chunk, took hours. It was one of the more physically grueling things Julian has ever done.

“Oh, you’re a mason now, too.” Mallory’s anger dissipates. She eyes him with trepidation, a little amazement, a little hope.

“I’m not a mason,” he says, “but I became a mason. I did what I had to do.”

“O Lord, Julian! I suppose that’s quick thinking on your part, but why on earth would you hide it all the way up there?”

“As opposed to where, the Baroness’s bedchamber?”

“Why go all the way to Clerkenwell?”

“You’re from Clerkenwell,” Julian says. “Do you remember? You lived there once in a big gray mansion.”

“Must be another molly you were sweet on. That’s not where I lived. I lived in a ramshackle, falling-down, white-limed bordello where I slept on the floor while my mother entertained men in the bed, one of whom was my father.” Mallory flings her arm to point to the London Wall just up ahead near Aldgate. “The wall circles the City for a square mile! There’s the wall! There’s the wall! And there, too! You could’ve hidden the coin close by, and we wouldn’t have to cross a city on fire to get to it.”

“I didn’t know we’d need it so quickly,” Julian says. “I had no idea, did I, that you killed Fabian and Margrave, or that you’d hang murder over both our heads. I thought we had plenty of time to decide what to do. And I didn’t know there’d be a fire.” What garbage. What absolute tripe. Julian knew there’d be a fire. He just didn’t know when. He knew in part.

“Sounds to me like you knew nothing.” Mallory starts down Fleet Street. “Well, don’t just stand there like Lot,” she barks. “Are you coming or not?”

He catches up. “Where are we going?”

“Where are we going? Have you gone soft in the head? To Cripplegate, of course. To Clerkenwell. Just like you planned. We’re not leaving my gold in a fucking wall. What if the fire destroys it?”

Julian wants to tell her that the fractured Roman wall will be the only thing left standing of old London 400 years from now, that after the Great Fire, after industrialization, expansion, demolition, after the Blitz! a piece of the wall where he hid the gold will remain. He knows this because he’s seen it with his own eyes as he ambled past St. Giles through the maze of modern Barbican, searching for the café with the golden awning.

Julian points to the black plumes spreading north and west from the Thames, the vicious winds, the livid flame. “We can’t get to Cripplegate,” he says. “Between us and your gold is hellfire. But don’t worry. We just have to stay safe for a little while longer. Safe and hidden. We’ll get to it. Let’s wait it out. The wall’s not going anywhere, I promise you. Let’s find an abandoned shop, lie low. After the fire dies down, five days tops, then we’ll go get it.”

“This fire is going to rage for five days?”

A breath. “Yes.”

Mallory crows in disbelief. “What’s going to be left of this city after a fire that rages for five days?”

“Nothing.”

Julian wishes they were in the East End. Wapping, Shoreditch, Bethnal Green. The East End is a little safer because of the direction of the wind. Trouble is, the two of them are on the west side. And between east and west there’s a mountain of flame. Not listening to him anymore, Mallory rushes down Fleet Street; Julian follows close behind. Aldgate is unmanned. The gates are open. The gatekeepers have fled.

Inside the City walls, the heat and smoke are much worse. Julian knows something about out of control firestorms. In California, the Santa Ana winds are called the devil winds. Every September during the drought, they blow downhill through the mountain passes and scorch the forest using chaparral as fuel, and then obliterate the valley from San Bernardino to Santa Barbara, using homes as fuel. That’s what this is, too. But instead of thorny bushes and tangled shrubs, the City of London all in a blaze is chaparral for the wildfire. It’s the destruction of a civilization. Why can’t his stubborn girl understand? “Mallory, please.” He wipes his sweating face. He is so hot.

Without looking back at him, she hurries down Ludgate Street. She is brave because she knows he is right behind her. It’s as if in the heart of her soul she knows he won’t leave her side. “Is the man afraid of a little smoke?”

“Not smoke, Mallory. Fire. And yes,” Julian says. “Afraid of this fire. But not for myself. For you.” He tries to take her hand. She pulls away. Her legs get caught up in her skirts, she trips, rights herself, won’t even let him balance her.

“I can’t believe you’d hide all of it,” she says. “Not leave even one little coin for the just in case.”

“I sold one coin for the just in case,” Julian says, showing her the crowns and shillings inside his small purse.

She snatches it out of his hands and hides it in the apron of her skirt. “For safekeeping,” she says. “How much did you get for it?”

“Three hundred shillings.” Julian thinks she’ll be as impressed as he was.

“You got three hundred shillings for a priceless sovereign?” In disgust she shakes her head. “You were robbed. Come on, hurry. We need to get my money before you give any more of it away.”

Julian is troubled as they race forward, sweat dripping off them. But Mallory’s spirits have been lifted not only by the promise of a stash of gold nearby but by the actual shillings now in her possession. Things are looking up. She chatters excitedly. “Why so glum, mason? With the gold, we can get anywhere, bribe anyone, barter for anything. No guard will stand in our way. We’ll buy our way out. We are set for life. We’ll make it last. You’ll see, we won’t need much.”

“Much? How about nothing?” Julian says, looking around for a conduit, a fountain, a bucket of dirty water. They need to breathe into something wet—and soon. Smoke inhalation doesn’t favor survival. “Because that’s what we’ll have if we continue to Cripplegate. Nothing.”

“You yourself were blithely headed into the City not ten minutes ago!”

“To hide you!”

“Julian,” Mallory says, slowing down and turning her face to him. “There’s a time to think and a time to act. If we are going to make it, you really need to learn the difference between the two. Guess which time this is. Do you remember yourself on the stairs not an hour ago? Had I not reminded you with a sharp fist to your back that the time had come to run, not ponder, you’d be in Parker’s custody right now on your way to Tyburn. The Master of the Mint is dead! A prostitute is dead! And London is burning. This is no time to stand around, waxing poetic about what could’ve been and should’ve been.” She takes his hand and stares deep into his face. “No one can protect us if we ourselves are not prepared, not even God. Not because he won’t. But because he can’t. That’s what Jesus said. Carry oil in your lamps, he told us. I can’t protect you if you are not ready.”

“I’m not sure that by oil in your lamps Jesus meant murder,” says Julian.

“You and I have a chance for a real life somewhere,” Mallory says. “Someplace beyond this city. It’s waiting for us, like you said. But first we must act. We can’t simply will it to happen. We have to do something for ourselves. What will you do if the wall falls and we can’t find the purse? How will you feel if the guards find us hiding like leeches in some wet gulley? What are you going to say to me then? I’m sorry, O dainty duck, I tried?” Mallory pulls on him. “Let’s go. To get to the wall is the most important thing.”

“Are you sure it’s not love over gold, Mallory?” Julian says.

“Without the gold there’s nothing, not even love,” she replies. “But with it, there may be both. So hurry.”

It’s difficult to run. With each panting breath, they swallow more smoke. They’re dripping wet. He gapes at her as they do their best to hurry. “Who are you?” he says. “This wasn’t you two days ago, a month ago.”

“You are so wrong, dear dove.” Mallory yanks on him. “This was always me. Ruthless and resolute. What did Ivy call me?”

“Wanton and cunning.”

“You should’ve listened to her. The other Mallory you saw, you know what that was?” Stopping for a moment, the young panting woman sidles up to Julian, batting her eyelashes, rubbing against him, pitching her voice to a high shy purr. “That was an act, sire.” She kisses him deeply on the lips and tugs on him to get going. “I told you my life was my stage. Why do men never listen when women speak?”

Julian is breathless with love and terror as she leads him deeper into the siege. “Without your life, there’s nothing else, Mallory. No acting, no cunning, no gold.”

She shakes her head. “Gold over everything.”

Julian shakes his head, even though he knows she is right.

Because what you want most is what you have the least of.

Josephine over everything.

Hand in hand, they walk into the apocalypse.

The church at Cripplegate is a long way away through a burning city. It’s nearly a mile away. In just the last few minutes, the smoke has grown higher, turned blacker, the smell of charred wood and linen has become more acrid. There’s screaming near them, the neighing of frightened horses. The flames rise in the streets, and the wind carries fire like airborne tumbleweeds. They’re almost at St. Paul’s.

“Why couldn’t you have dug a hole in the ground at St. Paul’s?” Mallory says. “Would’ve been so much simpler.”

“I didn’t do that,” Julian says, “because tomorrow, there isn’t going to be a St. Paul’s.”

Mallory glances into his face to see if he’s joking. “You kept yammering about it.” She sounds mystified. “You wouldn’t shut up about a fire cleansing our city of Black Death. How did you know it was coming? How did you know the future?”

“Oh, Mallory,” Julian says. “I wish to God I knew the future. I don’t. I know the past.”

Their eyes catch for a moment. “Do you know what happens to you and me?” she asks, almost whispering, as if she wants to know, doesn’t want to know.

“No,” Julian says, and can’t even tell if he’s lying.

A vicar stands in the churchyard of St. Paul’s, shouting encouragement to the fleeing people. “We have a mayor who’s helpless before the conflagration!” the priest shouts. “Brothers and sisters, help yourselves! Do not be like our esteemed leader. Lord, what can I do, he cries. He says he’s out of solutions, though the fire has raged for barely a day! He’s like a fainting woman, and do you know why? Because his faith is faint! Do not be like Thomas Bludworth! Be unshakable! Straight is the gate and narrow is the way that leads unto life. Aldgate, Ludgate, Newgate, Bishopsgate, Cripplegate, Moorgate, Aldersgate! Seven gates out! Seven ways to save your life! Run, brothers and sisters, go find your gate!”

Julian’s eyes are tearing, and it takes him a moment to recognize Reverend Anselmo from the Silver Cross. Weakened by inhaling the smoke, the holy man wobbles on the apple crate as he fortifies the misplaced with prayer. “Oh, it’s you two,” Anselmo says when they stop at his feet. “The whole world is looking for you.”

Mallory holds on to Julian, weighing on him as she rests. “They’re not looking for us here,” she says.

“Yes, hide in hell,” the vicar says. “That’ll teach them.”

“All the parish churches inside the City will soon be cinders, Reverend,” Julian says. “Despite what you think of us over on Whitehall, you’re safer in the Silver Cross.”

“I don’t go where it’s safe, my son,” Anselmo says. “I go where I’m needed. And today, it’s here.”

“You don’t have any water, do you?” Julian asks. They desperately need something wet to breathe into.

“Find your narrow gate out, and you will find living water there,” replies Anselmo.

“Come on, Julian,” Mallory says. “No time to waste.”

The wood houses crackle, timber bursting apart in venomous flames and falling in ruins. The smoke makes everything dark upon the streets, dark upon the steeples, smoke whirls like ghosts between the homes and the cathedrals.

St. Martin’s Le Grand that leads to Cripplegate is impassable. The buildings have collapsed into the road. “Julian,” Mallory says, “in case we get separated, tell me where in the wall you hid my purse.”

“It’s down the slope and straight across from the last window in the back of the nave. About three feet off the ground. The gray mortar should still be fresh. You can’t miss it. But we’re not going to get separated.”

They walk in single file, she ahead of him. They’re drenched with sweat. The fire that swirls and fills the air with black satanic smoke slows them down. Her especially. “It’s not too far now,” Mallory says. She’s wheezing. “We’re close. Soon we’ll be out.” She stops walking. “Just let me catch my breath for a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute, Mallory,” Julian says, throwing his arm around her and helping her forward. “You told me so yourself. It’s more true now than ever.” There’s no preparation for the plague. There’s no preparation for the fire. Not even when you know it’s coming. No oil in the lamp will protect them now. Nothing could have prepared them for this except staying away. The hot wind fans the flames just like the Santa Anas. Who travels faster, a young determined rasping beauty under his arm or a blaze blown out of all control by a stiff dry breeze?

“Come on, just a little farther.” Who says that?

It’s Julian. Mallory has stopped speaking.

The smoke chokes him, shreds his throat, tears at the whites of his eyes. The plumes are heavy, a canopy of ash in the air. Mallory breaks into a coughing fit. She has pulled away from him and is staggering along the side of a building, trying to hide her face from the smoke. He barely makes her out, even though she’s right next to him. He searches for her like a blind man, his hands outstretched. Mallory, Mallory, is that you? She doesn’t answer.

Julian stares into his empty palm. His right fingers are tingling.

Mallory!

He can’t find her. He can’t see her.

People are hurrying past him, but none of them is her.

One second she was by his side, and the next … Mallory! His arms ache.

In the black trails, all women look like her. From the river upward, a flame tsunami rises higher and then falls. It’s raining fire. It’s light, but there is no sun. It’s day, but it looks like night.

Julian finds her lying on the pavement, wedged into the side of a building, as if she’s trying to hide. Mallory, what happened?

She is mouthing something, but he can’t hear. The smoke must have paralyzed her vocal cords. He kneels on the stones by her side.

Can you get up? Julian wants to ask this. The problem is, he also can’t speak. It must be the smoke. Please let it be the smoke. Oh God, Mallory. How far are they from Cripplegate? How far are they from the gold, from the wall? How far from each other, from salvation? So close, so close! Julian’s legs, neck, chest feel as if they’re being stabbed with ice picks.

Why did he let go of her hand! Or did she let go of his? She let go and fell noiselessly to the cobblestones, and the burning sky fell with her.

She holds her throat. He holds his throat. He reaches out to touch her, opens his mouth to beg her, beg her not to die. I love you, he whispers inaudibly. Please don’t die before you are redeemed.

Mallory almost smiles. Pulling a crumpled piece of parchment out of her apron, she slides it into his palm. Julian tries to stand her up, but she can’t, and he can’t. Why did you fall? Why did you let go of my hand? Why did you run into the fire, why did I hide your gold, why did I take it? Why did you kill him and her, why?

She is gasping.

Timber is being torn to pieces. Julian’s body feels as if it’s being torn to pieces. The ashes of London rise in the black ugly fumes and are carried by the wind into Mallory’s throat, into Julian’s throat, into Mallory’s soul, into Julian’s soul.

He is convulsing. His throat closes. He can’t yell, can’t speak, can’t tell her what he feels.

Reaching up, she touches his face, her eyes clearing and glazing over. Julian …

Still on his knees, he tips over her.

Go, she whispers. Or did she say gold?

Julian, go and come back for me.