His body slumping, Julian waits for the rest.
“It took him over six years to mint just 49 coins! He had to be so careful. He could make barely one every seven weeks, they were so labor-intensive in the hammering and softening. He told me when he got to fifty, he would stop. The risk of getting caught siphoning off drops of liquefied bullion was becoming too great. To make the coins accurately, he had to use drops from the rare 23-carat gold ingots, not the 22-carat they use today. A month or so ago, he got to 49. He needed only one more! And now they’re gone.”
Julian sways. “And he is also gone.”
“Yes,” Mallory says without inflection. “He is also gone.”
“Why would he hide them here?”
“He used to keep them at his house. I was the one who persuaded him that here was safer. And it was—much safer. The floor is nailed down in every room. I made the hiding place for the coins myself. In the lord’s house, the servants were disgustingly nosy. They waited for him to come home, they undressed him, bathed him, they dusted every nook. A locked chest with a key the lord carried on his person had alerted his staff that there was something in the chest worth locking away. He didn’t trust them. But he trusted me.”
“Why would he trust you?” Julian says in a hoarse voice.
“He was lonely. He liked me.”
Julian doesn’t look at her.
“When I found that one coin on him, he was relieved!” Mallory says. “His secret had been choking him. He was dying to tell someone. He was an artist and each coin was his masterpiece. I made a proper show of being impressed. I made a place where he could hide them. Room Two has always been a special, mysterious room. It’s secluded and private, and in it, the candles that fall don’t catch fire, though sometimes you do hear strange noises from the closet under the dormer. Some say the room is haunted. You appeared from the closet in that room.” She half-smiles.
Julian’s face is a mask.
“Every time the lord minted a new coin, we would celebrate. We’d have some wine and admire it. Make a pomp of placing it together with the others. I never took a coin from him, not one. He had to know I could be trusted. That I wouldn’t steal from him or betray him or blackmail him.”
“Why would he trust you?” Julian repeats.
“You’re beheaded for stealing from the king’s Royal Mint. It’s called treason to the realm.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” He takes a breath. “What were you getting out of it?”
“A way out.”
Rigidly Julian waits for her to say more.
“We were going to leave for the South of France. For Nice or Marseilles.”
“Leave as in…leave together?”
“Yes.”
“Lord Fabian was the benefactor who would take you away to the South of France?”
“Yes.”
“But what were you actually planning to do?”
“I told you I’ve been planning my escape, didn’t I?”
Julian sits on the floor and wishes he could stop listening to her air more misdeeds through her bitter lips.
I don’t know if you are safe with him, Julian says.
Oh, sire, she coos. You are so kind-hearted. Trust me, you don’t have to worry about him.
As in, Fabian is not the one Julian needs to worry about. Julian had heard it all wrong.
“Everything was going perfectly,” Mallory continues. “Only one more coin to cast. Seven weeks to go! So close. But then you came into our life and ruined everything. Everything! At first your blind desire for me allowed me to make some extra money, and gave him a little pleasure, but quickly it all went wrong. And I didn’t even know how wrong until it was too late.”
“How is that my fault?”
“Because you ruined it with your love!” she cries. “At first, the lord thought you and I were just for show, another night of staged ribaldry at the Silver Cross. But soon he began to suspect that you weren’t putting on a show, you weren’t acting—like everyone else in this godforsaken place—but that you really loved me! He thought he was using you, and then it dawned on him that it was the other way around, that you were using him! And when he suspected that I might love you back, that’s when everything I’ve been working for since I was eighteen was destroyed.”
“Might love me back?”
“He and I had violent words about it,” says Mallory. “I told him it wasn’t true. I swore to him I didn’t even slightly love you.”
“Ah.”
“He didn’t believe me. He didn’t believe that when the time came, I would leave you and travel with him to Marseilles. I vowed to him I would. I begged him, I pleaded. I tried, Julian, oh how I tried to save his pitiable life! But he was so stubborn and jealous. He wouldn’t listen.” She wrings her hands. “The other night he came and said he was taking his coin and leaving for good because he was afraid you would kill him and lure me away.”
“He was afraid I would kill him?”
“Yes. So you could have me all to yourself. I tried to persuade him otherwise, but it was no use. He said when he saw us together, he saw the face of love. He said he knew what it looked like because it was how he himself gazed upon me. He didn’t trust me anymore and could never trust me again.”
It’s Julian’s turn to put his head in his hands. Mallory is right. It is his fault. How badly Julian has misjudged another man. How badly he has misjudged his woman. Again. “Fabian was right not to trust you,” Julian says. “You killed him for fifty pieces of gold.”
“Forty-nine,” she cries, “and do you have any idea how much they’re worth?”
As it turns out, he does. “But you were with me all night. You couldn’t have killed him.” He whispers it. He still refuses to believe it’s true. You’re not going to marry another man, are you, when you promised yourself to me, Josephine.
“I wasn’t with you all night.”
“How did you do it?” Julian doesn’t want to know.
“With your help.” Mallory wipes her face. “A thousand ways to kill a human being. That’s what you taught me. Oleander, wild cherry, rosary pea. You made it so easy. You’re a very good teacher, Julian. You explained it well. I learned so much about all the wonderful plants that grow in London’s parks. I pulled off the rosary pea from a bush while we were walking in the palace garden last week. Right in front of you, I dropped the pea in my apron. All it took was a little grinding and a drink of honeyed wine. He drank around eleven. I begged him not to leave until I came back to say goodbye. Then I was with you. At four in the morning when you were asleep, I checked on him.” She shakes her head. “Poor lord. He became so angry when he realized he had been poisoned. He worked himself up into quite a rage. I must say, I didn’t expect him to go into such violent convulsions. Flailing, foaming, hitting his head, falling down right over the spot in the floor where we kept his gold. I didn’t want him to die alone. I sat with him until the end. I held his hand. I figured as soon as his body was removed, I’d get my money. No one knew it was there but me—or so I thought. But then the Baroness shepherded me out for the day, Carling and Ivy mopped up, and when I came back, the gold was gone.”
Rosary pea! When they strolled through the park on Sundays, arm in arm like lovers, she was scheming to betray a man who loved her, to kill him and rob him and run off—by herself—without the other man who loved her.
She dry heaves.
Wait, no, it’s Julian. He’s the one who’s dry heaving.
She begins to crawl to him but sees his face and stops.
“Julian,” Mallory says from her hiding place, “I’ve never been touched or held by anyone in my whole hard life the way you hold me when you love me, and when we sleep. You gave me something I didn’t know I wanted, that I didn’t know was real. For that, I thank you. But the most important thing to me is not love, not even yours. It’s to save my own life. It’s the only one I’ve got, and it’s what my mother kept saying she wanted for me. I do this partly t
o honor her.”
“You poisoned a man to honor your mother,” Julian says.
“It was never going to last between me and you,” Mallory says. “Don’t look so upset.”
“I don’t look upset,” he says. “I am upset. Do you know the difference?”
“I do. But don’t be. You are young, passionate, beautiful. The girls swoon over you. Pay me no mind. You’ll find someone else.”
“You don’t love me?”
“I love you,” Mallory says. “But I can’t trust you.”
“You can’t trust me?”
“That’s right. You sold me to the lord. What you wanted came first.”
“I didn’t sell you!” Julian exclaims. “I gave you what you wanted. I would’ve never done it. You begged me to help you. You wanted to make money. I gave that to you.”
“And you wanted to have me—at any cost. Well, this is the price.”
“Mallory! You killed a man who took care of you so you could get to his gold, and you’re talking to me about trust?”
“What did you do for his gold?”
“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t betray my benefactor.” Julian shudders. Little did he know that his girl was in the fourth ring of the ninth circle of hell. And he was right by her side. “Oh, Mallory.” He shrinks and bends like a bow.
“You traded your body and mine,” she says. “You don’t think that’s worse?”
“No.”
“You whored yourself out, and you whored me out.”
“Stop being cruel. I did it for you.”
“You say for me. I say for you. So you could have what you want. Well, I did the things I did to have what I want.” Mallory whispers this, but her words are so deadly she might as well be screaming.
Julian doesn’t know what to do. To tell her or not to tell her? Who’s to say his own fate will be different from the Temporal Lord’s? She’s already disposed of one man. What’s one more?
“I saved some money, Mallory,” Julian says. “You can have it. Let’s go. Let’s run together.”
She shakes her head.
“You said you want to save your life. That’s also what I want. I swear to you.” Julian clenches his fist over his heart. “To save you is all I want. You’re in terrible danger. You don’t even know. Parker suspects you of foul play. And you know the punishment that awaits you. Please, let me protect you. You can’t do it alone,” he adds when he gets no reply from her.
“Is that a threat, Julian? Are you going to give me up to the constable?” There is something merciless and frightening in Mallory’s expression.
Julian becomes certain if he tells her about the treasure, she will kill him. She will poison his wine, too, and form a Satan’s alliance with Ilbert, and like Fabian, Julian will be tossed face down into the shallow canal by Savoy Palace.
“I’m not going to give you up,” he says, struggling to his feet and pulling her up with him. “You are my country. My allegiance is to you.” He fights to avoid placing a confrontational emphasis on my. But also—he can’t form a coherent thought anymore. He will have to deal with this tomorrow. It will be here soon enough.
He makes her lie down with him in the bed and with cold scared arms holds her cold scared body, hiding his terrified face behind her. Cyril Connolly is wrong. It is possible to be made wretched in a brothel.
Half-dressed, they fall into a restless sleep, the sleep of guilty lovers in anguish as they choose something else over what they feel for each other.
9
Bill of Mortality
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.
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