EPILOGUE
The Phoenix
ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL, LONDON: June 21, 1675
For nearly seven years the ground here lay empty and hollowed, after the last of the rubble was cleared away. The corpses jarred so rudely from their homes were removed to a place of more respect, and the unknown body found in the east end given decent burial. Piece by piece, the shattered remnants were demolished. Yellow flowers now starred the earth, as if a tiny meadow would flourish in the heart of the City.
Other gaps still remained, scattered here and there along the newly marked streets and lanes. But London had risen quickly from the barren ground, and a casual eye could miss the empty lots, the gutted churches still awaiting repair. The Fire Courts did their work well, with a fairness that disgruntled many but betrayed few: those who lied or tried to move the boundary markers of their property were punished, and tenants placed in balance with their landlords, so that none would lose more than they must. For those who worked in brick or stone, the surveyors and carters and above all the architects, this was a golden age indeed, full of opportunity and wealth.
Many of the company halls were replaced, and a number of the churches, though some few were gone, never to be built again. A new Exchange stood along Cornhill, watched over by the statue of its founder Gresham, found miraculously preserved among the ashes. The new Custom House was much finer than the old, a splendid sight along the bank of the Thames.
And now the shouts of workmen filled the air atop Ludgate Hill, as a stone slid ponderously along the ground.
The cavity left behind by the destruction of the old cathedral, once filled with rainwater and debris, had since been dug anew. Not to the same shape: Sir Christopher Wren, who among the King’s surveyors had taken command of the rebuilding, yearned desperately to bring a fresh elegance to London. His plan for a new City had been discarded, along with several more unusual proposals for the cathedral, but here he had something like a victory.
The architect watched as the workmen coaxed and swore the first foundation stone into place. One stone set; many thousands to come.
It would be a different cathedral than the one London had known for centuries. But it was still St. Paul’s, standing proudly atop the City’s western hill—just as the streets were still the streets, from broad Cheapside down to many of the small lanes and alleys and courts. They stood now dressed in brick instead of the familiar timber and plaster, but even a disaster so great as the terrible Fire could not divide London from itself.
And as above, so below. So long as a cathedral stood on Ludgate Hill, so long as the Tower of London faced it from the east—so long as the wall held its arc, and the London Stone pierced the ground at the City’s heart—thus would London’s shadow endure.
And rise a fairer phoenix from its ashes.
Author’s Note
If you go looking for the Vale of the White Horse, you will find it in Oxfordshire, not Berkshire (as described in this book). This is because the county boundaries have changed since the seventeenth century. It’s a lovely place, and well worth visiting, especially on a fine English summer day.
Alert readers may also notice that the spelling of the Queen of Scots’s surname has changed between books. This, believe it or not, is an attempt to avoid confusion. Spelling was a flexible thing back then; I’ve generally chosen to use the forms favored by the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. They list the Queen of Scots as Mary Stewart, but her grandson as Charles Stuart. Since that relationship is relevant to this story, I decided to bring Mary in line with Charles, even if it meant contradicting my choice in Midnight Never Come. Likewise, what was Candlewick Street in the previous novel is Cannon Street in this one; its name changed over time.
Regarding the calendar: my habit has been to follow the convention of most recent history books, which is to date these events as if the year began in January. In the seventeenth century England still followed a convention wherein the new year began in March, but I decided to forgo that piece of historical accuracy in favor of clarity.
extras
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about the author
Marie Brennan is an anthropologist and folklorist who shamelessly pillages her academic fields for material. Her short stories have sold to more than a dozen venues. Find out more about the author at www.midnightnevercome.com
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if you enjoyed IN ASHES LIE look out for A MADNESS OF ANGELS by Kate Griffin
For Matthew Swift, today is not like any other day. It is the day on which he returns to life.
Two years after his untimely death, Matthew Swift finds himself breathing once again, lying in bed in his London home.
Except that it’s no longer his bed, or his home. And the last time this sorcerer was seen alive, an unknown assailant had gouged a hole so deep in his chest that his death was irrefutable...despite his body never being found.
He doesn’t have long to mull over his resurrection though, or the changes that have been wrought upon him. His only concern now is vengeance. Vengeance upon his monstrous killer and vengeance upon the one who brought him back.
Not how it should have been.
Too long, this awakening, floor warm beneath my fingers, itchy carpet, thick, a prickling across my skin, turning rapidly into the red-hot feeling of burrowing ants, too long without sensation, everything weak, like the legs of a baby. I said twitch, and my toes twitched, and the rest of my body shuddered at the effort. I said blink, and my eyes were like two half-sucked toffees, uneven, sticky, heavy, pushing back against the passage of my eyelids like I was trying to lift weights before a marathon.
All this, I felt, would pass. As the static blue shock of my wakening, if that is the word, passed, little worms of it digging away into the floor or crawling along the ceiling back into the telephone lines, the hot blanket of their protection faded from my body. The cold intruded like a great hungry worm into every joint and inch of skin, my bones suddenly too long for my flesh, my muscles suddenly too tense in their relaxed form to tense ever again, every part starting to quiver as the full shock of sensation returned.
I lay on the floor naked as a shedding snake, and we contemplated our situation.
runrunrunrunrunRUNRUNRUNRUN! hissed the panicked voice inside me, the one that saw the bed legs an inch from my nose as the feet of an ogre, heard the odd swish of traffic through the rain outside as the spitting of venom down a forked tongue, felt the thin neon light drifting through the familiar dirty windowpane as hot as noonday glare through a hole in the ozone layer.
I tried moving my leg and found the action oddly giddying, as if this was the ultimate achievement for which my life so far had been spent in training, the fulfilment of all ambition. Or perhaps it was simply that we had pins and needles, and not entirely knowing how to deal with pain, we laughed through it, turning my head to stick my nose into the dust of the carpet to muffle my own inane giggling as I brought my knee up toward my chin, and tears dribbled around the edge of my mouth. We tasted them, curious, and found the saltiness pleasurable, like the first, tongue-clenching, moisture-eating bite of hot, crispy bacon. At that moment finding a plate of crispy bacon became my one guiding motivation in life, the thing that overwhelmed all others, and so, with a mighty heave and this light to guide me, I pulled myself up, crawling across the end of the bed and leaning against the chest of drawers while waiting for the world to decide which way down would be for the duration.
It wasn’t quite my room, this place I found myself in. The inaccuracies were gentle, superficial. It was still my paint on the wall, a pale, inoffensive yellow; it was still my window with its view out onto the little parade of shops on the other side of the road, unmistakeable; the newsagent, the off license, the cobbler and all-round domestic supplier, the laundrette, and, red lantern still burning cheerfully in the window, Mrs. Lee Po’s famous Chinese
takeaway. My window, my view; not my room. The bed was new, an ugly, polished thing trying to pretend to be part of a medieval bridal chamber for a princess in a pointy hat. The mattress, when I sat on it, was so hard I ached within a minute from being in contact with it; on the wall hung a huge, gold-framed mirror in which I could picture Marie Antoinette having her curls perfected; in the corner there were two wardrobes, not one. I waddled across to them, and leaned against the nearest to recover my breath from the epic distance covered. Seeing by the light seeping under the door, and the neon glow from outside, I opened the first one and surveyed jackets of rough tweed, long dresses in silk, white and cream-colored shirts distinctively tailored, pointed black leather shoes, high-heeled sandals composed almost entirely of straps and no real protective substance, and a handbag the size of a feather pillow, suspended with a heavy, thick gold chain. I opened the handbag and riffled through the contents. A purse, containing fifty pounds, which I took, a couple of credit cards, a library membership to the local Dulwich port-a-cabin, and a small but orderly handful of thick white business cards. I pulled one out and in the dull light read the name “Laura Linbard; Business Associate, KSP.” I put it on the bed and opened the other wardrobe.
This one contained trousers, shirts, jackets and, to my surprise, a large pair of thick yellow fisherman’s oils and sailing boots. There was a small, important-looking box at the bottom of the wardrobe. I opened it and found a stethoscope, a small first-aid kit, a thermometer, and several special and painful looking metal tools the nature of which I dared not speculate on. I pulled a white cotton shirt off its hanger and a pair of gray trousers. In a drawer I found underpants which didn’t quite fit comfortably, and a pair of thick black socks. Dressing, I felt cautiously around my left shoulder and ribcage, probing for damage, and finding that every bone was properly set, every inch of skin correctly healed, not even a scar, not a trace of dry blood.
The shirt cuff reached roughly to the same point where my thumb joint aligned with the rest of my hand; the trousers dangled around the balls of my feet. The socks fitted perfectly, as always seems the way. The shoes were several sizes too small; that perplexed me. How is it possible for someone to have such long arms and legs, and yet wear shoes for feet that you’d think would have to have been bound? Feeling I might regret it later, I left the shoes.
I put the business card and the fifty pounds in my trouser pockets and headed for the door. On the way out, we caught sight of our reflection in the big mirror and stopped, stared, fascinated. Was this now us? Dark brown hair heading for the disreputable side of uncared for—not long enough to be a bohemian statement, not short enough to be stylish. Pale face that freckled in the sun, slightly overlarge nose for the compact features that surrounded it, plonked as if by accident on top of a body made all the more sticklike by the ridiculous oversize clothes it wore. It was not the flesh we would have chosen, but I had long since given up dreams of resembling anyone from the movies, and with the pragmatism of the perfectly average, come to realise that this was me and that was fine.
And this was me, looking back out of the mirror.
Not quite me.
I leaned in closer, turning my head this way and that, running my fingers through my hair—greasy and unwashed—in search of blood, bumps, splits. Turning my face this way and that, searching for bruises and scars. An almost perfect wakening, but there was still something wrong with this picture.
I leaned right in close until my breath condensed in a little gray puff on the glass, and stared deep into my own eyes. As a teenager it had bothered me how round my eyes had been, somehow always imagining that small eyes = great intelligence, until one day at school the thirteen-year-old Max Borton had pointed out that round dark eyes were a great way to get the girls. I blinked and the reflection in the mirror blinked back, the bright iris reflecting cat-like the orange glow of the washed-out streetlamps. My eyes, which, when I had last had cause to look at them, had been brown. Now they were the pale, brilliant albino blue of the cloudless winter sky, and I was no longer the only creature that watched from behind their lens.
runrunrunrunrunrunRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN RUN!
I put my head against the cold glass of the mirror, fighting the sudden terror that threatened to knock us back to the floor. The trick was to keep breathing, to keep moving. Nothing else mattered. Run long and hard enough, and perhaps while you’re running you might actually come up with a plan. But nothing mattered if you were already dead.
My legs thought better than my brain, walked me out of the room. My fingers eased back the door and I blinked in the shocking light of the hundred-watt bulb in the corridor outside. The carpet here was thick and new, the banisters polished, but it was a painting on the wall, a print of a Picasso I’d picked up for a fiver—too many years ago—all color and strange, scattered proportions—which stole our attention. It still hung exactly where I’d left it. I felt almost offended. We were fascinated: an explosion of visual wonder right there for the same price as a cheap Thai meal, in full glory. Was everything like this? I found it hard to remember. I licked my lips and tasted blood, dry and old. Thoughts and memories were still too tangled to make clear sense of them. All that mattered was moving, staying alive long enough to get a plan together, find some answers.
From downstairs I heard laughter, voices, the chink of glasses, and a door being opened. Footsteps on the tiles that led from living room to kitchen, a clink where they still had-n’t cemented in the loose white one in the center of the diamond pattern; the sound of plates; the roar of the oven fan as it pumped out hot air.
I started walking down. The voices grew louder, a sound of polite gossipy chitchat, dominated by one woman with a penetrating voice and a laugh that started at the back of her nose before traveling down to the lungs and back up again, and who I instinctively disliked. I glanced down the corridor to the kitchen and saw a man’s back turned to me, bent over something that steamed and smelt of pie. The urge to eat anything, everything, briefly drowned out the taste of blood in my mouth. Like a bewildered ghost who can’t understand that it has died, I walked past the kitchen and pushed at the half-open door to the living room.
There were three of them, with a fourth place set for the absent cook, drinking wine over the remnants of a salad, around a table whose top was made of frosted glass. As I came in, nobody seemed to notice me, all attention on the one woman there with the tone and look of someone in the middle of a witty address. But when she turned in my direction with, “George, the pie!” already half-escaped from her lips, the sound of her dropped wineglass shattering on the table quickly redirected the others’ attention.
They stared at me, I stared at them. There was an embarrassed silence that only the English can do so well, and that probably lasted less than a second, but felt like a dozen ticks of the clock. Then, as she had to, as things probably must be, one of the women screamed.
The sound sent a shudder down my spine, smashed through the horror and incomprehension in my brain, and at last let me understand, let me finally realize that this was no longer my house, that I had been gone too long, and that to these people I was the intruder, they the rightful owners. The scream slammed into my brain like a train hitting the buffers and tore a path through my consciousness that let everything else begin to flood in: the true realization that if my house was not mine, my job, my friends, my old life, would not be mine, nor my possessions, my money, my debts, my clothes, my shoes, my films, my music; all gone in a second, things I had owned since a scrawny teenager, the electric toothbrush my father had given me in a fit of concern for my health, the photos of my friends and the places I’d been, the copy of Calvin and Hobbes my first girlfriend had given me as a sign of enduring friendship the Christmas after we’d split up, my favorite pair of slippers, the holiday I was planning to the mountains of northern Spain, all, everything I had worked for, everything I had owned and wanted to achieve, vanished in that scream.
I ran. We didn’t run from the so
und, that wasn’t what frightened us. I ran to become lost, and wished I had never woken in the first place, but stayed drifting in the blue.
In Ashes Lie Page 45
