As I turned up another, wider alleyway, the church bells rang, signaling night curfew and that the gates were to be locked in a quarter hour. Their clang added to my nerves.
Amidst the cacophony, I caught a human cry from the direction of the White voice. Or was it a cat?
I skidded to a halt.
Was the cry a farce? Something caused by the White Light to lure me in?
The cry came again, heavy with distress. And definitely human. Female.
Reality hit.
How dare I hesitate?
Thomas. Hurry!
I had no weapon and no color magic. I barely had any courage, but I raced toward the scream . . . and the mystery voice. If it was a trick and I was to die, at least my heart had honor.
I burst out of an alley, crossed Wood Street, and strained to hear anything. The bells made it impossible. I kept running. If only I had a sword.
A flash of light. Another scream—male this time.
I lunged through a dark passage, splashed through a sewer drain, and exited into a tight street in time to see a cloaked girl kick a downed man in the face.
I halted.
She smashed the heel of her boot against his nose and he sprawled backward.
The lady seemed to be doing fine on her own. That was . . . until the flicker from a nearby brazier glinted off a mask clamped in the downed man’s hand. The girl scrabbled for it—dark curls sticking to her sweating and muddied face.
Hot fire built in my chest. No one had the right to take someone’s mask—to deny them their color power.
I glanced around for a weapon. Where were the watchmen?
A second man lunged from the shadows and grabbed the girl before she reached her mask. He wore a mask of Brown. He pinned her arms.
She growled. Feral. “I’m not . . . a Keeper!”
Brown Beast slapped a hand over her mouth. “They all say that.” His hiss slithered through the abrupt silence into my own ears, carrying a slime that would gag a slug. “But now the gates are closing and you’ve no horse. Keeper or not, I’m sure we can find something to do with you.”
Then he cried out, yanking his hand away from her mouth. I caught a splash of blood from his palm. The girl spit out a chunk of his flesh. He raised his first to strike her, but she elbowed him in the midsection.
The hood of her cloak tangled in her wild hair. She fled a few steps, but he caught her arms and dragged her back along the street. Something glinted in his hand—a dagger.
I lurched from my hideout, weaponless.
Now it was my turn.
I planted my feet. “Leave her be!” Not the most threatening line, but it was the only weapon at my disposal . . . unless I could somehow get that dagger.
The man stopped—more stalled than threatened. The girl moved quicker than a blink. She lunged out of his grasp and snatched her mask from the downed man—adding another kick to his ribs.
She slapped the mask to her face . . .
. . . and fire exploded from the brazier, sending coal chunks flying. Flame latched onto the cloak of the Brown. Then mud slammed into the downed man’s face, slithering beneath the edge of his Grey mask. He tore it off, but the grime clawed its way into his mouth and down his throat.
A mud bubble popped from his mouth, but no sounds of air.
Brown Beast—the one on fire—shouted something at the mud. It stopped long enough for Grey to free his lungs with a harsh vomit.
I scanned the shadows. No sign of anyone aiding her. Could she truly be that powerful with both Brown and Yellow? She must be an Igniter through and through.
The girl stumbled back, panting. One hand still held her mask to her face. The fire abated. The mud calmed.
The men fled.
The girl plopped in the mud and I hurried to her, reaching out a shaking hand. She tied her mask and finally looked up.
I lurched back. An oak-Brown mask with silver lashes and a white rose over one eye.
Emma Areben.
The girl I spent endless nights of adolescence dreaming of impressing. The girl against whom I’d hardened my heart as firmly as the Stone Plague had hardened my eye. The girl who rode in Henry Parker’s twisted pocket.
The one person whom I both loathed and longed for.
Here.
At my feet.
She accepted my hand with her gloved fingers, but mine now hung limp. I shook myself free of my shock and pulled her up. Hadn’t I always dreamed of being her knight? Saving the day? Only I’d saved nothing. She’d been her own knight and I’d stood by like a gaping spectator.
The moonlight cast enough reflection for me to catch the flick of her eyes behind the deep eye holes of her mask. “Thomas.”
So, she remembered my name. Not just that, but she spoke it with a tone of gratitude—so different from the stiff, impersonal tones at St. Peter’s.
“So you are plagued.”
My patch had slipped off and hung around my neck. I looked away. If she had been unsure before, there was no doubt now with the moonlight illuminating my stone eye. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
She steadied herself, pulled her gloves tight, smoothed out the neck ruff of her dress, and then stepped back. “Everyone has a right to their own secrets.”
“You’re not . . . afraid of catching it?”
She shook her head. “Sometimes it spreads, and sometimes it goes dormant in a person. You’ve had your eye patch for over a year. If I didn’t catch it at St. Peter’s, there’s no reason I’d catch it from you now.”
If only others shared this perspective. I stared at her mask, unable to say anything more.
“I need to get to the gates before they close.”
“I’ll take you.” At least I could start acting the part of a gentleman. I pulled her after me, half expecting the thugs to leap out from an alley. Then I saw the Brown Beast’s dagger sticking up from the mud, hilt-first. The handle was white like bone, with threads of red, but the blade itself was made of stone, not steel.
I reached for it, but Emma kicked it away. It tumbled into the gutter of refuse.
I wasn’t about to put my hand down there. “Why would you do that?”
“You have no idea what color Compulsion they’ve put on it.”
“Color Compulsion?” I would know about those had Father given me my mask and I stayed at St. Peter’s.
“Strong color users can permanently bind a Compulsion to items. That dagger was unusual. It held signs of color power.”
“How do you get rid of a color Compulsion?”
She stared at the spot where the dagger had disappeared. “The person who set it has to die.”
Oh. “Do these happen often?”
“They’re extremely hard to create—and even the simplest Compulsion can render a person unconscious for days.” She would know better than I.
We headed toward the gate. As we walked, she sent mud off her dress using color speech. “They waited until the curfew bells so that no one would hear me scream.” Her voice quivered, though it held no fear. Only anger. “Cowards.”
“What are you doing out so late?” Alone? Unescorted? The dark streets of London were no place for a lady—masked or not. They were no place for anyone these days, with Igniters on the hunt for Keepers.
She lifted her chin. “Tending to my own business as is an educated and masked woman’s right.” She snapped her face toward me. “Are you offering to escort me home?”
Not exactly what I meant, but . . . “I’d be happy to.” As if my meager companionship would be any use against ruffians.
“I reside in Hoxton as ward to the Baron Monteagle.” Hoxton? That was a good walk beyond the city gates. “I had a horse, but she likely bolted home. Poor thing.”
We reached the gates just as the gatekeeper tied on his Brown mask and commanded them closed.
“Wait!” He spun and I led Emma through the opening without another word. As pleasant as it might’ve been to have my former dream lady on my arm, I
did not want to be responsible for her an entire night trapped inside the wall. Best to get her home. Swiftly.
The dark night spread before us as we continued along Curtain Road, flanked by homes, inns, and the alleys between.
“How did you come to London?” Emma kept her arm in mine, but I knew better than to imagine it was for any reason other than support in the dark. She was no damsel. She strode with steps swift enough to match a man’s, her chin held high.
I chose my words carefully. “I came how anyone might—by foot a turn and then by cart.” Never mind that it was a prison cart.
I expected her to ask why I came, but then she glanced at me for a spell. What would I see on her maskless face? Disgust? Amusement? “I am sorry for how your Color Test turned out. It wasn’t right of St. Peter’s to dismiss you as they did.”
What did she care? She’d graduated. She was starting her new life. She’d accomplished what I couldn’t.
We passed Old Street Road and I breathed a sigh of relief as we passed a patch of moonlight. Then back into the dark, narrower Hoxton Street. The houses grew in stature. Emma turned us down a lane. Soon she would be home and the excitement of this night would be over. Did I truly want it to end with my unforgiving silence? She did seem to be trying to show kindness. I didn’t expect kindness came easily for her, what with residing with Henry Parker.
“How were you able to control two colors so adeptly like that?”
Her arm stiffened in mine. “Practice.”
So she didn’t want to say. “But your mask is Brown.” I wanted to hear her say, “I’m an Igniter,” so I could quash my growing respect.
“Masks take on the color with which you are strongest.” She pointed. “Here is the home of my guardian, the Baron Monteagle, William Parker.”
The house rose from the night shadows, marked by a line of lit lanterns. Moonlight illuminated a manicured garden to the right of the house complete with gilded bench and an orchard. I tried not to think of Grandmother and Grandfather in Timble Hall. Did they think of me at all?
Emma withdrew her arm. “Thank you for coming to my aid, Thomas. Truly. You are a good man.”
She was being gracious. I’d taken two steps and spoken three words in that alley. Hardly worth a nod.
Beneath the wavering lantern light, she looked into my face. I resisted the urge to step out of the light and hide my infection, even though she’d seen it in Norwood’s apothecary before. Emma stared. She barely blinked. What did she think of me? I swallowed. Hard. Waiting for it—for the moment that always dehumanized me . . .
But it didn’t come.
She didn’t. Look. Away.
Eight
“Where have you been?” Father looked as tired as I felt when I stumbled into our room above the Bear at dawn. His posture resembled a sapling birch tree weighed down by wet snow.
I wasn’t about to tell him I’d spent the night in the gutters waiting for the gates to reopen. And I certainly wasn’t about to tell him about Emma.
She hadn’t recoiled from my plague. I never imagined a single moment of acceptance could reverse a year of bitterness and prejudice.
One moment. So powerful.
Powerful enough to sustain me through a sleepless night at the gates.
I rubbed my stone eye, as though that would ease the gritty feel. “I will divulge my activities if you agree to do the same.”
Even from the doorway I could see the narrowing of Father’s eyes behind his Black mask. He rose from his cot and pulled on his boots. “No matter, and no time to rest. Your night business is your own—as is mine—but today you meet Catesby.”
I’d have liked nothing more than to collapse on my cot, but Father’s jab at my exhaustion stoked my stubbornness. I gave a firm nod. “It’s about time.”
“There’s sealing paste for your eye patch there.” He pointed to a clay jar with a cork in the top, sitting on the windowsill.
“Thank you.” I applied it and pressed the patch against my face. We let it dry during a quick breakfast of bread with butter and sage.
Then we headed to the tunnels. I did not look forward to returning to their damp and lightless bellies, but it would be a relief to finally meet the mastermind behind the plot. The man so passionate about returning Keepers to their rightful state that he managed to sway my father to his cause.
“Two Fawkeses. Our blessings are great indeed.” Robert Catesby strode forward and held out his hand. He was tall and almost regal—everything one would expect in the leader of a rebellion. A bit older than Father with a mottled Grey mask swinging from his belt.
I shook his hand, willing my grip to be firm and confident. “I’m honored to join.” His pinkie bore a brass ring dial by which to tell time.
“Welcome, Thomas. I wish I could say that a man trusted by Guy Fawkes is a man trusted by us all . . . but that wouldn’t make me a wise leader now, would it?” His smile was neither warm nor cold.
“I don’t expect you to trust me upon first meeting me,” I replied.
“Well answered. Let’s you and I have a chat then, shall we?” He swept his hand toward the door in the wall opposite the one we entered. The other side looked dark. Sinister.
A chat?
I looked at Catesby. He raised an eyebrow, so I sucked in a silent breath and strode across the room.
The darkness twisted invisible chains around my chest. But Catesby followed with a lit torch. The light revealed a few chairs and some rough barrels with random paper slips and candle stubs. An old rapier leaned in one corner of the room, point down. Not even a scabbard. What fool left it like that? Whoever it was would have a blunt tip in their next duel.
The clank of a bolt echoed in the small room. I turned. Catesby stood in front of the now-bolted door. Sword drawn. Mask on.
“What are you—”
He lunged. I dove out of the way, knocking the table aside with my hip. The torch flickered from the pass of my body. I didn’t stop there. A roll deposited me by the blunted rapier and I came up on my feet, armed, facing Catesby.
I glanced toward the door, but escape wasn’t my goal. Would Father hear a shout? Then again, Father had brought me down here. For all I knew, they were all against me. Catesby was my first fight. I needed to dispatch him quickly to retain energy if I were to fight Father and Wintour next.
Catesby waited. Confident. His stance spoke of experience.
Nerves settled into place.
I slid my right foot forward, my free hand back, and curled my forefinger about the quillons, aligning my knuckles with the true edge. Then adopted medium guard.
No words needed to be spoken. Only breath passed my lips. I rested my weight on my back foot, so as to keep my head and torso as far away from his blade as possible. The memories and training and practice flowed into me like a warm draught.
Jeopardous blades met.
And thus, the dance began.
We tapped edges, a battle of inches for the high blade. He got his blade on top, but I slid forward so my forte could deflect the weak part of his blade.
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Testing reflexes, awareness, strike strength.
I needed to strike true.
Catesby feinted a thrust, but no feint could substitute good technique. A trained opponent won’t fall for a feint and an untrained opponent won’t recognize it. So I held my ground.
He went for another thrust, a slight inhale giving him away. I deflected with my guard. I looped my blade to the top of his, gaining the advantage, and thrust. He retaliated expertly, deflecting the blow with his guard and bringing a bit more fun to the duel. But I was in my element—the one area in which I excelled.
I attacked. He deflected. Attack. Deflect. He stepped back. I pushed forward until he fought from the corner, his elbows knocking against the stone. His arcs grew sloppier and sloppier. I could taste the victory.
But would I kill him?
Sweat trickled from his forehead. I had barely warmed up, but I didn’t
want to wait until my own brow perspired. A skilled fencer will use only the number of strikes required to vanquish an opponent. Nothing wasted.
When Catesby went for a strike, I gained with a swift contra tempo—seizing control and stepping forward with a quick jab. But before the tip connected, my rapier jerked out of my hand and flipped around in the air, and I had two metal blades at my throat—Catesby’s and my own.
Only mine hung in the air.
Catesby’s mask had done that. Blast!
We stood. I didn’t back away. The room was too small—without a weapon, I was already dead. Perhaps I could lunge for his knees and knock him down.
But Catesby lowered the swords. He released his own and sent it back into his scabbard with a color command. My sword returned to its corner—tip down. I cringed, both for the treatment of the sword and for the revelation that hit me.
“This was a test.”
Catesby pulled off his mask and tied it to his belt. “A swordsman like your father. I warrant you’d give Jack Wright a run for his honor.”
I didn’t know who Jack Wright was, but at least Catesby seemed impressed. Still, I was irritated. “You might have asked if I could handle a sword.”
“It’s not just handling a sword. It’s handling yourself and your emotions. In a tight location, at that.” Ironic how I loathed tight spaces . . . unless I held a sword in my hand.
So I passed the test.
“Why didn’t you call for aid?”
I crossed the room and adjusted the dull sword so it wasn’t resting on its tip. “For all I knew, Father and Wintour were my enemies too.”
“Shrewd. I daresay, you would have beaten me without my mask.”
That brought no comfort. Catesby’s use of his mask felt dishonorable . . . like a pistol at a sword duel.
Catesby wiped a sleeve across his brow, then waved a hand toward the two chairs. “Take a seat, Thomas.” He uprighted one of the fallen chairs. “By my honor, you’re not even out of breath!”
I grinned. “I am quite a bit younger than you.”
“That you are.”
I sat across from him at the table. I had an idea what this was about. Father and the others had made a pact in the Duck and Drake. They wouldn’t include me in the plot at Father’s word—no matter how honorable he was.
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