Fawkes

by Nadine Brandes

  Bow. “Sir.”

  To the observer, it might seem like a mutual dismissal, but I took the long way home anyway, doubling back and routing through new paths until I no longer saw his poor attempt at following me home.

  The walk back to the Whynniard house was just as weighing on my soul as the walk away from it. Plague doctors with their beaked color masks flitted from house to house, overcharging for their services and feeding off the panic.

  A plague doctor and apprentice treated me when I was first diagnosed two years ago. They made no visible difference but claimed they’d slowed down the spreading. It was enough to put Grandfather and Grandmother at ease. Not me, though. I still remembered them leaning over me, the noses on their masks almost poking me in the face. I never trusted them.

  As a plague doctor left one of the houses on London Bridge, I couldn’t help but wonder if any of the rabid Igniters from the night of Norwood’s death had woken up plagued.

  I reached the Whynniard house, my stomach gnawing at my innards and my blistered hands aching from the exposure. A hay bale hung from a hook outside the door.

  The sign of plague.

  I knocked snow from my cloak and boots, then entered. Faint noise came from the cellar, so I headed down the stairs.

  Wintour and Jack were hard at work on the tunnel. Wintour looked up when I entered the basement. His gaze rested on my face for a moment. Then, “Care to give us a hand? You did the work of three men last night.”

  They weren’t casting me out? I gestured over my shoulder with my thumb. “The hay bale is for me, isn’t it?”

  Wintour actually smiled. “Aye.”

  “Are you not afraid of infection?”

  Jack snorted. “My sister nearly died of the plague—she’s still got it, but it went dormant. If I didn’t catch it from her, I won’t catch it from you.” He dumped a crate of dirt into an empty ale cask. “Catesby knew about your plague?”

  I nodded. “Aye. Upon my talk with him.”

  “He let you join us. I trust him.”

  Wintour sent a stream of dirt from the wall into a crate. “And that hay bale will keep all snoopers from venturing too close. It’s our best defense! We can tunnel freely.”

  They saw my plague . . . as a blessing? They weren’t running in fear. They weren’t turning me in. They were accepting me. Like family. My heart swelled and for a moment I was speechless.

  Wintour tilted his head to one of the barrels. “Care to haul this out?”

  I swallowed hard, nodded, and then set to carting dirt out of the tunnel. My blistered hands burned, but it served as a distraction. As I hauled crates and scooped loose dirt, my mind turned to Emma. The plotters believed King James’s death would cure the plague. But Emma believed White Light could help me.

  Neither group had proof.

  My best option was to try both. I believed that Emma believed White Light was a good thing. I’d never considered colors seeking me out. Did White Light want to control me like I wanted to control a color?

  We had seven weeks until Parliament. If the elimination of King James didn’t rid us of the plague, then perhaps I’d dabble in White Light to my heart’s content without risking Father denying me my color power.

  But what if I didn’t make it seven weeks? As if to remind me of my predicament, my head pounded.

  No one would know if I spoke to White Light, right? It had contacted me in my mind, so I ought to be able to respond nonverbally. Did I dare? I couldn’t bear the idea of waiting another seven weeks to see if I survived long enough to assist in the assassination.

  My hands trembled, sending a scoop of dirt into a crate. No one understood what it was like to have the plague claiming bits of his brain with each outbreak. I wanted to be teachable. Pride had gotten me nowhere. I had to try something.

  No one could know. Not even Emma.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if speaking to White Light would make me an Igniter.

  So as I hauled another full crate of dirt to the mouth of the tunnel, I closed my good eye, took a deep breath, and thought, This message is for White Light. You must already know I’m a Keeper, but I’m willing to speak to you about my plague. Emma says you’re the source of the color power and supposedly want to bond with me. So if you’re so powerful, heal my plague. Or at least give me a sign that any of Emma’s words are even true. Show me what side you’re on—Igniters or Keepers.

  I finished my message but then realized how foolish that was. To speak to a color—to command a color—I needed to be looking at it. But how did one look at light? Wasn’t it all around us? We wouldn’t have colors without it.

  If I didn’t hear from White or see a sign after a few days, I’d try again outside. Maybe.

  Or maybe all of this was rot.

  I had to believe there was some amount of truth to Emma’s claim of bonding with White Light. After all, she had something—some sort of confidence or peace or increased color skill that I envied.

  “Is your head hurting you?”

  My eye snapped open. Father stood at the base of the cellar stairs. How long had he been there? A sick dread slammed into my gut. What had I done? “Yes, it’s been hurting since morning.”

  He didn’t say anything to that. I wasn’t sure what he would say.

  So we helped Wintour cart the dirt upstairs. Once night fell, Wintour disposed of it into the Thames using his color power and cover of darkness. He was right about the hay bale. Street wanderers gave our door a wide berth. Mutters spread fast until even the nearby market stalls relocated farther from the house.

  I watched from the window—acting as lookout with the house dark. Father joined me after Jack left. “I’m sorry you have the plague.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Father probably had visions and dreams for his son the way I did for a father. All dashed when I woke up with a stone eye.

  “Your mother died of the plague, you know.”

  “Is that why you stopped writing?” I asked. “You thought I’d die?”

  “I stopped writing because I didn’t want to get attached to something fleeting.” He rubbed his thumb over the hilt of his sword. “Your mother died within four weeks of contracting the plague. So I figured if you were going to face the same fate, I was better off detaching myself so that sorrow would not affect my ability to serve in the Spanish war.”

  I ground my teeth. Wintour sent a stream of dirt into the water.

  “I see now that I was wrong.”

  I nodded. Wrong barely touched the surface. He’d been selfish, fickle, and untrustworthy . . . until recently.

  Wintour returned to the cellar for another crate. One of us should help him. As I stepped away from the window, Father said, “I am pleased you can still be a part of this plot of passions. You can see, to some extent, why I acted the way I did.”

  “I don’t see why it was so impossible for you to write a letter to your son every few months.” I turned guard duty over to him. “Good night, Father.” Though forgiveness had started to warm in my heart, I wasn’t yet ready to show it.

  “Good night, son.”

  I paused next to my small cot. What if I woke tomorrow with even more plague? Or what if I didn’t wake at all?

  A deep-earthed crash shook the Whynniard house and a billow of dirt dust exploded into the stairwell. It blinded me for a moment. Father and I raced down the stairs. We entered the cellar to fallen tunnel slats and air dust so thick we yanked our shirts up over our mouths to breathe.

  A torch illuminated the mouth of the tunnel and a giant pile of dirt, timber, and stone at the first bend. “Wintour.” Father lunged for the dirt pile and scrabbled through the rubble. “Wintour!”

  Our tunnel had collapsed.

  Twenty-One

  24 December 1604

  “This makes no sense!” Wintour strained a vein in his temple, trying to command the dirt back into place, but he fell back gasping. His Brown mask fell from his face, cracked.

  We’d found him buried
near the entrance of the tunnel after the cave-in three days ago. Father dug him free with his Black color power before he suffocated. A wood beam had cracked Wintour’s mask and he couldn’t seem to control his color. He held it in his lap like a sick child. “It was secure. I tested it every day. It shouldn’t have collapsed.”

  “Sabotage?” Father suggested.

  “Are you implying someone betrayed us?” Wintour asked.

  Both of them turned to me. My pulse hammered in my ears. Ringing. It was because I talked to the White Light. I caused this. Somehow the Brown in the tunnel knew I betrayed it.

  And somehow they knew.

  “What do you think, Thomas?” Father asked.

  “You were the last one to dig.” Wintour slid a thumbnail along the crack in his mask, clearing out the packed dirt.

  I shook my head. “I am one man. I barely made a dent. You tested the tunnel after I dug.” I sounded guilty. They kept staring. Staring. Staring.

  I’d asked for a sign. But this was punishment.

  “We’re not accusing you, son.” Father leaned his elbows on his knees. “If we started blaming each other, where would that lead? We are asking only for your opinion.”

  Oh. “I . . . I am as perplexed as you.”

  A lie. I caused the collapse. I’d broken Keeper law. I’d betrayed everyone because I had talked to White.

  Catesby and Percy came that evening to inspect the damage.

  “How far behind does this put us?” Catesby asked.

  Percy struck the wall of dirt with a shovel. “Weeks! We might as well be starting over.”

  Wintour’s hands hung at his sides as limply as the broken mask at his belt. “I don’t understand. This shouldn’t have happened.”

  “We’ll re-tunnel,” Catesby said.

  “But how can we reinforce it and avoid the same catastrophe if I don’t know what went wrong?” Wintour fiddled with his cracked mask. “I’m useless now.”

  Father rubbed dirt dust off his mask. “You still have two hands, Wintour, and a brilliant mind. We’ll double the timber and have Keyes use his Brown power to pick up where you left off. At any rate, all our gunpowder is buried in there.”

  We spent Christmas Day in the dirt. No roast goose, no spiced pudding. I stepped outside at one point to catch the London Waits passing by, playing carols. They weren’t quite as skilled as York’s minstrels, but their music brought a temporary balm to my heart.

  By the time Percy returned from his duties at Whitehall Palace, we’d worn through every muscle in our bodies and barely dented the pile of debris. We found our first barrel of gunpowder. The earth had crushed it and mixed powder with dirt.

  Father kept the torch back after that. How many more of our precious barrels were destroyed?

  Percy stumbled down the stairs, dipping his shoulder against the doorframe. His Red mask had been pushed up onto the top of his head. Against his shock of white hair, it looked like blood on snow. The smell of ale filled the room—a stale but welcome alternative to the dirt we’d been breathing all day.

  Father sat back on his heels. “We’ve barely cleared away the entrance. It’s too much for Keyes. He can’t lift the beams or move the dirt.”

  Only then did I realize how strong Wintour’s color power had been.

  “No matter,” Percy slurred, propping himself up by the wall. “Parliament’s been delayed.”

  Silence pressed against us. Not even the torch dared to flicker, even when Father lowered it from the mouth of the tunnel.

  Shock. Despair. When Father finally seemed to find his voice, he rasped, “For how long?”

  Percy shrugged. “Months. Months.” He yanked his mask from his head. “’S ’cause o’ the plague.” His gaze slipped along the wall and landed on me.

  Wintour strode to him and looped an arm over his shoulder. “Let me help you back to Gray’s Inn.”

  “B-Blasted King J-James.”

  Delayed. I plopped right on the pile of dirt. I wouldn’t make it that long. What if there was another outbreak?

  This message couldn’t be ignored.

  The White Light had sent its sign. It was trying to stop our plot. My breathing quickened. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to question my actions or involvement. I faced Father. “Do you . . . Father, is this a sign?”

  He pushed himself to his feet and set the torch in its bracket. “It is, son.” Was that excitement in his voice? How could he be excited over the tunnel collapse?

  Unless he, too, had been thinking about White Light.

  “So then what does this mean?”

  He threw his arms wide. “The scheme is blessed!”

  Wait, what?

  “At the exact time the tunnel collapsed, Parliament was postponed. We’ve been given the time we need to complete and perfect our duties.”

  “Time? Time?” I jabbed a finger toward my face. “I don’t have time. My plague is spreading and you are rejoicing over the plot’s delay?”

  “I’m rejoicing because we have been given aid!”

  “To whom do you attribute this aid?”

  “The White Light.”

  I stared, then rose. My voice came out low. Cautious. “You . . . you speak to it?”

  “No.” His protestation split the pause like the snap of a horse whip. “None should ever speak to it. But it sees all. It sees us.”

  Was that what had happened? A sign of approval? “A Keeper would call this a sign of favor, but an Igniter might call it a warning.”

  “What does it matter what an Igniter might think?”

  “It matters!” It mattered because I was sacrificing everything for the Keeper cause and just now realized how subjective our differences were regarding White Light. “Why are we so against bonding with White Light?”

  Father rubbed his eyes through his mask holes and then addressed me as though explaining to a toddler. “White Light is the source of all color power. It is beyond our understanding. It should never be controlled.”

  Thus far, what he said aligned with Emma’s words. Then what caused the rift between these two groups to widen so much that they wanted to kill each other?

  Perhaps Father saw the doubt on my face. “Ages ago, White Light taught the strongest and most faithful Keepers how to speak the different color languages and then those Keepers passed that knowledge on to the public. But then a rogue Keeper named Luther resisted the Keeper way. He convinced people to speak to the White Light themselves. They started calling themselves Igniters.”

  This was the most Father had ever said to me in one go. Finally, I was getting answers.

  “There were uprisings. Soon Keepers no longer had homes or income. Then, finally, the White Light sent a plague to punish the Igniters—to stop them. The plague killed Luther, but he’d already irreparably damaged the structure of the color power ways.”

  Did Emma know any of this? “Then why do Igniters blame the plague on Keepers?”

  “Because they don’t know their own history. They think Keepers killed Luther and that the plague came as punishment.”

  I stared at Father for a long time. “Both sides are mere opinions.”

  He shook his head. “What I told you is true.”

  He might think so. But I could no longer take a person’s word on something that would affect my life. Not even Father’s.

  Twenty-Two

  The House of Lords was not all that big—smaller than some of the cathedrals. Every time I left the Whynniard house, I looked at the House of Lords where Parliament would meet.

  Where the world would end.

  The building rose with a tall chimney and arched windows set into grey stones. The entire structure made a giant H shape and our Whynniard apartment rested in the right foot of that H. King James would die in the center.

  I walked past it casually with Father and pictured it exploding into chunks of stone and timber, collapsing in a heap and changing history forever. The emotions that followed this internal visua
l were not peaceful.

  The grounds bustled with its commercial enterprise. We passed a few more taverns, wine merchants, and the cookshop from which I frequently acquired dinner. I wore a new patch—wide enough to cover the plague. My hat brim did the rest.

  Men with Green masks wove pine garlands in the open air with frenzied muttering, trying to sell their last wares before the holidays ended. One Brown-masked man moved his entire cart of goods from one side of the road to the Cotton Garden with color speech.

  Father pointed out some crockery wares to keep up the guise of being passersby, but really we were examining the small path between the Whynniard house and Parliament to make sure the tunnel collapse wasn’t visible from above. If even a single shopper had noticed something suspicious, we could be ruined.

  Wintour and Keyes had been hard at work clearing it the past several days, but with little progress. Not even Father and his Black color power could move much. Wintour’s mask was useless, but he dug with shovel and hand as though the entire collapse had been his fault.

  Without the coin for another batch of gunpowder, we hoped the buried barrels were unspoiled.

  We walked along the Thames. Ice spiked away from the shore edge. “Any sign of that figure from last week?” I asked. Was it only a week ago that we saw the skulking person by the bank?

  “No. But I expect it is because of the snow. Tracks are too hard to cover up on a fresh snowfall.” Father paused by the water. A few boats passed by, steering to dock on the other side. Then we made our way back, our walk at an end. No signs of tunnel collapse to the naked eye.

  As we passed Parliament on the other side, I noticed a cart sitting in the street, unattended, just outside of where Parliament would meet. Two men—one Blue and one Yellow—exited from a wooden door half-set in the ground beneath the building, carrying a crate of kitchen supplies. One grunted and nearly tripped. Father and I hurried forward to help. We loaded it into the cart.

  The men stretched out their strained fingers. Judging by their simple cloaks and muddied boots, we were all of equal status. “Thank ye, sirs.”