The need for her insight sent me running to the alley to wait all day. I wasn’t strong enough to carry such a colossal weight of secrets. I needed help with the burden.
My emotions sloshed against my conviction like the waves of the Thames. I had done the right thing, sending that letter. But it felt like I was sacrificing my father and friends for the Baron—a spineless monarch-pleaser. Still, I couldn’t—in my right mind—send him to his death at Parliament.
And that was what set me apart from the other plotters. Even Father.
I was in my right mind, and the rest of them were blinded by their passions.
Or was it, perhaps, the other way around?
I whispered the colors that had now become a custom when walking the streets of London. Yellow for the light, Brown for the ground, Red for the flushed faces and rich clothing, and Grey for the weapons.
The snaps of scene revealed the alley that had become a part of my story, sunlight on the rooftops despite the chill of autumn and a clump of stone-dead rats in the gutter. Dee’s doing.
I sensed her before I whispered, “Brown,” and saw her lovely mask. What I really wanted to see was her skin and face. Brown showed it to me with all its intricacies.
“Emma.” The relief that sent her name from my lips released the suffocating amount of tension coiled in my shoulders.
“Did you hear of the letter?” she asked in an undertone, glancing around. She was still dressed as the Baron’s ward, so it must not have been easy to get away.
“Yes.”
“You sent it, didn’t you? I knew your scrawl—it was your blind writing. Different from your hand before your plague.”
Well, that made this easier. “Aye. Do you think the Baron will attend Parliament?”
“He’s already said he will not go, but he’s hoping for action from the king.” She headed out of the alley. “I will be missed soon. The Baron returned to his house on the Strand to be within better range of the king if he calls.”
I walked with her, making sure I ducked my head so as not to impugn her character by revealing my plague. “He took it to the king?”
“King James returns this night. I do not know what action he’ll take, but the king has survived many a plot. Even though people call him paranoid, I find him shrewd. He will know what to do with the letter.”
“I pray for his wisdom.” It was my first nod to the White Light, though I couldn’t completely find ease in its voice. After all, it was only a voice. I knew it had power—my small glimpses of sight were evidence of that. But it was hard to think that a voice and a dangerous color could alter so many aspects of our world.
We arrived at the back door of the Strand house. I alternated “Brown” and “Yellow” whispers so as to see Emma. She pressed her back against the door. I stepped closer to keep us beneath the shadows of the roof overhang. Her breath brushed my cheek.
So many twists. So many plots in the hearts of so many men. Dee and the plague. Catesby and the king. Henry and Emma. “Be careful, Emma.” My moment of vision faded, but instead of speaking the name of another color, I leaned closer to where I knew she was and said quietly, “When this ends, I will come for you.”
Those words were spoken with deeper conviction and determination than any vow I’d given to the Gunpowder Plot.
“I’ll be ready.” She opened the door behind her and slipped away. “Be safe.”
I felt cold without her presence and imagined her inches away from me for another few seconds. Then I returned to the main street.
Safe? What a concept. Oh no, a traitor could never be safe, no matter how much he longed for it. And no matter who offered it.
I had sealed my fate with the first drop of ink.
Thirty-Eight
One day until Parliament
I had failed.
“Northumberland says there is nothing out of the ordinary,” Percy reported.
The king had dismissed my letter.
He wasn’t as shrewd as Emma had thought.
It was the night of the plot and the last of our party stood around Catesby and his horse—Father, me, Percy, Wintour, and Keyes. Jack and Bates would be joining Catesby on their own steeds.
The king was going to die upon the morning if I didn’t think of something.
Tonight I would have to challenge Father. I would have to stop him from lighting the fuse. How could King James, the most paranoid monarch in Europe, continue on with Parliament after my letter?
“Did you say anything of Parliament?” Jack hauled himself into the saddle of his horse.
“Nay,” Percy said without remorse. Northumberland—the man who had lent Percy money, gotten him his position as one of the king’s fifty horsemen, and secured a lodging for him in London—was going to attend Parliament in the morning.
And Percy was going to let him die.
“I am willing to abide the uttermost trials for this action.” Percy and Catesby shook hands.
“You are brave men.” Catesby settled the reins in his hands. “The best.” With a squeeze from Catesby, the horse carried him away from London. Bates and Jack followed.
They would join Digby’s “hunting party” in the north, which was conveniently camped eight miles from young Princess Elizabeth. They would abduct her at the same time Father lit the fuse for Parliament.
Or at least at the same time Father was supposed to light the fuse.
“Grey, Grey, Grey, Grey,” I whispered until Catesby faded from view past a bend in the road.
I might never see him again.
He could be caught or killed because of my betrayal, but I had to believe that he, Bates, and Jack would be safer outside of London. They might be able to escape with their lives once I halted the plot.
Was this right? Could I betray them? After all, they were fighting for what they believed in. For what I used to believe in. But didn’t most bold acts arise from someone’s belief?
Belief needs to be founded in more than just personal convictions.
But I am choosing to believe in you.
I am not subjective. I am foundational.
I knew this answer because Emma gave it to me months ago. Only this time, I felt the answer.
“Wintour will be at his lodging in the Duck and Drake, and I at Gray’s Inn when the explosion happens.” Percy was our new commander. “Fawkes will guard the undercroft all night and light the fuse. Thomas will man the rowboat. I will have four horses ready for departure after the explosion for Kit, Keyes, Wintour, and me. We will join Catesby up north for the abduction of Princess Elizabeth.”
So much planning. Over a year of it. Could I truly destroy all their hopes? Possibly their freedom?
Rustling sounds came from Keyes. I whispered through the colors until I saw a pocket watch float from his form to Father’s. “To properly time the explosion. Catesby has one too.”
“Fight bravely. Speak your color languages clearly.” Percy’s motivational words were nothing compared to Catesby’s. His came out forceful and sour. Bitter. “Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” the others muttered. I didn’t join in.
Then we went our separate ways.
I walked with Father back toward Parliament. He checked for passersby and then entered the undercroft. I followed him down the stairs. The sound of boots on stone echoed strong against my ears. My sword weighed down my belt, reluctant to be drawn against my own father.
Was this the moment? Should I challenge? Should I strike without warning? Did I even have a chance of defeating him with my blindness?
“Come here, Thomas.” I followed the sound of Father’s steps toward the stocks of gunpowder.
I heard the scrape of something sliding against the floor and then a box was set into my hands. I whispered, “Brown,” and the scene came into view. It was, indeed, a box of wood. My hands trembled and I couldn’t bring myself to undo the latch.
The scene faded, but I felt the pressure of Father’s hands as he lifted
the latch for me. I whispered the box back into view and then ran through the other colors until another item entered my vision.
Smooth, raw wood humming with the desire to bond.
My mask.
Thirty-Nine
The mask sat there, a pale, spotted wood with a painted black mouth.
Everything that had brought me to London sat before me in a box—a gift that I had finally earned. Or so Father thought.
“Can you see it?” He grabbed a torch from the wall and lit it.
“I can see it.” My solemn tone stilled his hands.
The one thing enabling me to see the mask was the one voice I swore to Father that I would never speak to.
“Do you—Are you pleased?”
I set the box on top of one of the barrels, hating myself. “I can’t accept it.”
I wanted the mask. I wanted my color power. I wanted to bond with colors like all those before me. I could take it and run. But my conscience would burn me from the inside until I was nothing but a shadow of ash.
“You’ve earned it, son.” Father lifted the mask from the box and held it out to me. “You’ve proven yourself over and over again—through your patience, your persistence, your trustworthiness.”
I wished he’d stop talking.
I whispered through the colors, staring at the perfect mask as self-torture. “I can’t use it.”
“Because of your plague?” He stepped closer. “I’m sure it will still bond.”
I shook my head. “It’s not that.”
The mask drooped.
“I . . .” For a moment I was glad of my blindness. Glad of Father’s incessant mask-wearing so I wouldn’t have to see his reaction. “I wrote the letter.”
I didn’t know what I’d expected—a question, perhaps. Or maybe even disbelief. But Father’s sharp silence pinched my throat like the noose I was bound to wear by morning.
“I wrote the letter to Monteagle. I can’t be part of the plot. I have to—I have to stop it. I can’t let you go through with it.”
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I was supposed to wait until the lighting of the match, but I couldn’t hold the betrayal in any longer.
I owed this to Father.
More silence. Was he even hearing me? “Black,” I muttered so I could see his mask.
It stared at me, an expressionless skeleton lit by the deadly flicker of the torch. “What did you just say?”
“Black,” I said louder, and it brought him even more into focus. “I have to speak the color names to see. The White Light has been doing that. I’ve—I’ve been talking to the White Light. It showed me that—that it wanted to bond with me. Without it, I’m completely blind.”
The scene faded and I forced out the final words. “I’m an Igniter.”
My voice clogged and I couldn’t go on. I imagined that Father was looking at me the way Catesby had looked at Tresham. With disgust. Ashamed. To him, I looked and sounded like a spineless coward.
But I’d never forced myself to be so courageous in my entire life.
“You betrayed us.” Cold. Hollow. Detached.
I lifted my chin. “I had to. Otherwise I’d be betraying myself . . . and White Light.”
“Have you no honor to stand for your beliefs?”
“Standing for my beliefs isn’t always the same as standing for truth.” There was no going back now. As the words spilled forth, I realized finally how much I believed them. How much they’d become a part of me. “Catesby claimed to be doing this for Keepers and for White Light, but the White Light is against it. There have been signs over and over again—the tunnel collapse, the outbreak, the Parliament delays, the decaying of powder, more outbreaks, another delay . . . Can you not see?”
“Those are the fates trying to hinder us! All good pursuits require stamina to conquer setbacks. Stamina you clearly don’t have.”
My hands fisted. “You’re wrong.”
“What would you have us do? Let the Igniters reign?”
“I would have you not build a life of freedom on a foundation of corpses!”
“I thought you wanted to be healed!” Father sucked in a breath. I didn’t realize his voice could grow so loud.
“I have been.” I touched my stone cheek. “But the healing has been internal. I cannot stand by and watch Catesby and the others murder three hundred Parliament members and a king—however corrupt, paranoid, or ignorant he is.”
Father took several deep breaths through his nose. “You won’t.”
Wood splintered from behind me and something grabbed my ankle. I stumbled away and drew my sword. “Black!” I shouted, but Father no longer stood near me. He hovered in the back corner of the room, muttering color speech.
A force yanked my feet from beneath me. I threw out my hands to catch myself and landed in . . . sand? No. I sniffed. Gunpowder.
“Black,” I repeated and took in the scene. The barrels and bundles of wood had separated to create a path back toward the wall. Loose gunpowder pushed and carried my body toward the small space. A tendril of powder slid between my palm and sword hilt until it pushed my fingers apart from the metal.
“Father!” A barrel knocked me back as I struggled to get away. Ropes slithered from around the firewood bundles to tie my ankles and wrists. A dark strip of cloth covered in gunpowder dust tied around my mouth just as my vision faded.
The scrape of wood on stone and the pressure of round bodies around me told me the barrels had returned to their places, trapping me amidst the barrels and beneath stacks of wood. They pressed me down into the ground. I could still breathe, but each inhale brought in dust and gunpowder. I coughed. Choked.
My breaths came faster as my mind caught up to my predicament.
I was trapped. Surrounded by thirty-six barrels of gunpowder that would be lit by my father’s own hand.
Forty
My tomb of gunpowder and barrels barely left room for shallow breathing. I’d tried to shift the wood bundles from above, but they only pressed down harder as though with a mind of their own.
Father wasn’t going to hang me. He was going to give me up to the plot. He was treating me like an Igniter attending Parliament.
I focused on inhaling and exhaling and tried not to think of the tightness of the barrels closing in around me—of the tomb of stone tumbling down upon me. Of suffocation and darkness.
An hour passed and no amount of struggling loosened the walls of my cage. My saliva mixed with the gunpowder and turned into a paste on my tongue. I tried not to swallow, but time and overthinking sent the sludge down my throat. I gagged, picturing the black goop seeping into my lungs.
I should have taken my mask. I should have known he’d stop me like this and now I was powerless.
Whoosh! White Light to the rescue!
Sigh. I’m not in the mood for banter. Was it blind?
Who says it’s banter?
What exactly can you do, then? The conversation did help keep my mind off the fact I was slowly suffocating.
I can provide company . . . and good conversation, of course.
I let out a long breath that rebounded right onto my face. I tried. I really tried.
Yes, you did. The bantering tone disappeared. But your father did not.
A weight that had nothing to do with the wood burying me lifted. Father’s unwillingness to hear me out was not my fault. Have you ever spoken to him?
I speak to everyone. But it’s up to them to speak back.
I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want your winning personality in their head all the time.
I caught White Light’s chuckle. I wasn’t alone. Every time we spoke I was reminded why I was rebelling against the plot. The White Light had been a helper to me. Annoying sometimes, yes, but always accessible.
A creak of hinges. A patter of footfalls. An exclamation—not Father’s voice. “That’s quite a load of firewood!”
I stilled.
“Aye.” Father laughed, but
I caught the tension in his voice.
“Is this your place?” a low, thick voice asked. The Baron! He was here? He’d left his cushions to come to Parliament on a search. I didn’t recognize the voice of the first man, but hope surged in me. They were taking action.
Perhaps they would examine the pile of firewood and find me. But then . . . then Father would be imprisoned. Maybe even locked in the Tower of London.
I wanted the plot stopped. I didn’t want my friends—or Father—caught.
“I’m naught but a servant.” Father sounded far off. Leaving the undercroft, perhaps?
The voices turned too distant for me to catch. They were leaving. That was it? They saw an enormous pile of firewood and barrels and they left? Why did the Baron come and not Henry? Not that I wanted Henry to be the hero, but he, at least, would have had the sense to scrutinize the situation.
No sounds returned.
Not for hours.
I shoved at the wood on top of me. It scraped against my exposed skin, burrowing splinters deep. I bucked against the bonds but knocked my head against the back wall. No matter how much I screamed through the rag, the sound barely reached my own ears, let alone someone passing on the street.
A hundred scenarios entered my mind.
Perhaps they caught Father.
Maybe Father had changed his mind and was now telling the other plotters to abandon the plan. But if that were so, wouldn’t he free me?
Or maybe Father was telling them of my betrayal and they were coming after me.
Or nothing had happened and Father left for a final meal, planning to return again in the early hours to light the fuse upon the meeting of Parliament. Murdering me in the process.
I need to get out of here.
I was no match for Father and his mask.
I needed to get to the king.
The cloth around my mouth had grown so soggy from saliva, I could move it around a bit more. Finally, I managed a mumble. “Brown.” It was enough to show the barrels and wood around me. But I saw no tool to help me escape. “Black.” Shadows wavered from the distant torchlight. Not much different from my blindness. I tried all the other colors, demanding help from them.
Fawkes Page 29
