by Kim Wilkins
“A terrible thing, a terrible thing indeed,” Father said.
“What is the matter, Father?” Mary asked, hoping to draw him out. “We are so far from Fish Street, it surely won’t burn our house down.”
Father’s eyelids shot up. “What? Is it only our losses that you feel concern for, Mary? Four hundred houses are burned, is that not a terrible thing?”
Mary cringed down in her seat. “Yes, Father,” she murmured.
“Liza, go immediately, and stay safe. If your sister and her family need a place to stay they can sleep in Betty’s bed until she returns.” He turned to Deborah. “Deborah, we need to get a letter to Simmons immediately, to tell him to return Paradise Lost. To make another fair copy would take too long; we cannot lose it.”
“We shall do it first thing in the morning, Father, for the post is finished for the evening,” Deborah said, keeping a studied impassiveness to her expression.
“I shall take the letter to him myself, Father,” Mary said. “If you tell me where on Gracechurch Street he lives. I shall take it tonight.”
Father huffed. “It won’t be necessary. The fire is still near the river. He lives at the top of Gracechurch Street near Bishopsgate. The manuscript will be safe for now.”
Deborah hung her head with a barely audible groan. Mary smiled. A trip to Gracechurch Street at dawn would solve this problem easily. Lazodeus would be pleased with her.
Liza returned from her sister’s around mid-morning the next day to pack some clothes, then left again. She was to accompany her sister to their father’s house at Smithfield. Her sister had lost everything. Father told her to take two or three days, and Deborah chastised herself for being so surprised at his generosity.
“With Betty away and Liza away, the household shall fall apart,” she joked as she sat with him to write the letter to Simmons.
“The household will manage, for I have three able-bodied daughters,” Father replied gruffly. “Though only one is yet awake.”
“I believe they were up very late. I heard much hushed talking until the small hours,” Deborah responded, careful not to colour her voice. For the demon key was as much responsible for her sisters’ long slumber. She wanted the letter to go to Simmons before they were lurking about to glean further details of his address, or worse, get there ahead of her.
“Only drunkards and babies sleep this late. If not for you, Deborah, I should despair of my children.”
“Yesterday you told Master Allard you would have preferred sons.”
“Of course I would have.”
“You would have preferred a son to me?”
Father puffed up his shoulders and tapped his finger on the arm of his chair. “Enough nonsense. Let us get this letter written.”
Deborah’s hand shook as she dipped her pen. Why did her father’s opinion still have such power to affect her? Why could she not just take his initial compliment without pushing to hear him disavow his sentiments to Master Allard? And why could she not trust that he would rather have her than a son?
A loud knock at the door startled her. She put her pen aside. “I shall see who it is, Father.”
Simmons himself stood at the front door when she opened it.
“Mr Simmons?”
“Deborah, is your Father here?”
“Yes. If you wait sir, I shall fetch him.”
She quickly brought Father, casting an anxious glance towards the stairs. She had only asked that her sisters sleep for a few hours longer, not deeper. The noise of visitors might wake them.
“Simmons, is everything well?” Father asked, extending a pale shaking hand.
“Yes, yes. You have heard, I suppose, of the fire?”
“I can barely take a breath without being reminded. The air is laced with smoke. And Deborah tells me the sky is the colour of dull bronze.”
“’Tis unstoppable. The entire west side of the city is in uproar. You are lucky to live so far beyond the city walls. Fire posts have been established at all the gates, but already thirty churches have been burned, and as I left my home this morning the smoke was gusting up my street as though it intended to suffocate me.”
“And my manuscript?”
“Safe, John. The stationers and printers have all stored their paper in St Faith’s, below St Paul’s. Only the very fires of hell could burn through Paul’s stone. But I, alas, must take my leave from London. I do not expect to find a home when I return.”
“Surely it is not so bad?”
“’Tis ravenous. The mayor has ordered a firebreak be made and buildings are now being pulled down south along Cornhill. My house stands between the fire and the break. A sacrifice.” Simmons snorted a nervous laugh. “But your Paradise Lost is safe, John. A masterpiece. I wept when I finished.”
“I am glad to hear it is safe, but I trust you did not trouble yourself too much. I have all my drafts still.”
Deborah’s stomach curdled.
“No, I dropped a number of important papers there. It is my business, not trouble.”
He glanced behind him. “I must go. My wife waits for me at the bottom of the street. We have packed as much as possible on a cart, and we leave for her father’s home immediately.”
“Good luck, Simmons. Haply I shall hear from you soon.”
They saw him off and Father turned to Deborah. “What do you think of this fire, then?”
“It has been extreme dry and windy, Father,” she said as she led him back to the study. “But I think Mary was right when she said it would not reach us here.”
“Yes. For the walls of the city will not burn.”
“No, Father.” She could hear the sounds of movement upstairs. “I think my sisters are awake.”
Father nodded as he sat in his chair. Deborah took to the stairs, meeting Mary and Anne halfway. Mary was clearly annoyed, but Anne merely looked bewildered. Deborah knew she should have felt guilty: using the demon key on her sisters was a terrible betrayal. But instead she felt a great pride at saving Father’s manuscript.
“You slept so long, sisters, you have missed all the excitement,” she said, blocking the stairs.
“What excitement, you foul creature?” Mary asked. “Do you know how late it is? We have nearly lost half the day. Why did you not wake us?”
“Liza has left, and Simmons came by.”
“Simmons?”
“Yes, his house is burned.”
Mary smiled, but her smile soon faded. “Why do you look so happy?”
“Because the poem is safe, and you shall never find it.”
“I will find it.”
“No, ’Tis no longer possible. Simmons has deposited it somewhere for safekeeping until the fire is out, and I shall never tell you where. So you may forget whatever wicked plans you had, for I have won this battle.”
Mary stomped and let out a shriek. “I hate you.”
“I care not,” Deborah said.
“But the angel —”
“I care not a speck for Lazodeus,” Deborah cut in. “So save your tantrums.”
She swept past and went up to her closet, heard Mary and Anne arguing quietly on the stairs. The window was open and she went to it to take some deep breaths of air. All she could smell was smoke.
“It is up to you, Annie. I’ve not slept for thinking about it, and I’ve decided it is the only way we can find out where it is.”
Anne grimaced against the suggestion. “But I am so very bad at deception. Father will see right through me, and then he’ll be alert to us. Better if you do it.”
“No, Anne. I cannot impersonate Deborah. My voice is too loud and clipped. You sound much more like her, if you just spoke confidently. He is not used to your voice, for you hardly ever speak. But our secret weapon is your walk, for Father does not know that your limp is vanished. If you walk into his study confidently and speak to him, he will never suspect it is you. I know he won’t.”
Anne regarded her sister. Mary sounded desperate, and certainly desper
ation was weighing upon them both heavily. Monday had passed by them with a solution still not apparent, and now scarce twelve hours remained for them to save Lazodeus from imprisonment. The city was in such chaos that all Mary’s attempts to glean information about possible places the manuscript could be were foiled. Much time had been wasted in trying to contact Mary’s rich suitors, who had all wisely vacated the city. “I want very much to believe that I can do this,” Anne said.
“You can. You can. For Lazodeus.”
For Lazodeus. For a chance to see him again. Anne nodded. “Yes, I will. Where is Deborah?”
“In the kitchen. We will be eating nothing but her mutton soup until Liza comes home.” Mary grasped Anne’s fingers. “Now, be careful not to touch him, not to take his hand.”
Anne shuddered. “I wouldn’t.”
“And be careful how you word your questions. You are not to ask outright, for then he will suspect. For Deborah would not ask, as she already knows.”
Anne felt her confidence waver. “I really don’t —”
“You can do it, and I trust you. Lazodeus’s hopes of being freed from prison rest upon it.”
Anne smiled bitterly. Neither of them were desperate for Lazodeus’s sake. An eternal being such as the angel probably felt the passing of a century in an eyeblink. It was for their own sakes, for the possibility of continuing to see him. But neither of them discussed what may happen when he returned, their rivalry for his attention. “I shall do my best, sister.”
“Remember the pretence I suggested.”
“I will. You go to the kitchen and make sure Deborah is occupied.”
They descended the staircase together, branching off at the bottom. Anne stood for a moment near the entry to Father’s study, then took a deep breath and strode in. He looked up, and she could see the puzzled expression on his face. He could not tell which of his daughters stood before him, as Mary had suggested.
“It is Deborah, Father,” she said, all the while hearing her voice and knowing she sounded nothing like Deborah.
“Deborah? You sound strange.”
Anne’s heart froze. What to do? What would Mary do? “Yes, Father, for I am most upset and it is hard for me to keep my voice steady.”
“About what are you upset?”
“I dozed just now, and had a most upsetting dream.”
“Ah. One should not doze in the day, for the dreams are too close to the surface and may cling to one for the rest of the afternoon.” He nodded, and Anne was almost overwhelmed at the affectionate voice he used. Was this how Deborah perceived Father? A man who listened and offered advice? “Still, it was only a dream.”
“But, Father, it was awful. The fire had wings and it burned your poem. All that work we did —”
“A dream, Deborah,” he said more firmly.
Anne wanted to run out. She had no idea how to draw him further, to get him to mention the manuscript’s hiding place. “You do believe, then, that it will be safe where it is stored?”
“Of course. For what can burn through stone?”
Stone. It was in a building made of stone. Her mind raced through the possibilities. A church? A public building? Too many options. “Are you sure that it is all made of stone, Father?” she ventured.
“You speak as though you never set eyes on St Paul’s, Deborah. You know it is.”
St Paul’s. The warm relief was like thick liquid in her limbs. The manuscript was at St Paul’s.
“Yes, Father,” she said, almost forgetting to check her voice.
“So you are not to be concerned.”
“Yes, of course. Forget that I came to speak with you, for now I am embarrassed for my feebleness.” There, that sounded like something Deborah would say, and Father seemed to be convinced. “I shall see you at dinner,” she said, backing out of the room.
Father did not reply. She raced to the kitchen. Mary had her back to the door, was trying to talk to a scowling Deborah as she chopped vegetables at the table. They both looked up as Anne came in, and she realised she was too excited. Deborah would deduce something was going on.
“Annie?” Mary asked.
“What’s all this about?” Deborah said.
Anne smiled, and it was a smile of triumph. She could not remember ever having smiled like that before. “Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing.”
20
At Our Heels All Hell Should Rise
Anne and Mary fought their way down towards Cripplegate, through a steady stream of people. Some had carts laden with expensive furniture, and some carried overstuffed trunks between them, clothes trailing out behind. Some, the poorest, carried what they could: a child under one arm and a cast-iron pot under the other, or a yowling cat in a box, or a bundle of rags which may have been a collection of favourite dresses. All of them were exhausted and harried. They were smudged with soot and running with perspiration, and three of them individually yelled out to the girls that they were going in the wrong direction.
“Idiots,” Mary said, “what do they know about what we’re doing?”
Anne still wasn’t sure what they were doing. It was one thing to find out that the manuscript was in St Paul’s, but another altogether to go running down there while a fire raged inside the city walls. The wind had picked up: mighty gusts snapped twigs from trees and threatened branches. Just before sunset they had heard word that the fire had spread along the river all the way to the Temple, that Fleet Street had been gutted and the fire had broken through the wall at Ludgate. But Paul’s, the pedlar had told them, had held up.
“’Tis a miracle,” he had said, much to Mary’s irritation.
“But Mary,” Anne had said when her sister had come to drag her out just after twilight, “is it safe to go so close to the fire?”
“We have no choice. What if we wait until it is safe and midnight has passed?”
What if, indeed? Anne clutched Mary’s hand now as they fought against the tide. It was an incredible thing to learn about herself, that she would risk her life for love. She tried to savour the pride, but the press of the crowd and the growing heat were of more immediate concern.
“There!” Mary called over the voices, the hooves, the rattling wheels and the ever-present background noise of the crashing, popping fire. “I can see the gate.” She pulled Anne’s hand and they dived through the crowd, only to be pulled up short by an armed foot soldier.
“Where are you going, ladies?”
Mary, always ready to lie, grabbed his wrist. “Our mother is in there, sir. We must get to her.”
He shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, I cannot let you enter. It is a furnace in there. Neither of you would survive.”
“Is Paul’s all burned?” Anne asked, wondering if she sounded hopeful.
“Not yet, though the scaffold on the front caught fire this afternoon. Provided the wind becomes no stronger, it should be safe.”
Mary yanked Anne’s hand and they were moving once again, but this time along the outside of the wall. Mary’s hair was uncharacteristically loose, wild and long about her shoulders. She looked the part of Mad Mary this evening.
“Where are we going?”
“To Mooregate. There’s no firepost there.”
“But didn’t you hear him? We’ll be burned alive.”
“We’ll follow the fire, where it has already burned, where there is no more fuel to feed its flames. Paul’s is out in the open, we can still get to it.”
“Mary —”
“Stop whining and stay by me.”
Anne put her head down and followed. Risking her life for love.
Father was anxious. He hadn’t said so, of course, but his body betrayed his feelings. His fingers tapped. His jaw was tight. He was pale around the eyes. Deborah doubted he was concerned about Mary and Anne, who had disappeared around sunset. He assumed, like her, that they had gone up to the top of the hill to watch the fire. No, his concern was for the proximity of the flames.
The bell
s of alarm had grown nearer and nearer all day, and since the fire had burst through the wall at Ludgate, there was no guarantee that it would not also burn through Cripplegate and roar up Grub Street towards the Artillery grounds. Already, the park at the bottom of the Walk was filled with newly homeless people, their fancy furniture set up around them. Smoke gusted occasionally up the Walk outside, dark flakes of ash scattering ahead of it. Deborah had been to the top of the hill to look down over the city, and all she had seen was a pall of orange smoke. The heat was growing unbearable, and the crashing, banging clatter of the buildings succumbing to the fire, just a few miles south, had exposed her nerves. Still, she sat with Father, reading to him to keep him calm, and wondering how soon the bells at St Giles would ring, telling them it was time to pack up their possessions and flee.
“Enough!” Father said, as Deborah struggled to read on in the dim candlelight. “We shall wait for your sisters to return, then sup, and then sleep. By morning, we shall know if we are safe.”
Deborah closed the book. “Can I get you anything, Father? Ale? Bread?”
“I shall be well enough until supper. I do not need to be watched like a child, Deborah. Have you no chores to do?”
Deborah stood. “Yes, Father, of course.” She knew his anxiety was making him irritable, that he was embarrassed for his neediness, for his cursed blindness which meant that he could not fend for himself when fire threatened his life, and she didn’t take his gruffness personally. Instead, she went up to the withdrawing room to light a candle and find some sewing to occupy her until Mary and Anne returned.
She had just turned her back on the candle and reached for Betty’s sewing box when she felt that she was no longer in the room alone. The light had changed subtly, and she was not surprised to find the angel there when she turned around.
“What do you want?” she asked, placing her palm gently across her forehead.
“To earn your trust.”
