The Alchemist's Daughter

by Mary Lawrence

  Bianca had barely turned before a rat landed on her back. She threw it off and looked up. Above her, a wall of rats peered down from the tops of crates. Their claws were dug into the rough wood planking as they started down the sides. Some dropped off and landed at her feet.

  She stumbled forward, pushing over more crates and sending them crashing to the floor. Containers broke apart, wood splintered, and silken cloth and Oriental spices spilled onto the warehouse floor. Desperately, she kept pulling down boxes in spite of the pain in her shoulders.

  Her plan might have worked. She might have been able to buy valuable time to smash through the door to the outside. But as she paused, gasping for breath beside the strewn remnants, one lone container creaked with a sickening moan. Precariously balanced, its weight shifted, and Bianca looked up to see it totter—then fall straight for her.

  CHAPTER 39

  Constable Patch should have slept like a babe. He should have slept with the peaceful conscience of the righteous. After all, he had performed his duty and delivered that murderess Bianca Goddard to her rightful destination: the Clink. But as he lay staring up at the mouse scampering along the rafter over his bed, he couldn’t stop thinking of her story and the warehouse in Romeland.

  What if it was true? What if this Robert Wynders was planning to unleash a torrent of sniveling, dirty rodents on London’s fair citizenry? Patch rolled over, pulling the blanket off his snoring wife.

  As far as he knew, he was the only one who could do anything about it. As it was, he would be commended for bringing a murderer to justice and he expected to win the notice of the ward alderman. And if he had forgotten, Patch would make certain he remembered the connection between Bianca and her suspect father—a man accused of trying to poison the king. Nothing good could come of an alchemist and his “chemiste” spawn. But preventing a possible pestilence on the town of London and nabbing the architect behind it? He couldn’t have engineered a more propitious scenario. And here it was being given to him. He’d be a fool not to act.

  Exposed to the room’s chill, Constable Patch’s wife roused from a warm and comfortable slumber, peevishly yanked the covers off her restless husband, and told him to sod off. Patch obliged. Within a few minutes he was dressed and wending his way through the sinister back alleys to the Clink.

  Since he didn’t know where the ignoble warehouse was exactly, he’d have to enlist the help of the young transgressor. He wondered if he’d have to entice her cooperation with promises of mercy, but decided it was best to try to avoid negotiations of that sort if possible. He wasn’t sure what he’d say to her. He would think of something when the time came.

  Instead, Patch preferred to think on his new appointment as deputy of a London parish. With the extra money and prestige, a new uniform might be in order. One made of fine peacock-blue velvet with multipleated sleeves. A bounce worked its way into Constable Patch’s step. He didn’t even mind the drunk sprawled across his path, but trod on his chest without altering his gait.

  Of course his wife would be pleased. A move across the river might gentle her surly disposition, and who knows? She might even become more amenable to performing her wifely duty.

  With heady dreams of a new and improved future, Constable Patch ignored the grim murmurings issuing from the Clink and rapped on its door. Even several minutes of waiting and continued knocks did not diminish his sunny mood.

  The turnkey peered out at Patch with a spiritless expression. “Late for you, isn’t it, Patch?”

  “Aye, that,” answered the constable, undeterred. “I have a matter of utmost importance—elst I wouldn’ts be here.”

  The turnkey’s dull eyes ranged over Patch, uninterested. He appeared to have been woken and was none too thrilled. “Mayhaps ye tell me your business at this hour. I see ye have no criminal.”

  Constable Patch confirmed the obvious. “True, my good man. I have come on a missile which will save the good folk of London from a scourge of epic proportion. A bane of such dour consequence that, if left unchecked, could spell the end of our fair city and, in particular, its citizenry.”

  “That’s been said of the ale at the Cockeyed Gull.”

  Patch pressed on. “If ye should aid me in this noble cause, I shall reward ye well.”

  “With what?” The turnkey tittered. “You’ll never amount to more than what you already is: the lowly public servant of this cur-ridden coop of a borough. No moneys in that, never wills be. Still, a man’s gotta eat—I can’t deny you that.” He scratched his belly through his rough wool tunic. “For a scab, you have lofty expectations, Patch.”

  “I see no need for ye to be flappin’ ye jaw about it. There is something in it for ye, if ye see me by. Are ye in or outs?”

  The turnkey took another precious minute to consider Patch’s offer. He saw no need to rush into additional work, especially at this hour. Then again, since he was up and an opportunity was presenting itself, he might as well hear the knave out. “So’s what do you need?”

  Constable Patch cheered to hear the brute ask. “I needs ye to release Bianca Goddard to me.”

  “What’s for? You just brought her here.”

  “It has something to do with whats I just told ye.” Patch didn’t want to go through another explanation trying to convince the sourpuss. “This has direct import to the king,” he added, hoping that might carry some weight.

  “Says who?” challenged the turnkey. “You?”

  “Enough! Bring me Bianca Goddard, and be quick about it.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Do not try to waylay me, man. I have no patience for it.”

  “Patience or not, I cannot bring her abouts.”

  This is not what Patch wanted to hear. “What? I brought her in, and I can bring her out. If ye don’t do as I ask, I’ll inform every alderman from here to Shoreditch that ye are a lazy, obstinate turnkey. No more capable of tending our criminals than a house full of hens. Now get her before I lose my temper.”

  “I tolds you. She is not here.”

  Constable Patch cocked his head. “She is not here? She is not here?” He paused, as if letting it seep in, then jabbed his finger into the guard’s face. “Ye will not toy with me, knave.”

  “An official sort came and gots her, Patch.”

  “An official sort of what?

  “An official sort of . . . man came and removed her.”

  “Removed her herewith?”

  “Aye. Herewith,” he mumbled.

  “And did this official sort of man wield a coin for such cooperation?”

  The turnkey balked. Bribes were neither unusual nor unexpected. How was he to know this prisoner, Bianca Goddard, was anything more than the murderer of a trifling young woman? “Don’t be so self-righteous, Patch. Coin speaks louder than virtue here. A beggar makes more money than a turnkey in this rotting borough.”

  Constable Patch knew all too well the corruption got from low wage. Hadn’t he accepted coin concerning this very case? Yet when it worked against him, he became indignant. But being the double-dealing public servant that he was, he was not above pretending to be uncompromisingly moral, and this he slung about as if it were a five-pointed mace.

  “I’ll have ye charged for bribery before the day is done.”

  “Thunder on, Patch, but you can’t change the world. You will get nowhere threatening me such.”

  “We shall see,” sniffed Patch, turning on his heel. But if Patch were honest with himself, he knew, regrettably, that the turnkey was right.

  CHAPTER 40

  The pain Bianca had suffered dangling from manacles in the Clink was minor by comparison. She thought the crate must be filled with sand it was so heavy and immobile. She lay helplessly beneath it, pinned against the cold, damp floor.

  She had tried to avoid the falling crate, but its mammoth size had prevented her from completely clearing it. She landed face-down—her legs trapped beneath, her back exposed. If the crate had hit her head, her skull would
have cracked like a walnut. She pressed her forearms and palms into the floor and tried to pull herself free, but it was useless. She no longer felt her legs. They had gone numb.

  She lifted her forehead, feeling a sharp pain course down her neck, and looked around.

  Destroyed crates and their contents lay scattered about. Spices streamed from battered containers like sand from an hourglass. Bolts of cloth had unrolled, forming long banners of silk that draped down the sides of her makeshift wall. She had hoped to buy time and create a barrier by pushing over the crates. She feared she had succeeded at neither.

  As she peered up at the iridescent fabrics, she realized that day must be dawning. From whatever cracks or openings there might be in the warehouse, she could see muted hues of color, not just the gray and blue shadows of night. And with day came the chance that someone might hear her cries for help.

  She screamed. Surely someone would be passing by. She screamed loud enough to rattle the chains at Newgate, then fell silent and listened.

  No one called back. No one pounded the warehouse door in answer. Silence—nothing but the maddening quiet of the most hushed moments before day.

  Then a low, unearthly squabble insinuated the calm. It grew in intensity. Rasping. Hissing.

  Bianca slowly turned her head. Lining the top of the crates was a legion of rats. Bianca gasped. Their teeth glinted in the faint light, and their hungry eyes stared down at her. If they jumped, they would land on her head.

  She pushed against the heavy crate and screamed with every ounce of breath she had. A public hanging was preferable to being eaten alive by rats. Bianca had wanted to prove her innocence in Jolyn’s murder and find some measure of justice for her dead friend. How could such good intentions end so badly?

  She squirmed helplessly beneath the crate. The thought of being torn apart by hundreds of rats kept her struggling, even though she knew it was useless. Soon they would fight over her flesh. And there was nothing she could do.

  A thud sounded beside her.

  She held her breath.

  A second thud. She dared not turn her head to look.

  Panic screamed up her spine, and she waved her arms wildly, hoping to scare the vermin. For a moment, it seemed to work.

  They retreated.

  If she could just keep shouting until someone heard her. She kept screaming and flailing, willing herself to keep moving. But if no one came to her aid, eventually the rats would overwhelm her. Eventually, she would suffer the same fate as the corpses in the back.

  She regretted having taken John for granted. If she had not been so confident and had listened to his suggestions, she might not have found herself lying on a warehouse floor, fending off a torrent of rats. If she had let him help her instead of erecting a wall of resistance, had kept him close instead of dismissing him, she might be sitting in Boisvert’s shop enjoying a glass of French wine right now.

  Despite her arms trembling with fatigue, Bianca willed herself to keep waving them. She managed well enough at first. Then, each wave grew increasingly difficult, as if she were lifting bricks instead of her arms. Finally, no amount of self-imposed will or desire could keep them going. They simply would not cooperate. Her arms collapsed, limp and completely spent.

  And the rats came.

  They dropped onto her back and landed beside her.

  One.

  Then, another.

  They skittered down her spine, pulled her hair, and nosed under it. They nipped the back of her neck, tugged her ear . . . She dragged her arms to cover her head, but not before glimpsing a dozen more rappelling down bolts of fabric and falling like rain.

  Exhaustion dulled her senses. She drifted in and out of consciousness, and thankfully, her mind wandered to a more peaceful place.

  She didn’t notice the squabble in front of her.

  Translucent bubbles appeared in her mind, marbled with the colors of the rainbow. They rose from the bottoms of flasks, growing, then bursting at the surface.

  Solutions.

  Her solutions. Her tonics, her medicinals. They bubbled and churned, popped softly as she looked down a row of flasks lined atop tripods, stretching to infinity.

  Then, from an opaque distance, grew the sound of human voices. Shouting voices.

  Was she dead? She no longer felt the rats’ horrible teeth. She no longer heard their hiss. She must be dead. So is this what it felt like? No more pain, no more torment? Her mind went a hundred directions all at once. Then, a sudden clash of metal on metal roused her and she opened her eyes. Bold colored silks still hung about. She raised her head and looked around.

  No rats. But she saw their eyes glowing red from behind broken bits of crate and refuse, waiting.

  Bianca craned her head and saw Wynders standing atop the crates with his rapier drawn. His blade slashed the air as he parried forward and back. Boards loosened and tumbled down, clattering and just missing her.

  Then she heard a familiar voice.

  John.

  Wynders skidded down the wall and landed beside her, sending down a shower of planks. His arm blocked some of the boards, but his rapier was ill suited for the falling debris.

  Bianca covered her head and cried out.

  “Bianca?” John’s voice echoed off the walls. “Are you there?”

  “John!”

  Wynders eyed Bianca pinned beneath the crate. “Your lady is in a bit of a position, lad. Mind you, not a good one. You might want to help her. She appears somewhat heavily burdened.” He paused, waiting for effect. “The only thing standing between the two of you . . . is me.” Wynders withdrew a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. He tucked it back into his doublet with a gentlemanly flourish. “I will gladly move, but you must give me my ring. If you refuse, I see no use in prolonging this girl’s agony. Whether she perishes beneath a crate, is eaten or hanged, it matters not to me.”

  Bianca recognized Meddybemps’s voice but could not decipher it. She arched her back and rested on her forearms, listening.

  The rats’ eyes glinted in the dim light.

  “Do not dawdle, lad. I’m not the only one losing patience,” called Wynders, seeing the rats poke their sharp noses forward.

  “John,” yelled Bianca, exasperated.

  “I shall give you leave, Wynders, if you throw me your sword.”

  “Give me the ring and I will throw you my sword,” said Wynders. “We will both get what we want.”

  “John, do it!”

  But all that transpired was a confounding silence. The rats began a low, ominous hiss, and Bianca’s hope turned to despair. They inched forward, no longer threatened by clattering wood and scuffle.

  Bianca took a breath to scream, but stopped at the sound of someone scaling the mound of broken crates. She craned her head to see John appear at the top of the heap, his face soaked with sweat. He stepped to the edge and peered down. He held no weapon, no plank or bludgeon. His arms hung at his sides, strong from years of hauling buckets of molten metal.

  His eyes met Bianca’s, and she knew he would not fail her.

  They had practically grown up together. And from the familiarity that comes with knowing someone for that long, through awkward stages of life and foolish behavior, she knew he would not forsake her. In spite of all their differences, they had remained each other’s single strongest influence, a steadfast presence.

  Bianca looked on John with renewed hope and a smatter of humility. He would save her—a not so small undertaking.

  “Such a lot of fuss for something so small,” said John, reaching into his trouser pocket. He withdrew the ring and held it up, the gold glinting in the weak morning light. “How could this lump of metal move a person to murder? Is its value worth more than a life?”

  “Toss me the ring and you shall have leave of your lady.”

  But John went on. “The design carved in its face is your family crest, isn’t it, Wynders? And in that crest lies your reputation. Am I right?”

  “I have
n’t the patience to listen to you pontificate. And neither does your lady.”

  “But this ring holds secrets. Secrets someone uses against you.”

  “It does not serve you to speculate.”

  “So who is keeping your secrets? Mrs. Beldam?”

  “Lad, look on your lady.” Wynders gestured to Bianca lying under the crate. “I imagine her legs have lost their feeling by now.”

  “So, tell me,” John continued, much to Bianca’s annoyance, “who deserves this ring? The man who keeps secrets to preserve his honor and family’s reputation or the woman whose daughter’s ruin is her most lucrative secret?”

  “I haven’t time for philosophic discussion. Nor does your lady.”

  Bianca didn’t care if she was playing into Wynders’s plan. She screamed at John to help her.

  “Throw me your sword, Wynders, and the ring is yours.”

  “My sword and free passage.”

  John thought. “Aye, that.”

  “And what proof do I have that your word is true?” Wynders cocked his head.

  “By my honor,” said John, “as mine is unvarnished.”

  Wynders smirked. “You are young, lad. Even silver tarnishes with time.” He gave over his sword, throwing it to the top of the heap, where it landed at John’s feet.

  John bent to grab the weapon and tested its weight in his hand. “As I promised, Wynders,” he said. “Your ring.” He brought the gold ring to his lips and kissed it. “A more cursed bauble I have never seen.” John tossed it to Wynders, and it fell in an arc of glimmering gold.

  Wynders leapt to snatch it out of the air, but it sailed beyond his reach. The band landed behind Bianca, and he scuttled after it, scrambling over debris as it hit the ground and rolled beneath a crate. Wynders dropped to his knees and reached under the container.

  John slid down the pile and landed in front of Bianca. Meddybemps followed more gingerly, picking his way down the unstable boards.