We stood before an enormous four-story building of deep-red brick with double balconies and elegant arches along its base. The Royal Exchange—the market for the wealthy. A bell tower rose into the sky with a carved grasshopper on the top—the mark of Sir Gresham, the merchant. A long line of dormered windows also sported grasshoppers.
Emma entered through the bell tower arches and I followed. Mute.
We passed through the arches into a wide-open courtyard filled with vendors and the mingling upper class. We walked past a statue of Sir Gresham, but I was more interested in the many statues of the English kings near the piazzas.
This was no place for a plagued. I checked my eye patch, kept my head down, and followed Emma. No need to embarrass her by getting thrown out. Few shoppers wandered about. The bell of the Royal Exchange rang at noon and six. It was not yet noon so the vendors had not opened their shops.
Emma crossed the courtyard and headed toward a booth where a merchant set out embroidered cloths and lengths of canvas using color speech. The cloths soared from their baskets onto the tabletop, resting in an attractive pattern of folds.
He wore a Blue mask, but cloths of several colors obeyed him. An Igniter. They were everywhere.
Emma reached the booth and curtsied.
“We are not yet open, madam.” He set out wooden spools of yarn and thread, each stuck onto a little wooden peg for display.
“I am Emma Areben, ward of the Baron Monteagle and skilled in color speech. I wish to inquire about an apprenticeship.” She handed him her letter.
He stared at it for a long time, then took it seemingly out of reflex. “I cannot take the time to train”—he looked her up and down—“such a young apprentice.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes, I am young and I am a woman. But I guarantee you my skill will rival any man’s.” I wanted to chime in and say she was one of St. Peter’s best, but the word of an eye-patched servant might hurt her cause more than help it.
The merchant removed his mask and gave Emma a sympathetic look. As though she was a child. As though she wasn’t bursting with skill and passion and color speech.
She handed him a roll of canvas. He unfurled it and stared for a long time. My patch hindered my view, so I angled myself a bit more and caught a corner of an elaborate portrait before he rolled it up and returned it to her, breathing deeply as though winded.
Emma wanted to be a painter? It seemed so tame for her.
Once the merchant recovered, he said, “Work is unfit for your position.”
Emma’s gloved hands fisted. How could he respond in such a manner after seeing her skill? She took a deep breath, but I took her arm. “Emma, you don’t want to apprentice for someone who doesn’t value talent.”
The merchant’s face turned red. Emma slipped him the painting. “For you.”
We walked away. Emma trembled at my side, each step stiff and each breath a hiss. We left the Royal Exchange just as the bells rang and customers left the side streets to do their shopping.
So Emma was seeking work.
Why? She had everything she needed as the ward of the Baron—money, a home, wealth, clothing, prestige. And the merchant was correct. Work was beneath her station.
We walked around London, without destination, for another hour. No words passed between us. We walked along the docks, watching the merchant ships travel up and down the Thames. Watching people hire small boats to take them downstream. This seemed to calm her.
“What do you think of London, Thomas?”
Her abrupt question—coming after an hour of silence—sent my mind scrambling. When I had first placed my foot upon London soil, I was struck by the stench. Dead bodies, butchered animals, refuse gutters, and Thames flow. But a month in and the stench had been overpowered by the uncertainty of life. Any moment the plague could spread; a Keeper could be caught and hung; starvation could claim someone. The wide, hollow eyes of the poor scanned the streets for stability. They found it in their conceited, oppressive king.
I gave her a safe answer. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Why are you here?”
I shrugged. “To find my father.”
“But you found him, yes?”
I nodded, feeling the stares of dockworkers as Emma and I walked. I imagined what they saw—a well-dressed masked lady at the side of a half-blind maskless man.
“So why do you not have your color power or mask?”
“I wish I could talk about it, but I assume it’s a bit like why you won’t tell me about your insistence on wearing your mask.” I put a little more distance between us. “You know, you really shouldn’t be around me.” I pointed to my eye.
As much as I wanted the payment, I didn’t want it at the cost of someone’s life. Emma’s life.
She waved away my comment. “The plague is everywhere. I’d rather not have to abandon one of Henry’s stiff escorts every other week.”
“But you do it so well.”
She laughed and the sound filled something inside me. I’d heard her laugh before—at St. Peter’s. But the laugh never belonged to me. Not like this one.
“How long have you been seeking an apprenticeship?” The moment I asked, I wished I hadn’t, because her laugh faded into a tired exhale.
“Since returning to London.”
“They would be fools not to take you on.”
Emma increased her pace. “Seems there are more fools in London than I thought.”
The hum of voices saturated the air. We weren’t near any of the markets. I craned my neck into one of the streets. “I wonder what’s going on.”
“Probably a street busker.” Emma didn’t slow, but our path took us toward the voices.
We turned up a northward street until we came across the source of the sound. A crowd faced one direction, their backs to us. The excitement in the air carried a menacing, grim undertone.
I led Emma through the gaps of the crowd, careful to shield her from the rowdier viewers. But the moment I got my first clear view of the action, I pulled up short.
Three men stood in chains. Their masks—Blue, Yellow, and Green—were in pieces and reattached to their faces by tar. Before them, a gallows with a long ladder to the top and a single noose.
The crowd wasn’t cheering for entertainment.
They were cheering for blood.
“It’s not a busker.” I gripped Emma’s elbow, taking in the crowd, the executioner, the guards. “Let’s go.”
Emma didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But a bystander on my right elbowed me and pointed to the first masked-and-tarred man ascending the ladder. “The Keepers always go first.”
A hand of dread closed about my throat.
“It’s execution day.” Was that a smile in his voice? “The thieves and general prisoners go next.” He gestured beyond the gallows to a prison cart packed with the dirtied bodies of maskless men and boys. “I’m here to watch that abomination hang.”
My eyes alighted on the guilty one and all I saw was a small, round black face, tiny hands, and a glare that could stop the very Thames from flowing.
I stared.
I’d never seen black skin before—not in person—though I’d heard of John Hawkins, the naval commander who captured and sold Africans to Spain. That partially caused the war between Spain and England—in which Father fought. I knew some African servants resided in England, but this was the first one I’d seen.
And he was about to hang.
“But he’s—he’s only a boy!” Emma’s outrage slapped me out of my shock. The kid couldn’t have been a day over ten. Were they truly going to hang him?
A loud thunk and a deafening cheer returned my attention to the gallows in time to catch the twitch of the first Keeper’s body.
“We can’t let this happen,” Emma growled. She still faced the cage of thieves.
“It’s how things are for now.” The second Keeper was already to the top of the ladder when the executioners removed the noose from the firs
t’s neck. The resignation in my voice sickened me, but I clung to my knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot. It would change this. I would change this.
The Keeper met his fate to another chorus of cheers. My neck tensed as if it were the one breaking beneath the drop.
The third masked Keeper ascended the ladder as an executioner unlocked the prison cage and pulled out the black boy.
Emma grabbed my forearm. My skin pinched beneath her grip. “We must do something.” She sounded frantic. Still focusing on the African. Did she know the lad?
I tried to tug her away. “We can’t.”
“Thomas!” The cheer of the crowd drowned out her scream.
I wanted out of there. We were helpless, but Emma wanted to cause a scene. If the boy was to hang for thieving, then that was punishment for his crimes. Right?
The thought felt sour.
Plagued. Keeper. Thief. By that list, I deserved to be hung too. “What can we do?” I had no sword. I had no color power.
I had no courage.
But Emma had plenty. She walked forward as the African fought his captors, and in a voice that could rival the bells of the Royal Exchange, she announced, “I would like to pay the debt on that boy and take him as a servant.”
The crowd hushed so swiftly, I could hear Emma panting. Even the boy stopped fighting.
“His fate has been sealed, madam,” the executioner shouted from his spot by the gallows.
“I contest that.” She yanked her purse of coin from her belt. “Is there no price you will accept?”
The muttering started. She was causing a scene. My face burned for her, but at the same time I imagined myself in her spot—daring to speak out.
“He’s an African. And a thief.” The finality in the executioner’s voice spoke volumes more than his statement. The men resumed their attempts to haul the boy up to the gallows.
Emma screamed and stalked forward.
“Someone restrain the lady, please.”
I darted forward before the crowd could get to her and pulled her back with a sharp word in her ear. “Emma, they’ve made their decision.” I kept my eyes away from the gallows.
But she planted her feet in the mud as the boy fought his captors. Though he had the ferocity of a lion, he had not the strength. Emma held her hands out to her sides and muttered color commands so fast I couldn’t make out specific words.
The boy thrashed as one guard lifted him into the air and another tried to get the noose around his neck.
If only I had a blasted sword!
Emma muttered faster. Frantic. But nothing changed. Her body trembled. “Help,” she finally breathed.
Her power wasn’t working. There must have been other commands on the gallows. But she was so desperate, so bold in standing up for the lad despite resistance, that I did the first thing I could think of.
I ran . . .
. . . toward the boy.
I scooped a handful of mud from the ground as I went and smeared it over my face to conceal my identity.
The men got the noose around the boy’s head.
I put on a burst of speed, broke from the crowd, and bowled into the two guards. The boy fell from their arms and the noose jerked around his neck as the three of us toppled down the gallows stairs.
I scrambled to my feet—coming out on top.
The African boy made a strangled croak but weighed so little that his neck didn’t break. A guard pushed himself to all fours and reached for the boy’s feet to give the final yank.
“No!” I kicked his arm and it cracked against the gallows post.
The boy was as agile as an acrobat. By the time I’d regained my feet, he’d pulled up his knees, swung his bound hands to his front, and was out of the noose, sprinting down an alley.
A guard fumbled for his sword.
The crowd swarmed.
I didn’t even spare a glance for Emma before I took off for myself.
15 June 1604
Thomas,
It was a relief to hear from you! Now that you are in London, you must visit the baker on Pudding Lane. Sugar and flour run through the veins of that family and you’ll find no better pastries.
I do not understand why your father would deny you your mask. You are a grown man and it is not his right to deny you your color inheritance. A father may give his son his mask at any point in life, but usually no later than age sixteen. If Guy continues to refuse you your mask, I will visit under the authority of St. Peter’s Color School and confront him.
Regarding the pursuit you speak of . . . I assume it is some sort of conspiracy plot. Be wary, Thomas. There is no easy fix for the plague. Your connection to the plague makes you vulnerable regarding finding a cure. I do not doubt your good intentions, just your discernment.
Do not follow anyone—or any rumor—blindly.
Norwood
Fourteen
Midsummer
The skin around my eye patch itched. I needed to replace the paste. I couldn’t have the patch falling off in front of Henry or the Baron. But I already stood at the back entrance of the Monteagle house.
Ward, the footman, let me in. I waited in the hallway for Emma. A fortnight had passed since our escapade in the market and still my daring actions at the gallows hung over my mind like the sway of the three dead Keeper bodies.
No soldiers had pursued me. As far as I could tell, none but Emma knew my identity.
I wanted to feel the hero, but my actions shamed me. Yes, I’d helped the African boy, but not because of my conviction. I helped because Emma wanted him free. I hadn’t spared a thought for the other imprisoned children and I’d allowed the Keepers to hang simply because that was how things were currently done.
Since that moment, I forced myself to envision the Keepers’ shattered masks. The blood and tar painting their skin. I forced myself to remember the sound of the crowd.
Jeering. Cursing. Lusting for blood.
Anger pinched my throat. Those Keepers had families. They had stories. They’d spent their lives protecting the people.
Raised voices met my ears. I pulled up short outside of the sitting room. Had I been pacing?
“You don’t think I should attend?” Henry asked from around the doorway.
I backpedaled, but then caught the Baron’s response. “It’s too soon, Henry. Of all Parliament meetings to attend, we need to be extra cautious with this one.”
Parliament. At last—information! This was why I had taken this position. I refocused on my duty—my true duty to Keepers and Catesby and England.
“But isn’t this the point in training me as the next baron?” Henry bit off the spike of his voice and his next words came out hushed. Intense. “This is my moment to leave an impression.”
I kept my back flat against the wall, listening but not daring to look.
“Right now it is my impression that matters. And to bring my son, uninvited, will get tongues wagging and Parliament talking. Yes, you will succeed me, Henry. But right now you must support me. That is your first role.”
I ran my sweating palms along my breeches. When? When was this meeting? I needed more details! Did the Baron have a written invitation in his study? I could sneak in and find—
“You’re a terrible eavesdropper, you know.” The whisper in my left ear so thoroughly spooked me, I slammed an elbow against the wall.
Henry’s and the Baron’s voices cut off.
I stared at Emma in horror. Blast my blind eye—she’d walked right up to me and I’d neither heard nor seen her.
Henry barreled out of the room and pulled up short before us. “What is going on?”
“I am readying myself for market.” Emma handed me a small closed basket. “Carry the dinner, will you?”
I looped the basket over my arm, certain my face was either bright red or dead pale. My pounding heart seemed to reverberate down the hall, but Henry’s attention remained on Emma.
“I wanted to say farewell before leaving,” she said.
“Can I bring anything back for you?”
“Just yourself.” He reached out, as though to brush his hand against hers, but she turned and glided up the hall.
Their interaction seemed so personal. As though they shared a friendship deeper than Baron’s heir and Baron’s ward.
I followed her before Henry’s gentle Emma-gaze could turn on me and transform to something ugly. I appreciated Emma covering for me, but not her interruption. A few more minutes and I might have had the date of Parliament.
We stepped out into the sun and started the long walk to market. Emma preferred to walk. I, on the other hand, would have appreciated a little less exercise. It always made me hungry, and my ten shillings a month didn’t leave much room for pastries on Pudding Lane.
Our postures were both stiff. This was the first time we’d seen each other after the incident with the African boy. I didn’t want to talk about it—or think about it.
We turned onto the path leading to the main road.
“Thank you for saving that boy, Thomas.” Emma took my hand in her gloved one. I almost tugged away. The connection was too intimate, but it revealed her gratitude in a way her words could not. “You showed your true worth in that moment.”
What could I say? I wasn’t about to admit that I saved him for her. I wasn’t even sure why I did it. “You would have done the same had your color powers obeyed.”
She released my hand. The separation sent a cold breeze across my skin.
We reached the Royal Exchange as the bells rang and I learned the basket did not contain dinner. Emma pushed back the lid and withdrew a small easel on which she stretched a blank canvas.
“Please stand over there.” She nodded toward the opposite side of the market. I obeyed, though a bit miffed.
Then, as people entered, Emma started to paint. And paint. And paint. Never once touching a brush and sending the colors to canvas with only color speech. From what I could tell, she was painting the cordwainer’s stall—though what interest she had in painting shoes, I couldn’t fathom.
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