Fawkes

by Nadine Brandes

  I tried to move through the crowd. A huddle of women stood between me and the garden. I slipped out as a distant voice called, “Ah, Henry! Can that little morsel of yours really do portraits?”

  Candles lit the garden, elevated upon small pedestals as though imitating the flutter of fairies. Not many guests were out enjoying it—probably due to the chill.

  A silver gown moved across the way. Emma. Alone. Even in a public location she should not be left unescorted. Anything could happen in a dark garden—particularly one this size peopled with men who referred to ladies as “morsels.”

  I should’ve kept dogging Dee, but I could not. “Are you well, Em—Mistress Areben?”

  She didn’t turn around, but her shoulders shook. Oh no. Was she crying? I walked up, tentative.

  “I’m fine, Thomas.” There were no tears in that voice. Only quivering anger.

  “I see.” Perhaps I should return to Dee.

  She took a deep breath and then faced me. There was nothing for me to see since she still wore her event masque. “Are you out here to be some sort of knight?”

  I frowned. She was the last person who needed a knight. And I was the last person who could be a knight. “I came to . . .” To be with you.

  I hesitated long enough for her to turn and walk away. She headed for the hedges. I followed, though not invited. If she told me to leave, I would respect that. But I wanted her to know that I was with her. For her.

  We passed a pond with seashells resting on each dormant lily instead of a flower. The garden hedges created avenues and shielded alcoves where couples could sneak away. One woman slipped into the shadows with a giggle. Her carnal lover wasn’t far behind.

  I adjusted the ruff at my neck. “Emma . . .” She rounded the end of a vine wall. “Wait.”

  A swish of cloak. I let myself run and caught her arm. Black gloves ran from fingertip to elbow. She didn’t pull away, but she slowed. When she spoke again, her voice was cold. “Why are you following me?”

  My hand dropped and I stopped. “To make sure you are well. I overheard a man mention your portraits to Henry—”

  “You’re a servant here. Don’t you have duties to return to?”

  That smarted. She was acting as though she wanted me to go. Maybe I should. But I’d already abandoned my post as Percy’s servant. I wanted to know what had upset Emma. To defend her from whatever hold Henry had over her.

  My thoughts ground to a halt with a single realization: I had put Emma over the plot.

  That meant trouble. But I didn’t leave. Why was I doing this? Staying? Why did I care?

  “I brought some portrait paintings to show to the gentlefolk of the court.” Emma pulled a roll of canvas from up her sleeve. “I got one to one person before Henry found me.”

  I unfurled the small roll beneath the moonlight and saw a young girl in a chair with wheels. Her brown hair swept over her shoulder, brushed but not styled. Though the thinness of her arms and neck showed her sick state, a radiant smile sent my own lips curving upward. Somehow Emma had captured beauty in the brokenness.

  How did she see these things?

  “It’s astounding. They must have been impressed.”

  She took the portrait and returned it to her sleeve. “The gentleman was—even showed it to his wife. They have six children. I offered to paint their family, but—”

  “Henry.” A muscle in my jaw ticked. There was so much I wanted to say, to shout, but Emma’s frustration billowed about her, and my own irritation wouldn’t bring her any relief. So I breathed once. Twice. In. Out.

  “You always seem to find me, Thomas. Why is that?”

  “Perhaps because when I find you I always seem to find truth. Honesty. Emma, you’re . . . you’re real.” Blast, that came out sounding eerie. I shouldn’t open up. It would muddy the waters of Keeper versus Igniter. But my mouth wouldn’t stop. “You’re not afraid to speak out, to oppose wrong, to dig for truth. There’s something authentic about you that I . . . I need.” The eeriness continued. “I mean, that I desire.” Desire? That made it seem like I desired her. “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  I stared at Emma’s black masque, her dark curls with pink silk flowers woven throughout. She could end this with a single sentence. She could avoid this dangerous conversation by dismissing me.

  I hoped she would.

  I prayed she wouldn’t.

  “What did you think of the masque performance?” However I expected her to respond, it wasn’t with that.

  I stepped back—finally realizing how close we stood—and shrugged. “It was fine.” It was barely a memory. I’d spent the entire time watching her. “Though I don’t think England’s soil is magical enough to whiten human skin.”

  “I hated it.” She trembled. I swept my cape off my shoulders and onto hers, though I suspected she wasn’t actually cold. “Those Negroes in the shell were like you, Thomas.”

  I withdrew my hands. “What do you mean?” In the production they were treated as tainted because of their skin, but they turned white and “clean” once they reached land. Did she mean I was tainted by my plague?

  “They acted as though the skin determines the worth of a human. As though being ‘cured’ or being of fair skin is the ultimate perfection.” The tips of her gloved fingers reached for the left side—the plagued side—of my face. “But they’re wrong. Your skin and plague don’t define you.”

  I studied the grass. “It’s easy to hear, but difficult to believe.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Do you believe it?” I caught her fingers. “About yourself?” About her own plague? This wasn’t just for me—I knew that much from the passion behind her words.

  Oh, how I wanted to see her face. “I want to know you, Emma.” I stepped closer, crossing the final boundaries of propriety. “You can trust me.”

  I wouldn’t tell anyone about her plague. I understood her wanting to be accepted the way she was. No matter if her entire face was plagued, that wouldn’t change my view of her.

  I wanted to know I wasn’t alone.

  She leaned back, but not enough to break the touch of my hand on her masque. “Go ahead.” She spoke so quietly I almost didn’t catch it. Almost . . . forced.

  I frowned.

  “Take it off.” She gestured to the masque.

  My fingers itched to pull on the ties, but I dropped my arm. “No. It has to be your choice. I want you to feel free to show me your face, not pressured.”

  She rocked on her toes. I thought maybe she’d leave. But then she reached up and tore the masque from her face. It happened so fast I had to blink a few times to gather my bearings. Her form came into view beneath the moonlight.

  There was no plague. Nothing.

  Not a spot or blemish marring her dark-black skin.

  Twenty-Four

  Emma’s chin lifted. Defiant.

  A dark curl stuck to her inky skin—pressed there from her masque. A line of freckles ascended from her left upper lip and ended beneath her eye . . . like a constellation on a night sky.

  I stared like an imbecile, unsure what to think. What to say. I couldn’t mess this up, but all that kept repeating in my head was, Slave skin. Slave skin. Slave skin. I wanted the words to stop. They didn’t feel like my words—they certainly weren’t my heart.

  Because Emma wasn’t slave or servant.

  She was . . . Emma. Powerful. Masked. Artist. And I imagined everything she’d been hiding and how long she’d been hiding. How alone she must have felt.

  “I can see it in your eyes.” She held my gaze, fury in hers. “You see only a lesser vessel. Slave Emma.”

  I shook my head. “No.” Finally, my thoughts and emotions clicked into place, aligned in my mind. And I had the words—the only words. “I see my Emma.”

  Hesitant, I pulled her to me. Her stiffness melted away and she wrapped her arms around me.

  My Emma. My Emma. My Emma.

  I finally under
stood and felt no shame for declaring the words. We were spoken for . . . by each other. Something beyond both of us led us to each other, wove our stories into one, and on this night I realized they were too tangled to ever be separated.

  That was fine with me.

  “You’re not disgusted?” she mumbled into my shirt.

  The idea of finding her disgusting almost incited a laugh, but I swallowed it down. “No. Never. I was surprised, but it changes nothing.” I didn’t think I could have said those words a year ago, or even a few months ago. But because Emma never let my plague affect how she received and treated me, she unknowingly taught me how to think the same way.

  “Henry and the Baron are the only ones who know.” She stepped away. I drank in her features. Wide eyes ringed with white powder.

  She gestured to the powder. “To keep my skin hidden.” She tugged at a curl. “I lighten my hair as well with color power. It’s been rather draining.”

  That was why she’d started looking so much thinner and ragged. “You’re stunning.” What else could I say? Her very soul was leaking out and I couldn’t look away.

  “In my own way, I suppose.” She tucked a curl back into place.

  There was no comparison. To see her skin and body was to glimpse merely a shell. As though rating a pearl by its oyster.

  She lifted her masque back to her face.

  “Wait . . .” I stopped her. “Why? Why must you hide?” It was illegal for anyone in England to make her a slave. What did she fear? Did she think someone might sell her to Spain?

  “That’s a story for another day, Thomas.”

  “Is it Henry?” I didn’t want her to put her masque back on. What I once found beautiful now seemed only a slip of drab cloth compared to the beauty that lay underneath.

  She didn’t answer but held the masque against her skin. “Would you mind?”

  I reached around to tie it for her, though I would have preferred to tear it away and burn it, so as to keep seeing her face, her quirks, her blinks. We had entered into something new. Something fragile, shared between only us.

  I secured the knot but didn’t move away. Inches separated us.

  Until a hand wrenched me back by the collar. “Get off her, you dog.”

  I tripped trying to keep my feet and crashed into a hedge. It was springy and thrust me back into the light like a thousand angry hands. Henry Parker ripped my cloak from around Emma and threw it at me. I caught it as I steadied myself. Then he seemed to notice who I was. “Cyclops?”

  Blast.

  Henry looked between the two of us, one of his hands tight around Emma’s wrist. “Is this why you kept him as your escort?” His knuckles whitened. I couldn’t see a grimace on her face, but her eyes squinted. “Secret trysts?” His voice echoed in the garden. Others would hear. Others would come. “You could catch the plague!”

  People would see and assume and Emma would be ruined.

  I was ruined already.

  “No.” I pulled Henry off her. “We were—”

  His fist crashed into my face and I went reeling. Screams. Onlookers. Black filled my vision, but I shook it clear, throwing my forearm up to ward off another blow that didn’t come. Henry was bent over, clutching his hand to his chest.

  My ears rang, but I felt very little pain.

  He’d struck my plague and it broke his hand. Emma didn’t run to either of us, but held herself stiff and tall. “Come, Henry. You’ve caused a scene.”

  Her ability to switch from vulnerable and masqueless to stiff and commanding left me in awe. I felt privileged that she let me in, even if just for a moment. She spun and marched back toward the palace.

  “I will have your head, plague,” Henry ground out. “Emma belongs to me.” He followed her into the darkness.

  “She doesn’t belong to anyone!” I glared at him, though no one could see it through my masque. I fumbled with the clasp of my cloak. I needed to get away. In minutes, the entire court of King James would know about my plague and about my presence. I would be ruined and the plot put at risk.

  But Emma. I had to follow.

  I hurried past the gossiping onlookers, tugging my masque tight on my face, and rounded a hedge in time to catch Henry’s angry voice. “You were throwing yourself at that plagued Keeper like some street trull.”

  Emma’s reply was equally as vicious. “Better throwing myself at a plagued gentleman than chaining myself to a blackmailing scoundrel.”

  A slap of flesh on flesh hit my ears and I surged forward in time to see Emma strike Henry in return. Good girl.

  Emma lifted her chin. The masque covered her face, but now I knew what to expect behind that guard. Fire. Courage. Strength. She swept past him, toward the doors.

  My face burned. Pieces fell into place. Henry was using Emma somehow—threatening to reveal her skin color? She had shown herself to me, maybe even to convince me to help her.

  It bent my mind imagining her needing—or asking for—help, as though a stallion needed to be taught how to buck off its captors. Couldn’t she leave the Monteagle residence?

  She trusted me.

  I wanted to help her.

  I had to.

  I fumbled for my sword to find my belt empty. No weapons were permitted at the masquerade. Fists it was, then.

  Henry rushed after Emma, but I caught his shoulder at the door. He spun so fast, I lost my grip, but he didn’t strike me. He backed into the main court, knowing the crowd was a fight I couldn’t win. And all he’d need to do to defeat me was raise his voice and scream, “Plague!”

  Couples twirled in the center of the court. The orchestra filled one corner of the room. Henry barreled through gentlefolk in Emma’s wake. I sidled along the walls, flattening myself against the wood to avoid being crushed by a woman’s broad skirt. Once I reentered the bodies and heat and gossip, I remembered why I was at Whitehall at all.

  Should I stop Henry or inform Percy? If I associated with Percy, then Henry might ask questions. I needed to distance myself from him—from the plotters—for good.

  My heart failed at the thought.

  Someone shoved me. Too many bodies in one place. Henry stopped beside John Dee and whispered in his ear. The waltz ended. Couples broke apart. And a multicolored mask remained in the center of the floor once all dancers left it. “May I have the court’s attention!” Dee raised his hands high.

  Judging by the king’s frown and Queen Anne’s raised eyebrows, this wasn’t part of the evening’s planned events. On the sidelines, I caught Henry eyeing Dee.

  He’d told Dee—probably because he knew Dee could silence the room.

  I quickened my pace along the wall. Where were the doors?

  Dee’s mask was fixed so firmly to his face, his eyes popped out of the holes like a bug’s. “I have a gift for the king, but also for his people.”

  I slowed.

  Dee scanned the crowd as the chatter turned to a hush and then curious murmurs. I was as curious as the next person . . . until his popping gaze landed on me. And stayed there. I couldn’t move. This was about me and he knew I was plagued—he knew even before Henry divulged my secret. People turned to follow his gaze. Their frowns crinkled against their masques when they spotted me—the stunned masqued servant.

  “One year ago, my beloved wife, Jane, and my three daughters were claimed by the Stone Plague.”

  King James made a small gesture with one hand and Percy appeared at his side.

  “It convicted me . . . and freed me . . . to pour myself into the art of alchemy and color speech.”

  The king whispered something into Percy’s ear. Percy nodded and then headed toward Dee, his hand sliding to the hilt of his sword. Yes! Hurry, Percy. Stop his mouth!

  Dee’s words quickened as all the while he stared at me. “And after a year of sacrifice, I return to London with a gift. This boy”—he swept a giant arm over his head, leveling a finger at me—“is dying of plague.”

  The gasps squeezed me until I couldn’t
breathe. Percy stumbled to a halt.

  “Our king is hesitant to entrust his people to me, but here I stand before you—with you as my witnesses—that there is a cure, and I have it.” The murmurs increased to a full-on clamor until Dee held out a hand. “Come here, boy!”

  As though drawn by an invisible rope, I took one step after another toward Dee. What else could I do? The hall had turned mute. King James leaned forward from his seat on the dais, eyes narrowed.

  I wanted to run.

  I wanted to be cured.

  I wanted to attack Henry.

  He stood with Emma on the edge of the court. Watching. Emma had a hand to her mouth. Onlookers stepped away as I passed them. An aisle formed. When Percy looked to the king, King James held up a palm. To wait. To see what happened to me?

  I reached Dee and stopped, the soft brush of my boots against the polished dance floor seeming like a scream of noise amidst such silence.

  Dee breathed hard while looking at me. His breath smelled of weak wine. “Remove your masque, boy.”

  I glanced at Percy. What could I do? He gave no acknowledgment or direction, so I tore the masque away. Perhaps then Dee would see I wasn’t a boy.

  Dee grabbed my face with his gnarled fingers. I tried to pull back, but he hooked a finger in my stone eye socket and his thumb in the soft skin beneath my chin.

  The touch felt invasive and triggered revulsion. But his strong fingers didn’t relent, no matter how hard I pulled away. If anything, they tightened, digging their cracked nails into the soft skin beneath my jaw.

  “I am neither Keeper nor Igniter.” His voice slipped forth like a chant. Dark. Thick. Filling the room. “Knowledge, science, and the arts of alchemy are my masters. They have allowed me to be a warrior for you. A warrior against this plague. Behold!”

  The lanterns flickered. Dee entered into a fierce muttering. I couldn’t understand his words. They sounded like German.

  Panic flooded me. My good eye left Dee’s crazed popping eyes and searched until it found Emma. The whites of her eyes conveyed the same apprehension I felt. She stepped forward, but Henry yanked her back and hissed something in her ear.