I’d watched the plague slither into my mouth.
White had saved me.
I was changed. I could feel it, but not identify it. Whoever I was when I collapsed, I was no longer. There was an unrest in me because now I knew Dee caused the plague. The death of King James would cure no one.
I had a new enemy.
“Not even Dee could heal you,” Wintour said, and my spine stiffened. Of course Dee couldn’t cure me. He had no desire to. He wanted me dead because now I knew his secret.
I needed to tell Catesby, but I couldn’t purge his words from my mind. “He is not dead . . . but neither is he alive.” He saw me as a waste of resources. Would he respect any of my words if I tried to rid the plotters of another member?
“When did I finally respond?” I asked.
“Not until Guy returned.” Wintour grabbed my hand and placed a bowl in it. I reached with my other for the spoon. At least they were letting me feed myself now. But it brought little solace. I found myself longing to be plagued like the old days. In one eye. Ashamed, but still functional.
Now I couldn’t even feed myself without help. Perhaps, with practice, that would change. But . . .
The darkness was lonely.
“You’ve some letters.” Father’s voice came out hesitant. “I fetched them from the Bear.”
I had letters? “From whom?” As the words passed my lips, I knew.
“I’ve not opened them. But the seal is Monteagle.”
Emma.
I held out a hand and thick parchment brushed against my palms. Several letters, then. What must Emma have been thinking? I’d disappeared. She had likely visited our rendezvous spot and waited for hours. I hated the idea of her waiting alone.
“I delivered a letter to the Monteagle house, informing them you were taken ill.”
What did Emma’s letters say?
I would never know unless I asked someone else to read them for me. And that, I couldn’t do, no matter how severe my curiosity. If she wrote anything of White Light, I would be questioned. Doubted. She would endanger herself.
And endanger me.
I hadn’t forgotten my last conversation with White Light. It felt like a dream or another life—a lullaby in a plagued mind. But it had happened. My soul knew it more than my mind.
I’d spoken to the White Light. I’d accepted it. I didn’t know what that entailed, but none of the plotters could know until I figured it out.
“Is there something between you and Monteagle’s ward?”
I’d almost forgotten Father was there. “Nothing more than my duties and conversation.” And secrets and deep trust.
“She’s an Igniter, Thomas. You cannot involve yourself with her. Perhaps your plague is a sign of—”
“It’s a sign of nothing!” I fisted the letters. “I’m plagued because—”
A knock on the door.
Father’s weight left the bed. Sick dread entered my gut. “Don’t answer it,” I said, but the creak of the wood on metal drowned out my plea.
I strained my ears, angling my left one from habit. Street chatter gusted through the entry with the breeze. The wind smelled of earth and bodies and Thames. Despite its threads of stench, I welcomed it far more than the dirty walls of this apartment.
The door closed again. “Who was that, Father?”
“Who do you think?” John Dee responded.
I recoiled against the wall. “Get away!”
“So you know. I’d suspected you caught enough of a glimpse of my mask, so let me remind you of what you’ve seen me do. I silenced those three Igniters on the dock within seconds. I lifted the entire tunnel to free the gunpowder and it barely took a toll on me—”
“You were bedridden for two weeks.”
“When other men would have been put out for a month. Or dead. My point is . . . You know my power. And you wouldn’t want that power to go against any of your plotter friends now, would you? I could tear their Keeper blood right out of their bodies like your friend Percy is so skilled at doing. With a single command I could crack their skulls open like eggshells. I can spill your names to the king.”
“That would thwart your own plans to raise Princess Elizabeth.”
“Do you think I can’t recover? I’ve lived through plots even Catesby couldn’t have dreamed up. Every threat I make has been thought out, planned out. All of which can be avoided by your silence. After all, you don’t want Emma endangered . . .”
I swallowed hard, my Adam’s apple scraping against pieces of Stone Plague. He’d won. And he knew it.
He left.
The desire to say something to Father or Catesby sat like hot water in my mouth that I wanted to spew, but Dee was right. I’d seen his power.
I needed to think this through.
My head pounded. I leaned against the pillow as the door creaked again. The change in footfalls revealed Father’s entrance. I said nothing, for now.
I thumbed Emma’s letters, unsure where to direct my thoughts. Three. Three letters. There was so much I wished to know—their dates, their contents, their purposes. Was she in trouble with Henry?
The more I let my mind question, the more it spiraled into paranoia. Would Dee cut her next?
The unknown contents tormented me. The blindness ate at me. I finally slid the letters under my mattress as though they never existed.
I wished Father had never told me about them.
20 September 1605
It took several days for my strength to return enough so I could venture into the cellar at the sound of foot scuffles. I was sick of spending so much time in my bed, waiting for something to happen—the plague to finish the job, White Light to say something, Dee to murder me, the plot to end.
The footsteps belonged to Father. I never thought I’d be able to differentiate between something so common as footsteps, but now that my eyes were gone, my ears seemed to step in to fill the gap.
I held my arms out to guide me down the stairs. But soon I found it was easier to go off of memory than to try to guide myself physically. I stopped on the first step and envisioned the apartment. Down the stairs, through the door if it was closed, don’t trip over the line of crates.
I made my way down the stairs at a regular pace, grasping for some semblance of normal. I misjudged the bottom step and stumbled. My knee hit something and then there was a clatter. Blast it all.
“Thomas? What are you—”
“I cannot remain in that bed one moment longer.” Surely Father understood.
Silence.
“I just . . . I’m tired of the view.” My lips quirked up; the humor freed a level of tension that had been building in my chest. I could jest about my situation.
“The . . . view?” I caught the smile in his voice. Good. “Well then, I’ve a fire for us. Shall we warm upstairs?”
I headed back to the main room. Father didn’t take my elbow or try to guide me.
My hip caught the doorframe. Bruise. I realigned and walked around it, settling onto what I knew was the bench beside the hearth. A crackle. Pop. Warmth. “Are we alone?”
“Aye.” Father’s voice came from in front of me, beside the hearth. Higher up, as though standing. I pictured his regular posture—one elbow high on the mantel, the other hand resting at his side or on his sword hilt if he wore it.
“How is the plot?” No one had given me any updates. Catesby had made it clear I had nothing to offer. To be cut out of it when we were so close left me shamed. But it affirmed that the plot truly was their main focus, beyond even care for each other.
“We hit a few snags but recovered. November fifth can’t come soon enough.”
Barely a month away. “What sort of snags?” Did they find out about Dee?
Father’s boots scuffed the ground. “The gunpowder . . . When I returned and checked it, some was decayed.”
I straightened. “Decayed?”
“Gunpowder is not meant to be stored that long. With all the delays from the
tunnel collapse and prolonging of Parliament, it was only a matter of time. Catesby is looking into getting more.”
All that powder. All that coin. Wasted. Was it Dee?
That was me.
I dared not move or speak. White Light’s voice seemed so loud in my mind, I was sure Father had heard it.
There was no more guesswork.
White Light was against this plot.
And if it could collapse a tunnel and decay gunpowder, what else could it do?
“Will we be rowing it across the Thames again?” I forced myself to ask. Could Father detect the war inside me? If White Light was against the plot and I continued helping with it, what might it do to me?
Don’t blame me. You’d be doing it to yourself.
It had been easy to surrender myself to it when I was dying. What did surrender mean now that I was well? White Light had saved my life, yes. But it had left me blind from plague.
“Thomas . . . you can’t possibly expect to help row. You could put the plot at risk.” The warning in Father’s voice told me plenty. The plotters had discussed this among themselves.
“What was Catesby’s conclusion? Now that I’m not a lifeless slug upon my bed, has he come up with an idea other than simply letting me die?”
“He concerns himself only with the plot.” Father sighed. “He has brought in a new conspirator.”
“Who?”
“Ambrose Rookwood.”
I knew that name. “The man who provided us with gunpowder?”
“Aye.”
“He is trustworthy?”
“Rookwood’s wife is cousin to Keyes. He is a horse breeder. We think he suspected something already and we need the steeds. With the recently decayed gunpowder, we need his resources.”
I angled my face to the fire, letting the warmth touch the bits of skin that remained exposed. For a moment I imagined how Father must view me—a face like a statue. Expressionless. Disgusting. But then, how different was it really from his own? He never removed his mask.
And now . . . I’d never know what he truly looked like.
He was supposed to have returned with my mask, but now that I had a face of stone, I didn’t have the heart to ask for it.
“What can I do, Thomas?” A movement. Then silence. As though he almost came to me.
“I don’t know, Father.” I stretched out my legs in front of the bench. “When the stone started to spread, I thought . . . I thought it was the end. I was certain I would die.”
“How did it happen? I’ve never heard of the plague spreading in such a manner.”
I fiddled with my belt as though I’d find my sword there. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say Dee’s name out loud. But to put all the plotters at risk like that . . . I cared about them too much.
So I told the truth without a name. “The mysterious man from the banks of the Thames. He was wounding people on the street, so silently and swiftly no one even knew it was him. I followed him, but he took me by surprise. Cut my shoulder and the plague arose from the wound.”
“From his sword?”
“A dagger.”
“Then someone has learned the secrets of the Stone Plague.” Father’s footsteps marked his way across the room. “How is this possible?”
“Don’t you see? The Stone Plague isn’t some curse. It’s a color Compulsion. Killing King James won’t change that.”
A rustle of clothing—the lifting of his hat from the peg. “We will talk more of this tonight.”
I stood up. “Where are you going?” Was it nightfall already?
“Catesby’s. There’s a meeting. I’ll bring home supper.”
Noon, then. “I’ll join you.” I headed toward the door but knocked my outstretched hand against the window. I redirected, heading for where my boots ought to be.
“No, Thomas. You’re not recovered enough and Catesby’s forbidden it for now.”
“Why?” Did Catesby know about the White Light?
“The walk to Lambeth is long and you’re hardly recuperated. Besides, we can’t hide your plague. You would draw attention. I’m sorry.”
By the time I opened my mouth for a response, the door had closed. Again, I was left alone. I hated the idea of sitting in the Whynniard house. I’d been in there for weeks. Weeks. I couldn’t stay.
If Dee was threatening the other plotters—threatening my father—then I needed to go, despite my illness.
I fumbled for my boots. On my first attempt I put them on the wrong feet and I growled at the empty room. Once I got them right and hooked my sword belt on, I grabbed my hat and pulled it as low as it would go. I didn’t need to worry about it blocking my vision, for I had none.
I tried one cloak after another until I finally found the worn familiarity of my own. Then I burst outside. I was hoping to run after Father, but now that I was out in the street, the onslaught of disorientation hit me. Voices, smells, sounds. Swirling. Digging their way into my midnight mind.
The world was . . . louder. Broader.
And I didn’t feel a part of it. Life maintained its too-fast dance and, like at the masquerade, I felt pressed against the wall. Suffocating beneath the weight of my difference.
“Father?” I knew he wasn’t around to hear, but the earth wouldn’t release its hold on me—as though the very ground had spoken color speech to the roots of fear and they entangled my boots.
I took several deep breaths, then headed to the left, as that would take me to London Bridge and thence to Lambeth. But I’d turned too soon and strode through a gutter with a splash.
I lurched out of it and rammed into a body. “Get off!” someone shouted. The voices grew louder—hawkers and buskers and shoppers. I stretched my hands in front of me, every centimeter of skin burning from shame.
All eyes on me.
All sounds in me.
All fear controlling me.
“Father?” I didn’t even hear my own voice. I rushed forward—if only I could catch up. Shout loud enough for him to hear—to know that I would not be caged. I was strong. Persistent. Like him.
I struck the side of a house and my elbow cracked on brick. What was that house doing there? I was heading straight up the road. I thought.
I turned again, took two steps, and met another building. “Father!” Blast it all. I broke into a cautious run, arms outstretched and hat brim pulled low. “Father! John Johnson! Father!”
A goose honked in response, followed by a strike from someone’s cane. “Plague! Plague! This boy has the plague!”
Another strike from the cane. I threw my hands up to protect my little bit of exposed face and turned away from the strikes until the angry cry faded, until the noise faded.
Until the world faded.
I could go forward no more. But neither could I go back. Because I was lost.
Thirty-Three
Father found me.
All day and evening I had waited, crouched in an alley with a double cloak of humility over my shoulders. Even when my gut twisted from hunger, I stayed.
He asked no questions. I offered no answers. We entered the Whynniard house and he handed me a cold pasty. I took it to my cot by the window—not that it mattered. My view remained the same no matter where I sat or ate.
Dark.
Blind.
Alone.
The next morning—at least I assumed it was morning due to the scent of eggs and sausages brought from the Duck and Drake—I fetched a sheet of parchment and sat at the letter desk beneath the window.
If I couldn’t read Emma’s letters, I’d write her one of my own. But how could I explain all that had transpired over the past month of silence between us? If so much had happened on my end, how much had she dealt with?
I fumbled for a quill and inkwell. I traced the corners of the paper with my fingers to make sure I set the nib on parchment and not on the wood of the table. No matter my words, this letter would look terrible. Best to get straight to the point.
Dear Emma,
The Stone Plague has blinded me. I have only just received your letters and cannot read them.
My nib paused, but I didn’t lift for fear of losing my place. What else was there to say? The letter wouldn’t hold half my heart and I didn’t want to risk Henry reading the contents.
I couldn’t continue rescuing Keepers with Emma. I couldn’t continue employment with the Baron. I couldn’t do anything to save Emma from Henry.
So I scribbled out a final sentence.
It is best if you forget me.
T
I folded it and managed a messy wax seal that resulted in more hot wax on my fingers than on the parchment. I pressed a thumb into the soft wax instead of a seal.
Then came the hard part.
I ventured outside again—the sun banishing my need for a cloak. I went until I heard voices. Sea brine and sweat reached my nose. I was near the Thames. My boots clunked onto the boardwalk and I stopped. “I am in need of a caddy!”
A few voices stopped their chatter. No one approached me. Finally, I lifted the sealed letter and raised my voice. “Where is a caddy?”
“Here, sir.” The timid voice came from beside my left elbow.
Relief. I handed the boy the letter and a few pence. “Deliver this to the Monteagle house on the Strand. To Emma Areben, the Baron’s ward.” I punctuated this request with another pence.
“Yessir. That’ll be another twopence, sir.”
“Why the increase?”
“You’re plagued, sir. Riskin’ my life, I am.”
I liked this kid. I gave him another twopence. A patter of footsteps signaled his departure.
The caddy carried away not only my letter, but also any obligation or guilt I felt over looking out for Emma. I couldn’t risk putting her on Dee’s list of prey if he was making life threats against my companions.
I headed back to the Whynniard house, but this time I allowed my ears to guide me more than my hands. Not much improvement, but it at least gave me a sense of self-sufficiency.
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