by Kim Wilkins
Relief. Mary and Anne did not know where he lived. If they wanted to destroy it, they would go to the printery and be disappointed.
The window slammed shut in a strong gust of wind. “I wish we had made two copies,” she said idly. She moved to Father’s side, pushed the window open again and secured it with a rod.
“Deborah, child,” Father said softly. “You must not worry. Paradise Lost is destined to be published. No impediment will arise. The manuscript is protected by divine intention. Trust me.”
Hearing his gentle conviction was almost too much for her. There was so much he did not know, so many enemies he did not recognise. Tears were suddenly on her lashes.
“Yes, Father,” she said, trying to keep her voice under control. “I shall be in the kitchen with Liza if you need me.”
“Is it not thrilling to be alive, Annie?”
Anne watched her feet carefully as she trod upon the cobbles. It was so dark it seemed that each step she took was into oblivion. She thought being alive at this moment frightening. Mary danced ahead of her, full of energy and excitement. But setting fire to someone’s house was not Anne’s idea of an early morning’s entertainment.
“Annie, think you not that it is thrilling to be alive?”
“I know not, Mary,” she replied. Nearby church bells rang out the hour, startling her. Two in the morning. The tolling was snatched up and carried away on a gust of wind.
“That is because you are not really alive,” Mary muttered.
“I am alive.”
“You are so full of fear that you cannot even feel your heart beat.”
“My heart is so far up my throat that I can barely breathe.”
Mary doubled back and grabbed Anne, pressed her hand to her chest. “Ah yes, ’Tis in there somewhere.”
“Be not so cruel, Mary.”
“I’m not being cruel.”
“You are making a joke of me.”
“Anne, we go to avenge our angel. We are saving him from a century of punishment. If you feel so uncomfortable about it, perhaps you should return home and leave the job to me.”
Anne shook her head resolutely. “No, I shall not.” She had an awful suspicion that Mary’s plan to burn Simmons’s house down was to discourage Anne from helping. Then Mary could take all the credit for saving Lazodeus. Anne wouldn’t let that happen. “But must we burn down his house?”
“Yes. For the manuscript is in it, and it must be burned.”
“Why can we not just steal it and burn it elsewhere?”
“Anne, you poopnoddy. It is one thing to break into an unmanned printery, another thing to creep about a person’s house while he sleeps. We would be caught.”
“But what if he burns to death?”
“Then it serves him right for printing the stupid poem.”
“He may have a wife and children.”
Mary made an exasperated groan. “Anne, once again you put the lives of others ahead of the life of our angel. I shall tell him, you know. When we have saved him, I shall tell him that the whole time you moaned about the needs of anonymous people.” She stopped abruptly. “We’ve come too far. We should have turned right at the last corner.”
Anne followed as she doubled back. The previous afternoon they had waited outside the printery for Simmons to finish work, and followed him to a house on Pudding Lane with a bakery beneath it. They sat across the street for two hours to make sure he did not come out again: to burn down the wrong house would be foolish, and they had no time to make foolish mistakes. The manuscript had to be destroyed by midnight Tuesday and the sun would soon rise on Lord’s day.
Anne found herself breathing more rapidly as they came to a halt outside the building. The bakery window was shut, the windows of the three storeys above it were all dark. Anne almost imagined she could hear the slow breathing sounds of sleep, but when she strained her ears, all she could hear was the creaking of wind in the eaves.
“Here we are,” Mary said, turning to face her in the dark. Anne could not quite make out her features.
“Do we have to go inside?”
Mary shook her head. “I have the fire charm.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“No. But I soon will.” She fiddled around in her placket, then pulled the charm out. It glowed warmly, giving a little light to their scene. “Now, let me see.” She clasped her hands together over the charm, then gasped.
“What is it?”
“’Tis so warm, ’Tis almost …” She held out one of her hands. Her palm glowed orange. “It grows hotter. Ow. It is burning.”
“Quick, let us run down to the river to extinguish it.”
“No, you fool. We don’t want to extinguish it, we want to use it.” She flung out her empty hand in the direction of the bakery’s window. A glimmer shook inside, then an amber glow began to reflect back at them.
“Ha!” Mary said, looking at her palm which had returned to normal. “I did it!”
“Are you sure?”
But Mary had pocketed the fire charm, and was already up against the window, pressing her face and trying to peer in. “Oh, yes, I’m sure. ’Tis spreading already.”
“We should go.”
“No, we should stay and make sure it keeps spreading.”
“Then perhaps we should call out to wake up those in the upper storeys.”
“Then what if Simmons wakes and saves the manuscript? Anne, you simply must let it go. Nothing is too much for the angel to ask us, you know that.”
She did know it. She wished, though, that dealing with the angel was more to do with making love and speaking in hushed voices in the park, rather than running about in the dark breaking laws and endangering lives. But perhaps this was what being a woman meant: that pleasure only came at a price. And that price was surely not too much to pay, when the well of pleasure she drew from was so very deep.
“’Tis not moving very fast,” Mary was saying.
“How fast should a fire move?” Anne asked.
“I —” A crash inside interrupted her. The flames suddenly burned much brighter. Mary scurried back to the opposite side of the road. “Something just gave.”
Anne’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. “We should leave.”
“Just a moment longer.”
Anne glanced at her sister, her face turned up to the building, clear in the fireglow. Mary was enjoying this. Glass suddenly shattered, and the fire curled out of the window and caught on the side of the building. They seized each other in shock.
“Now can we go?”
“Yes, yes,” Mary said, backing down the street, but not tearing her eyes from the scene.
Anne found herself similarly transfixed. The fire was racing up the outside wall, and inside she could see the bright flames hanging ravenously from beams. A sudden blast of wind roared overhead, and for the first time Anne saw Mary show concern. Her brow furrowed as she watched the wind feed the flame, and a great arm of fire licked out and danced.
“Let us leave,” she said breathlessly, turning on her heel and hurrying down the street. Anne followed her close behind. As she reached the bottom of Pudding Lane, she heard a cry.
“Was that someone screaming?”
“Anne, that’s a good thing. It means they are awake, and will now save themselves. But the fire is so advanced, they will not be able to save the manuscript.”
They rounded into Thames Street and ran straight down Cocks Key to the river. The strange sour, metallic smell of it was comforting after the close, hot lane. They stood on the sludgy bank, looking out over the water. Anne gulped big breaths of air, but could not seem to fill her lungs.
“Mary, what have we done?”
“We have saved Lazodeus from imprisonment. We have ensured that we will see him again.”
A soft rushing grew behind them. Anne turned and looked back down the key. “Can you hear that?”
“’Tis just the wind.”
“I believe it is the fire.” S
he was rewarded by a long, low creak and then a crash. “We must go back. We must go back and help to put it out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But the houses are so close together. The whole street will burn.”
Mary grasped Anne by the shoulders. “Calm down. The city has engines which shoot water upon the flames. Within no time, the fire will be out. Besides, what could you do if you went back? Piss on it?”
Anne clutched her stomach. “I think I may throw up.”
“No, Annie,” Mary said, turning to the river. “Guilt and nausea may feel the same, but only one can escape your stomach. We should call Lazodeus and tell him what we have done.”
For the first time this evening, the promise of comfort came to her. “Yes, you are right. For he will be free now, I expect.”
“Lazodeus,” Mary called, and the wind snatched her words and sent them echoing down the river. He did not respond.
“Perhaps it takes time for his release to be effected,” Anne suggested.
“Perhaps … oh!”
Anne whirled around to see what sight had caused an expression of horror to appear on Mary’s face. A squat, pig-faced creature stood behind them. She let out a short, sharp scream.
“Be not alarmed,” the creature said. “I am a messenger from Lazodeus.”
“Why does he not come?” Mary said, and Anne noticed she had slowly backed towards her. Her sister was terrified of the creature, and that terror suddenly became contagious. Usually Mary feared nothing.
“What are you?” Anne gasped.
“’Tis a demon, Anne,” Mary said, reaching for her hand.
Anne could only stare as the creature spoke again.
“He does not come, my ladies, because he is in prison.” The demon smiled as though it relished the thought. “He cannot go anywhere for a hundred years.”
“But we burned the manuscript!”
Suddenly the smile disappeared and the creature shook his head. “You didn’t burn a manuscript, you burned a bakery.”
“No, Simmons lives above! We waited and watched for hours.”
“He was visiting his sister’s husband.”
“Then the manuscript …”
“Was not there.” The creature looked around, drawing Anne’s attention for the first time to the orange smoke which slowly rose from Pudding Lane. “But haven’t you made a nice fire?” it said, its voice thick with sarcasm.
“Go away, wretch,” Mary said.
“No, wait. Where is the manuscript?” Anne asked urgently.
“I know not,” it said. “Good morning.” The demon vanished, leaving Anne and Mary clutching hands by the river.
“Oh, no,” Mary said as a gust of wind roared overhead, and a cloud of sparks eddied up into it.
“What have we done, Mary?” Anne said softly. “What have we done?”
Anne could not bring herself to open her prayer book and read along with the congregation. In her addled state — she had only slept two restless hours after her early morning adventure with Mary — Anne imagined the angels listening to her praying would instead hear the false notes of her guilty soul, see her dark heart and judge her. She could not bring herself to utter the name of Christ, her mild and loving erstwhile hero, for she suspected that last night she may have become a murderer.
Master Allard began his sermon, and Anne glanced up and down the pew. Father’s back was ramrod-straight, his hair combed neatly. Deborah sat next to him, her leg pressed against Anne’s. On Anne’s other side was Mary. She regarded her sister a moment. Anne suspected the black rings under Mary’s eyes matched her own, but Mary bore no expression which indicated guilt or suffering. Anne dropped her gaze to her lap, pressed her fingers against each other.
Lord’s day. She may have murdered on Lord’s day.
If only there was a way of finding out if anyone had perished in the fire, but Mary had warned her not to open her mouth, not to mention the fire. They did not want suspicion brought upon them.
Perhaps she would feel comforted if they had at least been successful in their quest to release Lazodeus from his imprisonment. With Lazodeus’s arms around her, she could be healed of any woe. He would no doubt be able to explain why it was more important to save a loved angel than to value human life …
But she must stop thinking like this. Mary had been quite clear: they didn’t know that anyone had been hurt, and it was a good chance that all they had effected was a loss of property and not life. Besides, Mary had said, any consequence of the fire they started was accidental. They intended no harm to anyone.
And in some brief moments, Anne could even take comfort in knowing that it was Mary who lit the fire, not herself. Anne had pleaded with her not to. Why, she was hardly a murderer when seen in that light.
The sermon finished and Anne drew deep breaths as her family arose around her.
“Will you take me to Master Allard, Deborah?” Father asked.
“Certainly, Father.”
Mary and Anne filed out into the bright morning air. Mary pressed her back against the wall and yawned. “Is it not foul how Father treats Deborah like his wife while Betty is away?”
“I do not believe he does. Father cannot see and so with Betty away —”
Mary waved a dismissive hand. “For goodness sake, don’t defend them.”
Anne looked back at her wordlessly. Too tired to speak.
“We have to find out where Simmons lives.”
“We are not setting any more fires.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “You can stay home this time. Lazodeus would probably prefer it if I saved him. He must be able to tell I care more.”
“You do not care more!” This exchange was growing old between them. Anne shrugged. “I will do what I have to.”
“Good, here comes Deborah. Ask her where Simmons lives.”
“Me?”
“She doesn’t trust me.”
Deborah emerged from the church.
“Where is Father?” Anne asked.
“He is still speaking with Master Allard.” Deborah adjusted her bonnet on her head. “You look tired, Anne. Did you not sleep well?”
Anne shook her head. “I have been troubled by terrible dreams.”
Deborah glanced at Mary then back at Anne. “Some say that troubling dreams are the sign of a soul in torment.”
“Deborah,” Anne said, ignoring her comment, “does Father’s friend Simmons live close by?”
“Why do you want to know?” Deborah narrowed her eyes.
“I am curious.”
Deborah shook her head and laughed; a short cynical laugh. “Oh, Annie. It has come too far for this, do you not see? I know the two of you destroyed Father’s drafts, I know Simmons’s printery was vandalised, and I know it has something to do with the angel. Do you think I’m a fool? Do you think that you can once again be my dear, beloved sister, when all you have done of late is aimed at ruining Father’s work?”
“Father only loves you because you are free labour,” Mary hissed, leaning in between them. “You were better to take our side. At least we have always loved you for who you are.”
Deborah turned wide hazel eyes on her, and was about to open her mouth to rebut her comment when Father joined them, Master Allard guiding him by the elbow.
“Here are your girls, John.”
“Thank you, Laurence,” Father said. Deborah took his arm.
“What fine young women they have grown into,” Master Allard said. “You must be mightily proud.”
Father without a trace of irony said, “Daughters, Laurence, are nothing but trouble. Would that I had had sons.”
Anne watched Deborah’s face fall with disappointment. Mary gave a smile of triumph.
“Come,” Deborah said, “let us return home.”
“Where is Liza? I’m starving!” Mary paced the kitchen one more time while Father frowned.
“Mary, sit still. Liza will be here soon enough.” Mary leaned on the back
of her chair. Liza had gone out for bread half an hour ago. Deborah had made soup for supper, but Father wouldn’t let them eat until the bread arrived. The four of them waited around the kitchen table in uncomfortable silence.
Today had been a complete waste of time. After church, Mary had laid down for a second only to wake four hours later. Stupid Anne hadn’t woken her, so nearly a whole day had been lost. Now she had to wait until after supper to take Anne aside and discuss a new plan. How hard could it be to find Simmons’s address? Someone would know it. First thing tomorrow — Monday morning — they could go and ask questions at the printery, or perhaps she could press one of her friends of influence to help. Wallace certainly owed her a favour or two.
“I said sit down!” Father roared, and Mary dazedly realised that she had been pacing once again. Just as she dropped into her seat, Liza bustled in.
“What took so long?” Mary asked.
Liza turned agitatedly on Father. Her eyes were glowing and her face flushed.
“Sir, I have —”
“Where’s the bread?” Mary asked, for Liza had laid nothing on the table.
“Is there no bread?” Father said. “You have been gone a long time to come back empty-handed.”
“Sir, I have news,” Liza managed to squeeze out. “There is a fire down by the river, burning out of control along Thames Street.”
“A fire?”
“Yes, sir. There is talk of it everywhere. It started early in the morning, and has since burned down four hundred houses.”
“Four hundred!” Anne gasped. “Has anyone been killed?”
Liza turned to her. “That I know not, Miss Anne. But my sister lives at the top of Fish Street Hill and I would like to go and check on her.” She turned to Father. “Please, sir. I’m terribly worried.”
“Of course, of course,” Father said. “You must see if she needs you. How far beyond Fish Street is it burning, Liza? As far as Gracechurch Street?”
Mary saw Deborah glance at Father, her breath held tight on her lips, and knew instantly that this was the street that Simmons lived on. Perhaps their little fire was destined to destroy the manuscript after all. She waited calmly for Liza’s answer.
“Not yet, sir, but folks are moving their goods out and taking to the river. The fire is so hot that the engines cannot get near it, and people are in such a panic that they’ve pulled the pipes out of the ground. There is no water to be had anywhere from Billingsgate to Cold Harbour.”