Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  She shook her head. “My trust? Are you in jest?”

  “What you heard and saw in the mirror is not the whole story. You cannot know my motives.”

  “Your motives have always been clear: you intend to lead the three of us into sin and you have done well so far with two of us. You shall not win me over, Lazodeus.”

  “I shall, for I know how important your Father’s poem is to you.”

  Her interest was aroused. What did he know about Father’s poem?

  “What about it?”

  “He has worked on it for decades. It is his crowning achievement, and only a single copy remains.”

  She steeled herself. “What about it?” she said again.

  “Your sisters want to destroy it because you made changes to my story.”

  “That’s right, because you had no right to interfere with my father’s imagination.”

  He shook his head. “That feud is behind us. This is far more important. They know that the manuscript is at St Paul’s. They are at this moment on their way to burn it.”

  Deborah felt the overwhelming burden of responsibility drop once more upon her shoulders. “No, they cannot be. It is too dangerous to go to the city.”

  “They are determined. I tried to convince them not to, but …”

  Deborah narrowed her eyes at him. “How can I trust you?”

  “Because I am telling you this, and not keeping it from you. I have nothing to benefit from saving the manuscript.”

  “Perhaps your benefit is to see me burned to death in the city.”

  “Your sisters have been gone for an hour. Do you really believe they are still watching the fire from the hill?”

  Deborah groaned. “This is all too much. Why have you come between us?”

  “I have been allowed by the three of you to come between you. I have done nothing.”

  “You are not blameless, Lazodeus.”

  He raised his hands in the air. “I came to win your trust. If you do not listen to me and your sisters ensure the manuscript is burned, then perhaps you will realise how prejudiced you have become.”

  Deborah’s mind ticked over the problem. “Give me something to trust you with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want a talisman to protect me from the fire.”

  He smiled. “Clever girl.”

  “Can you do it?”

  He rubbed his hands together and then opened them. “Here, nothing may burn you while you wear this.” He offered her a gold chain, with a fine gold circle on the end.

  She took it from him with her free hand. “I shall test it ere I trust you.”

  He nodded. “As you wish.”

  She strode to the candle, gingerly reached out to the wick. She felt no bite of heat. With a quick movement, she passed her fingers through the flame. Nothing. She almost laughed.

  “Are you satisfied?”

  “I would be more satisfied if you had given these to every poor citizen of London who has so far perished in this blaze.”

  His smile faded. “Must you always be so pious, Deborah? Am I not serving you with a great favour?”

  “That I still do not know,” she replied. “But nevertheless, it appears I am to go to St Paul’s this evening.”

  “And when you see, Deborah, that I mean you no harm, will you perhaps reconsider your feelings for me?”

  She met his gaze evenly. He was so very beautiful that she found it difficult not to like him, merely for the magnetism of his face. “I shall consider that, angel, when I return whole and with Father’s manuscript in my arms.”

  “If you see your sisters, do not mention that I sent you,” he said urgently. “I am avoiding them at the moment, trying to wean them from their devotion to me.”

  “I doubt my sisters would believe a word I said on any topic related to you, Lazodeus. They know we are enemies.”

  He smiled. “Prejudice is unbecoming in one so young, but you shall learn to trust me. You shall.” He vanished and Deborah stood for a moment in the sitting room, planning her lie to Father.

  She was at the threshold of the front door before she said a word to him. With a light, “I’m going to find Mary and Anne,” she stepped out into the street.

  “Be careful,” he called and she noticed his voice trembled a little. How could she leave him alone on such a night? She paused. He had to have some small comfort. She remembered Max cowering under the kitchen table and went to fetch him. “Come, little fellow,” she said, grabbing him and delivering him to Father’s lap. Father frowned.

  “What is this?”

  “Max is frightened, Father, and Mary is not home. Would you be kind to him?”

  Father stroked the little dog’s ears, and Max licked his fingers gratefully. “I suppose I can comfort him if he’s frightened.”

  Deborah touched Max’s head lightly then turned to go. “I won’t be gone long, Father,” she said. “I promise you.”

  It was all a great adventure. Anne, of course, looked like she would be sick from fright at any moment, but Mary was enjoying every second.

  First they’d had to fight their way down to Mooregate. Moore Fields was packed with people and their possessions, and a steady stream of sooty faces emerged from the gate. Mary had dragged Anne down through the crowd and into the burning city.

  They were hours behind the fire. Mary had never seen such a mess, never smelled such a burning, choking smell. They tied their kerchiefs around their faces, but Anne coughed like she might swoon from it. If the wind had not been driving the smoke so hard up into the sky, she may very well have choked to death. The heat of the smouldering buildings was enough to singe their hair, and even the soles of Mary’s shoes began to grow tacky. Some buildings were still on fire, but most were blackened heaps of rubbish. Here and there, they saw a man or a woman squatting near one of the heaps, moaning or crying in distress. It was a scene from a nightmare. The wind gusted up periodically, swirling great funnels of ash and embers around them. One spark had caught on Anne’s skirt and burned the hem, but it was soon put out. The wind drove it all in front of them, leading their way down to Cornhill, or what was left of it. They stuck to the middle of the cobbled street. Unidentifiable heaps of burning wood clustered around the sides of the road. The blackened shell of a church sheltered a crying child from the wind. Everywhere there were people, running in all directions, pressing their possessions to their bodies. There was no longer a cart or carriage to be had anywhere within the walls. Night had set in more than an hour ago, but all was lit up in a hellish light. The glow grew stronger the further they advanced down Cornhill, towards the epicentre of the fire.

  “I shall choke to death,” Anne said.

  “Nonsense. The fire is blown all the way to the Temple by now.”

  “It seems we draw closer.”

  “Can you not see? This is where the fire has been. The wind drives strongly to the west and north. We are behind the fire front. The foot soldier at Cripplegate said the fire has already been to Paul’s.”

  Anne blinked back at her in the firelight. Her dark eyes were round and glistening. “I am so frightened,” she breathed.

  Her sincerity bit through Mary’s impatience. Mary pulled her sister to her and hugged her tight. “We are nearly there. We are almost on Cheapside.”

  “You are enjoying this,” Anne said, bewildered.

  Mary closed her eyes and listened. The crackling of the fire everywhere, the far away sounds of cracking timber and collapsing rooves, the endless cries of the people who ran past them. “’Tis an adventure, Annie. Do you not think it a thrilling adventure?” she said, opening her eyes.

  “We started this fire. People have surely perished.”

  Mary tried to brush a piece of soot from Anne’s cheek, but only succeeded in smudging it further. She noticed her own hands were black. “An accident, Anne.”

  “We started it on purpose.”

  “But its spread was accidental. We are not responsible fo
r the wind, or the inefficiencies of the mayor who might have saved all if he had acted sooner down near Pudding Lane, or the stupidity of those who do not get out of the way of the fire ere it bears down upon them.”

  Anne shook her head. “When I see Lazodeus again —”

  “Yes, yes, now stop whining and come on. Paul’s still stands, and we must find this wretched manuscript.” She was moving through the crowd again, dragging Anne behind her. “Oh, I shall relish feeding the damned thing to the flames.”

  Within minutes they had rounded on St Paul’s. They stopped, gasping for breath, to consider it in the firelight.

  The huge, grey gloomy building stood firm in the centre of an open area, across which the flames could not jump. Sparks had scorched the stone but not caught it. Fire had few places to cling on such a building, the scaffold on the north transept had burned incompletely, and blackened boards heaved precariously in the gusting wind.

  “Death, that’s an ugly church,” Mary said.

  “Is it safe to go in?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then why are we not going in? We have but a few hours.”

  Mary could feel Anne’s gaze on her face. A strong gust of wind blew up, sending flakes of burning ash rocketing across the sky. All around them, the city was turning to charcoal. It felt as though her very skin may be roasting. She felt in her placket for the little fire charm.

  “Mary?”

  Mary pulled the fire charm out and pressed it against her lips. With a mighty heave, she threw it hurtling through the smoke and ash, up towards Paul’s. The wind seemed to slip under it, almost as though it knew her intent and wished to assist. It spun up and up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Burning the manuscript.”

  “But —”

  A loud pop cut her off. They both turned their faces towards the church. The roof had caught fire. Mary laughed. She felt a potent tide of excitement surge through her.

  “Why did you do that?” Anne said, aghast.

  “Because I could.” She grabbed Anne’s hand. “It shall make a pretty fire, Annie, you’ll see.”

  They stood to watch. All around them, cries had started anew. “Paul’s is alight!” A crowd began to gather on the edge of the square. The wind roared up, sending debris spinning across the churchyard. Mary could feel a smile broad on her face. As the minutes ticked by, the fire spread over the roof. The smoke was thick, but being blown away to the west. The city around Paul’s was lit up like daylight. It was as though a grand festival was taking place, and all had gathered to enjoy the spectacular show. Half an hour passed, and the roof started to creak; lead was running in rivulets on to the stone. The east window of the choir exploded, sending shards of glass scattering across the open ground. Mary was about to suggest that they leave, when a strong feeling came over her that she should look towards the north entrance. A compulsion impossible to resist.

  She saw a tall feminine figure hurrying towards the door. Deborah.

  “That little —”

  “My God, Mary, did you see? ’Tis Deborah, she’s gone under the scaffold.”

  “She thinks to save the manuscript.”

  “She’ll be burned alive! She’ll be killed!”

  Deborah. Killed. Mary felt as though she didn’t know who she was suddenly. She shook her head and turned to Anne.

  “We have to save her.”

  Deborah felt indestructible. She had passed through Cripplegate, where the fire post had disbanded due to the advance of the flames, between burning buildings only feet apart, and had not once felt the kiss of fire on her body or clothes. While the rest of the city fled in fear, she moved against the tide and down to Paul’s, which was burning fiercely along its roof. She raced towards the north entrance, up the six stairs to the big iron door, lifted the latch and entered. The roar of the flames was immense above her, and she warily kept to the wall. The talisman protected her against flames, but burning beams may be another matter.

  The transept was full of objects. Everyone in the near vicinity, it seemed, had attempted to store something in here, thinking to protect it from the fire: beds and chairs and cradles and desks, and piles of clothes and children’s toys and books, all junked together in indiscriminate piles, blocking her access to the choir. A violent creaking groaned above as she picked her way along the transept. Behind the choir was the entrance to St Faith’s, a subterranean church which she had visited with Father when she was a child. The wooden door was ajar, and she pulled it open and hurried down the stairs into the church.

  In here, stacks of books and papers lay on every available surface, even along the pews and the altar. At the very top of the wall, a series of tiny windows revealed the street above. All she could see was the glow of the firelight. She glanced around her desperately. How would she find Father’s manuscript here?

  She stood at the first pile and scanned it for the printer’s name. She didn’t recognise it. She kept scanning, moving up the rows, looking for Simmons’s name. A mighty crash from above in St Paul’s stopped her heart. The fire burned louder now, and a thunderous crack rang out so sharp around her, that she thought she may be deafened forever. Her heart raced and she frantically began to plough through the piles of paper. They had been stored here for safety, but it was like a tinderbox in Paul’s, and this paper would merely be fuel for the fire. The temperature had shot up, and smoke began to drift into the room. She coughed, held her kerchief over her face.

  Here. Simmons.

  She dived into the pile of papers, found a wrapped block about the size of Father’s manuscript. Anxious fingers tore the corner of the paper. No, not her handwriting. She tossed it aside, began to despair.

  Then saw it. Brown paper and “Paradise Lost — Milton” written across the front in Simmons’s hand. She snatched it up. Her lungs were aching. She ran back up the stairs and carefully peeked around the door.

  Paul’s was aflame. The piles of objects which she had passed only moments before were blazing. Her route back along the transept was on fire. She frantically looked around her. Parts of the roof had fallen into the choir and cracked the floor. Smouldering rubble lay everywhere and the roof was still creaking. The air was so thick she could barely see, and she realised now, too late, that her talisman did not protect her from the choking pall of smoke.

  Through the flames, then.

  She wrapped the manuscript under her cloak, pressed her arms around it as passionately as she might clasp a lover, and ran for the door. The fire from the burning pile of rubbish licked at her clothes, but did not catch, thanks to the angel’s talisman. If she got out of this alive, perhaps she would have to assess her opinion of Lazodeus after all.

  The door was in sight, the flames falling behind her. She coughed violently, head down. When she looked up, an unexpected sight greeted her.

  Mary and Anne, standing on the top step beckoning her.

  “Come, sister,” Anne cried.

  “What are you …?” She pulled up just short of the door, confused.

  “The roof is about to give,” Anne said.

  Another mighty explosion sounded from the other side of the church. Deborah shrieked.

  “The very stones in the walls are exploding from the heat,” Mary said. “The south side of the church is ruined.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her heart beating wildly. Her sisters were the very reason she was out here, they were her enemies. “You were the ones who wanted Father’s manuscript destroyed.”

  Mary reached out a hand to Deborah. “Sister, save yourself. The manuscript is doomed; you may as well save yourself.”

  Without thinking, Deborah glanced down at the uneven shape poking from her cloak. In a fraction of a second, Mary’s hand was iron on her wrist.

  “Dump it,” she hissed. “Burn it.”

  “No. No, I have come to save it.”

  “Deborah, please. Burn it,” Anne said, her eyes frantic. “We haven’t much time.” />
  Another stone exploded on the south side of the church. Its sharp echoes cracked in Deborah’s ears.

  “I shall not burn it. It means all in the world to Father, and I shall not destroy it!” She had to shout to be heard over the flames.

  Suddenly, Mary gave her a violent shove. “Then burn with it!” she shouted. Anne screamed. Deborah landed on her back, knocking over a burning chair which showered flames over her. When she looked up, the door was closed. She rose and tried to open it. Mary had dropped the latch. She kicked the latch on her side, but it wouldn’t budge. Her sisters had wedged it, perhaps with a piece of the burnt scaffold.

  They had locked her in.

  She thought she heard Anne scream again, but it was hard to tell over the roar of the flames. The roof creaked ominously, and the smoke grew thicker now it had no portal from which to escape. She cowered against the door, her arms pressed over the manuscript, and gazed around her wildly. The heat was unbearable, the sound deafening, and her lungs were stinging from the effort of breathing.

  But nothing hurt so much as the horrible realisation that her sisters intended to kill her.

  Anne could not stop screaming. It seemed it was the only thing that would release the horror inside her. Mary tried to pull her down the stairs, but she would not move.

  “Come, Anne, we have to get away. The roof will fall, we’ll be burned alive.”

  “But our sister is in there!” she cried. Her voice was hoarse and sore. She felt herself to be a raw aching wound and nothing else.

  “She had her chance!”

  “She will die!”

  “If she does not die, we will never see our angel again.”

  Anne stared in horror at Mary, the awful impossibility of the choice sitting ragged in her abdomen. Mary’s face was streaked with tears. Another stone exploded, this time closer. It seemed to rock the very foundations of the staircase upon which they stood. Mary grabbed her and pulled her and she fell over, climbed to her feet, then started running.

  This time she did not notice the route they took. Fires burned all around them, but these were in buildings which were already gutted, and had no more fuel to offer the ravenous flames. She felt her feet beneath her as if they were not her own, stumbling, running, burning on the embers which had long ago melted her shoes down to thin layers. Finally, she could see the river, reflecting the fire like an uneven mirror. Mary was taking her down to the docks. Hundreds of boats floated like black smudges upon the river, desperate folk with their possessions waiting it out on the water. Anne’s feet skidded in the muddy banks. A man was loading a trunk on to a small skiff, and Mary grabbed his shoulder.