by S. C. Ransom
She was returning home after stopping at St Paul’s when she saw one of her servants, a good man, running down the street. She stopped him and he looked at her with eyes wide with horror, not wanting to tell his young mistress what he had seen. But she insisted. “It – it is the plague, mistress. The mark of the plague is on their door.”
“What are you talking about? Whose door?”
“The door of your intended; your man.” He hung his head, not wanting to watch her world crumble. “I saw him being escorted inside myself.”
She stepped back in dismay, waving at the servant to leave. “No, there must be some mistake. He is well, I know he is! He will be at the wedding.”
“They sealed the door yesterday. He must have slipped out before they caught him and brought him back. No one can leave now.”
“You must be wrong. I will see for myself. Give me your cloak.”
The servant did as she commanded and left quickly, not wanting to disagree with her. She wrapped the cloak around herself and made her way towards his neighbourhood. He had not talked of it that morning when she had been with him, so the servant must have got his facts wrong. He must have!
She walked up Fleet Street towards his family’s home, praying that her gift would not desert her; that what she wanted most would come true. But the servant hadn’t lied. The door was sealed, the mark of the plague freshly inscribed on the wood. Still refusing to believe the evidence of her own eyes she slipped down a little alley to the side of the house, where she had sometimes stolen secret kisses with her love. There was a small window leading to one of the maid’s rooms. Perhaps she could get the girl to open the window and talk with her. Quickly checking that no one was watching she bent down to peer inside.
There was no mistaking what she saw. The servant girl was lying in her bed, pale and exhausted, looking as if she was close to death. Someone was leaning over her, tending to her with utmost kindness, kissing her feverish brow, holding her close, declaring his love. And as she watched this tragic farewell she suddenly realised who it was who was holding the maid so tenderly. The same hands that had caressed her face not an hour earlier, the same lips that had declared their undying love to her, the same blue bracelet flashing on his wrist: the man she would marry.
She realised that she had been deceived, that his reason for wanting to run away with her was to escape from the plague. And having been refused, he had been about to escape alone when he had been caught and returned home. Back to the girl who had probably given him the sickness, locked in where they could die together.
She thought that she would die of the pain in her heart: how could this have happened? How could the man she loved with her very life have done this to her? She stumbled away from the scene at the window, running without thinking, desperate to be far away. She ran until she got to the wharf, and stopped, gasping for breath, looking into the murky water.
A cold dread ran through her veins as she considered her limited choices. She couldn’t yet tell if he had given her the plague, but by the time she was sure, she could have given it to her entire family: her beloved parents, her little sisters. That wasn’t a choice. She couldn’t risk anyone knowing that she might have it, as they would automatically lock up her family, so she couldn’t go for help.
She looked up at the familiar façade of St Paul’s, where she would not now be married, and realised that there was only one real alternative.
Ripping the bracelet off her arm she searched on the rough ground for a suitable stone, then scratched and scratched at the inscription until she had made the change she wanted. The Latin wasn’t perfect, but it was enough for her. Placing the bracelet back on her wrist she stood and looked around at her familiar world, silently bidding it goodbye. Wrapping the heavy wool cloak tightly around herself she stepped off the edge of the wharf. As the cold waters of the River Fleet met over her head she made one last wish; that he should continue to suffer until someone was willing to sacrifice everything for him.
Two days later the cart carrying bodies delivered another load to the hastily dug plague pit in the grounds of St Bride’s Church. With cloths over their mouths the men worked quickly, tipping in the rich and poor together, not bothering to check for any signs of life. They were all doomed anyway. As they started to cover the bodies with quicklime the sun caught the fire in the bracelet on one man’s wrist for the last time before disappearing forever. The little stream rising through the festering soil swirled around him and as he took his final breath the water scorched a track through his lungs. In the dark of the pit and the murky recesses of the River Fleet the two amulets set her last wish in motion on a far grander scale than she had intended. They had their first sacrifice, the first to search incessantly for what was now inscribed on her amulet. She had removed just one letter, and added a very faint one of her own, but that was enough. mors memoriae it said now – death of memory, not love. That would be Arthur’s punishment until someone’s love was strong enough to set him and those who followed free. The waiting had begun.
Acknowledgements
Scattering Like Light was mostly written after the publication of Small Blue Thing, so for the first time I had the feedback of real readers to guide me. In fact, I’ve been overwhelmed by the support I’ve been shown by readers: on the website, by fan mail, and during school visits. You have all been fantastic and spurred me on to bring Alex and Callum’s story to its conclusion.
I’d also like to thank Mike Evans, who bid an unfeasibly large amount to have his daughter’s name in the book and to support the Authors for Japan fund (for the 2011 earthquake), Alice Jacobs for Latin advice and translation, and all the other writers I’ve met along the way who have been so positive and shared my (occasional) pain.
As usual the staff at the ever-expanding Nosy Crow have been magnificent, but the biggest thanks must go to my family: the newest member, Bailey (I was outvoted on Beesley), who brings new meaning to the old excuse the dog ate my manuscript; Ellie, who read the draft copy first and made some vital changes; Jake, who hasn’t read a word but gives silent encouragement in his own recognisable way; and Pete, who is constantly supportive, constructive in his criticism, and always there for me. This final volume is dedicated to him, as without him there would have been no book, and Alex and Callum would never have left West Wittering beach.
Find out more about Alex and Callum at
www.smallbluething.com
Copyright
First published in the UK in 2012 by Nosy Crow Ltd
The Crow’s Nest, 10a Lant Street
London SE1 1QR, UK
This ebook edition first published in 2012
Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and / or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd
Text copyright © S. C. Ransom, 2011
The right of S. C. Ransom to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblence to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978 0 85763 068 1
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