My skin prickled and the room spun. The pressure of Dee’s thumb and forefinger grew stronger and stronger, digging between my bones. Colors exploded in my mind like knives thrust through my skull.
A hundred voices—dark and chanting like Dee’s words—hummed and rippled and surged. Could no one else hear them? They grew louder. Dee’s fingers tighter. My fear stronger.
I let out a bellow and wrenched away. Too many colors. Too many sounds. I collided with the ground and cracked an elbow against the polished stone.
My cheeks burned. I felt—rather than saw—everyone’s scrutiny upon me. I tried to push to my feet, but the dizziness was only just abating. Nothing felt different. Stiffness pulled at my left eye as it always had. It hadn’t worked.
I rested on all fours, breathing heavily. Gasping.
It echoed in the dead room.
Then a woman screamed. I caught a face staring at me from the floor. From in the floor. I reeled away, but even as I crab-crawled backward, my mind registered the face. Combed-back dark hair, pale skin, and astonished wide blue eyes.
Two of them.
Mine.
Twenty-Five
I lifted a trembling hand to my face, barely registering the cacophony of voices. But before my fingers touched my skin, I knew I was cured. Because I could see the left side of the room without turning my head.
I closed my right eye—my good eye.
Still I saw. I saw King James on his feet, eyes round as oranges. I saw Percy, jaw slack. I saw Dee . . . shaking and sweating and then slumping to the ground. The king’s men rushed to help him. Good thing, too, because the onlookers swarmed Dee next, shouting all manner of pleas.
“My baby has the plague, please come heal her!”
“Teach us how to do this!”
“What color did you command?”
“You don’t speak to White Light at all?”
The loudest voice of all came from across the room. “Lies!” Emma pointed an accusing finger. “I don’t know what colors you spoke to, but only White Light can cure. This isn’t right.”
Henry yanked her from the room as Dee was brought before King James. I wasn’t even sure Dee heard Emma. I kept touching my new eye—blinking for the first time in two years. It still felt stiff and grainy, like the plague rested beneath my skin now. But what did it matter?
I. Could. See.
“What the girl says is true,” the king said. “White Light is the greatest and purest of the color powers.”
“Then why has it not saved the plagued?” Even with Dee’s bowed head and tone of humility, the question came out as a challenge.
This Dee fellow could be a great addition to the plot.
“We will talk of this privately.” With a single look from the king, the guards took a compliant Dee away. Yet Dee had made his point.
I was cured.
I was new, and all of London had seen it. Even Emma. So why was she so vehement against Dee? Did she know something about him, or was she simply offended on behalf of White Light?
Dee was almost out of the room when a firm hand gripped my shoulder. I startled and looked up. Percy steered me out of the room into an antechamber off one side of the king’s dais.
He lowered his mouth to my ear. “Say anything about the plot and I’ll stab you in the back.”
“What?”
His fingers dug into my muscles. Then he threw me into a chair and stood guard. The room was empty except us two. Before I could utter a word, King James himself strode in. My confusion and nerves doubled.
Here was the king. Just the king—in a room with two plotters who planned to murder him. King James wore clothing stuffed with padding to guard against knife attacks. His bent legs sent him into the room at a waddle. Three more men entered the room and stood behind him. Percy took his place at King James’s side.
I stared at the king, trying to see what Percy saw. Trying to hate like Percy hated. Trying to remember all the things that King James had allowed to happen.
“Were ye truly plagued, young man?” the king asked in a thick Scottish brogue.
He didn’t call me boy. “Yes, Your Majesty.” I trained my eyes on the ground. It spread out so wide now that I had my full sight. A broad expanse of world revealed with each blink.
“When did ye contract the plague?”
I willed myself to act obedient and submissive. Answer questions, do not offer information. “Two springs ago. It started with my eye and spread to my forehead just this last outbreak.”
“Where did ye contract i’? What be your name? And who be your master?” The questions came fast. Thick.
Don’t look at Percy. Don’t look. “I . . . I contracted it in York, sire.” Percy stared me down from behind the king. “My name is Thomas and . . . and . . .” I couldn’t tell him I worked for Percy and I didn’t dare give him Father’s pseudonym. “I am a caddy—an errand boy—for the Baron Monteagle.” Or at least I was. “They are an Igniter family, sire.”
“You were nae plant?”
I frowned and felt a surge of exhilaration to have both eyebrows obey. “A plant, Your Majesty?”
“A fake,” Percy interrupted. “One of Dee’s helpers.”
“N-No. Of course not.”
King James turned his eyes to Percy. “Do ye sense any lying?”
Percy appraised me a final time. “None, my liege.”
“Very well. Send the man home.”
Man. Not boy. The king believed me.
I was out of the chair and in the road before I could process the turn of events. Percy said nothing more to me, so I did the one thing that made sense. I headed back to the Whynniard house, taking in the winter stars with full sight for the first time in two years.
What would Father say when he saw me? Would he be proud? Would he give me my mask and color power?
I was cured. My entire goal for becoming a masked had been met. No more fear of death. The life or assassination of King James didn’t change my fate.
For the first time, I was free.
And that freedom begged me to ask myself a certain frightening and dangerous question: Now that I was cured . . . did I still have reason to be part of the Gunpowder Plot?
Brown
Twenty-Six
“Thomas!” Father’s entrance into the Whynniard house took me by such surprise, I drew my sword.
He stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. Frozen.
I sheathed my rapier. “I’m impressed you recognized me.” I still hadn’t gotten used to how broad the world seemed now that I took it in with two eyes—even our pathetic apartment seemed larger.
Father stood aghast for another moment, then slammed the door behind him and swept off his hat. “So King James is dead, then?”
“Um . . . no.”
Confusion devoured the delight in his voice. “But how are you cured?” Then something like apprehension sent him backing toward the door. “What did you do, Thomas?”
The way he asked it sent a shard of guilt into my chest. What did he think I’d done? Given myself over to White Light? “I didn’t do anything,” I growled. “An alchemist in the king’s court—John Dee—healed me.”
“Igniter?”
“No.” I told him everything. I told him about Henry finding me in the garden—though I left out any mention of Emma. I told how he’d revealed my plague to Dee and then Dee healed me in front of everyone. “He said he’s neither Keeper nor Igniter. He has nothing to do with White Light—he just overpowers the different colors and bends them to his will.”
Father paced the length of the entry. “Does Catesby know?”
“Not yet, but Percy will undoubtedly fill him in before the night is out.”
Back and forth. Back and forth. “I don’t trust it.”
“I’ve always known a strong enough color command could cure me.” I had been right all this time. Norwood hadn’t believed me, Father hadn’t believed me, even Emma hadn’t believed me—yet here it w
as. I never stopped believing.
“But others have tried—never to any avail.”
“They weren’t strong enough,” I said.
“I tried with your mother.”
“Then you aren’t strong enough!” Why didn’t he get it? Dee did it. I was living proof. Father could protest and deny and scratch his honorable head all he liked, but both of my eyes now saw and blinked and held his gaze.
His chest heaved. His pacing stopped. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” I hadn’t meant to deflate him. “But . . . aren’t you pleased that I’m no longer plagued?”
“Of course. I just . . . I want to understand so we can spread that to the rest of England.”
I clamped my mouth shut. I had thought only of myself. My plague. My healing. My future.
Father thought of England. Of others.
There were so many ways I wanted to be different from Guy Fawkes. But in this . . . in this I wished I were more like him.
“If Igniters were able to see that the plague is not the Keepers’ fault, maybe they’ll stop capturing and killing us,” he said.
I unbuckled my sword belt and hung it up. “For every Keeper that dies, the Igniters believe someone is cured of the plague.” “You’re right, Father. We should talk to Catesby. Perhaps he will know more about Dee.” I tried to think broader—beyond the now. “What does this mean for the plot?”
“Nothing has changed.”
“Not even with King James? You think his death and the death of Parliament will still cure the plague?”
“I do. And even if it doesn’t, it will release Keepers from oppression and execution. We were successful in our offer on the undercroft of Parliament.” He discarded his hat. “You will still have to keep your face hidden, Thomas. Those at the masquerade who saw you will recognize you on the street. You will draw attention to us.”
“Why don’t you give me my mask, then?” The words hung in the air like the plague hay bale outside the door. Bound with tension and silent messages.
Say yes.
“I will discuss it with Catesby.”
At least it wasn’t a no.
28 March 1605
“Are you certain you can see?” Catesby bent at the waist, putting his face right up close to mine and staring at the skin around my eye socket.
“Yes, sir.” I tapped my cheekbone. “To my mind, it still feels stiff and tough, as though it is made of stone, but my sight is returned to me. I suppose those are the aftereffects of being plagued.”
It had been three days since the masquerade and we’d secured the lease for the undercroft. But the gunpowder remained buried in the Whynniard tunnel.
Catesby shook his head and stepped back to the table in his meeting room at Lambeth. “I don’t understand. You say John Dee was a guest of King James? Wouldn’t that mean he’s an Igniter?”
Percy stepped up at this. “He was not a guest of King James. Dee entered the court as part of Ben Jonson’s troupe of masquerade conductors. Prior to the masquerade, John Dee had been refused from court. To my knowledge, he and King James have always disliked one another.”
“Indeed?” Catesby rubbed his chin, smoothing out his trimmed beard. I looked between him and Father. When would Father bring up my mask?
We discussed plans of tunnel digging and funds and whether or not we should abandon the trapped gunpowder and risk ordering a new batch.
Catesby accepted my healing without much ado. His ease of acceptance sent a message of normalcy to the other plotters. It abated their fear, their overexcitement, their rash conclusions.
We went our separate ways after the meeting, each bolstered with the success of the plot and the continuous good news. Father stayed behind.
I thought back to Christmas when the plague had an outbreak and the tunnel collapsed and then Parliament was delayed. At that time it had seemed like such a sign from White Light—a sign that we should abandon the plot.
But what about these new signs? The undercroft? My healing?
I found myself not back at the Whynniard house but instead at the Bear, where I paid for an ale and a piece of parchment.
I needed to write Emma. I had so many questions—about her safety, about Dee, about Henry, about White Light. I especially wanted to tell her how privileged I felt when she trusted me enough to show her face.
But that mustn’t go in a letter.
If Henry was tightening his hold on Emma, I didn’t want him intercepting the letter. What might he do if he knew she’d trusted me with something so private?
So I wrote with familiarity but avoided the topic I most wanted to address. If she replied, I’d know it was safe to say more.
Emma,
My plague is gone. I can’t explain what happened at the Whitehall masquerade, but I’m curious—why did you believe Dee was lying? My sight has returned and I truly believe I might be cured.
Are you safe? You can come to me at any time. For anything. I want to talk. I am willing to listen. Even about White Light.
Thomas
The Bear at Bridgefoot
When I had posted the letter and returned to the Whynniard house, Father was already there. The question about my mask didn’t even make it past my lips.
“Catesby says you are to have your mask.” He sounded resigned. That wasn’t the attitude I’d hoped for.
“Do you even want to make me one? Do you even wish color power upon me?” It sounded petty even to me.
“Of course, especially because you have shown yourself a loyal Keeper through and through since Norwood’s death.”
I tried not to squirm. How was it that when I felt loyal to the Keepers upon first joining the plot, he called me undecided, yet now that I was truly confused about White Light’s role in this plot, he called me loyal?
“This isn’t what I wanted it to look like,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“When Maria caught the plague and died so quickly after your birth, I left you with your grandparents. I had planned to make you the strongest, most intricate mask. The more powerful I grew at color power, the better mask I could create.”
I knew fathers made masks for their sons, and mothers for their daughters, but I didn’t realize their color power affected the mask they made.
“So I joined the Spanish army—they are a Keeper country, and at the time they were at war with the Dutch. I could fight for Keepers without fighting against England. There I was free. And there I trained. During my travels I gathered the best materials—carving tools used by Keeper royalty, wood that had been preserved in a Keeper monastery and blessed every day for a century. But then I received word of your plague.”
“And you never thought of me again.” The thought didn’t sting this time. I could see his life more clearly. Why would he leave his career for a dying son?
“Not until the day you lay in the mud at my feet.” An expelled sigh left his body bent and withered-looking. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I gave up on hope, and you suffered for my cowardice.”
“I forgive you.” And this time, I meant it. We’d entered a new place of openness—a state of being that I’d always imagined a father and son to have. It felt stalwart—like nothing could crumble it.
“I’ve left what exists of your mask in Spain. It will take travel and time for me to retrieve it and complete it, but Catesby has given me permission and an errand to complete during the trip.”
“When will you leave?”
“Next month.” His answers to my questions came so swiftly and clearly, I didn’t want to stop.
“Father . . . why don’t you ever take off your mask?”
“Because no one has a right to see beneath it. I’ve built myself into what I am. I’m proud of that. The last time I took it off was for your mother.”
“Will you ever take it off for me?”
A long pause. The scrape of feet on a rough wood floor. A clearing of the throat. “No.”
&
nbsp; It took two weeks for me to receive a return letter at the Bear, but when I opened it, a silver crown fell out.
18 April 1605
To Thomas Fawkes,
You’ve been rehired per the request of the Baron Monteagle. Included in this letter is advance payment. If you are willing, please report to the Monteagle house on the Strand on the first Monday of every month beginning in June. If you are not willing, please return the crown.
Respectfully,
Henry Parker
I laughed so loud, several patrons looked up from their dinners. I pocketed the letter—and the crown—and left. Henry thought I’d come running back to employment at his summons?
I imagined him having to write that letter. I imagined him fuming at the Baron’s command. It was no mystery why the Baron wanted me rehired—or why Henry accentuated that it wasn’t his desire. I had been a miracle at the masquerade. I then told King James I’d been working for the Baron Monteagle, and the king wanted to make sure it was true. Knowing the priorities of the Baron, he paid me a crown so he could say that the miracle boy worked for his family.
Status was everything to him—or at least worth a crown.
The fact that Henry replied to my letter—and not Emma—told me she probably never read it. Should I take them up on this offer to keep an eye on Emma? Or should I reject it because we were fast approaching Parliament?
I’d talk it out with Catesby at the meeting tonight—the last meeting we were to have before Father left for Spain to make my mask. I headed toward Lambeth. My fingers fiddled with the crown in my pocket. The weight of the coin felt like a promised future.
Perhaps I didn’t need to talk to Catesby.
After all, I was cured and the plot was progressing. Once it succeeded, I’d no longer be with the group, right? We’d go our separate ways in freedom. I needed to have coin and a plan. I hadn’t thought beyond curing my plague.
And if the plot failed, well, I’d likely hang.
I left the crown in my pocket. For now, I’d take it. In a few days I’d show up at the Monteagle house on the Strand and see what happened.