I turned onto Church Street. The spring showers had created quagmires in the streets—trapping carts in the mud. Gravel had been scattered over Church Street, but it didn’t help much.
I picked my way across the dry patches of ground just as a large rock fell from the sky.
I sprang backward, swallowing a shout, the thump of the rock still resonating in my chest. I’d drawn my sword, ready.
What in Thames’ name? Had someone sent it after me with color power? An Igniter?
Henry?
I glanced up, but there was no cathedral steeple to throw it off of. I adjusted my footing, ready for an attack, but one final glance at the rock stilled my reflexes. It held a familiar shape. A stocky branch of stone off one side, ending in a small point.
It wasn’t a rock.
It was a pigeon.
I nudged it with my toe and it rolled over, exposing a feathery underside with a half-stone wing. The pigeon had died from the plague in the sky. That meant the plague had spread through the beast so swiftly it had gone from flapping to falling within seconds.
Was there another outbreak?
I sheathed my sword and bolted for Catesby’s home. I made it through the door, up the stairs, and into the parlor before I’d taken three even breaths. I burst into the crowded room, but the first person my eyes alighted on was not Catesby. It wasn’t even a plotter.
There by the fire, with a parti-colored mask on his belt, stood John Dee the alchemist.
“Thomas, at last!” Catesby shut the door behind me. “Meet our newest member.”
Twenty-Seven
What was he doing here?
Maybe he can cure the pigeon.
I snorted at White Light’s jest before I realized it had spoken to me. For the first time in months. Since before the masquerade and the tunnel collapse and my employment by the Baron.
Here it was and its first words were about a pigeon?
I wasn’t sure what emotion was showing on my face—shock at Dee’s appearance? Fear at White Light’s voice? Humor over the pigeon statement?
“How’s your eye?” Dee asked.
My hand drifted upward, tapping the skin almost of its own accord. “Still cured.”
“Good.”
I thought about what this meant. John Dee. Newest member. Catesby told him about us?
The trust I’d had in Catesby when he’d added members in the past—Keyes, Bates, the Wright brothers—cracked with this new addition. Maybe because Dee seemed so eager to grab attention.
Father seemed to feel the same way. “You just turned every eye upon you at the Lady’s Day masquerade,” he said to Dee. “That puts the rest of us at risk. Why are you here when you’re not even a Keeper?”
“I’m not an Igniter, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“It’s not.” Father’s response came out flat. Thin.
Dee cleared his throat, but it didn’t strike me as a nervous clearing. More like preparation for a speech. I still hadn’t gotten past my surprise to offer him a proper thank-you for changing—and saving—my life.
I could have done that, you know. You just never asked.
Dee’s stare bore into me. Did he know White Light was speaking to me? I wanted to shout, “It’s not my fault. I don’t know why it keeps picking me.” But I was the one who spoke to it before Christmas—before the tunnel collapse.
So maybe it was my fault.
Dee sat in a chair with his back to the fire, blocking the heat. The chill hit the room immediately. “I allowed Catesby to question me, as is, apparently, the standard with this plot. But I feel it only fair to allow the rest of you to do the same.”
The flaming backdrop turned Dee into an imposing figure. He gestured to the other seats. “Please, sit.”
We sat. I wanted to know his story. I wanted to understand.
“Why do you want to take part in this plot?” Father asked.
Dee leaned back in the chair. “I was once the top advisor of Queen Elizabeth.”
His statement struck me like stone knuckles to the gut. “Queen Elizabeth was the Igniter monarch who started this war!”
Dee nodded serenely, like he’d expected this response. Maybe even hoped for it. “I didn’t care what side she was on, and she didn’t care what side I was on. In her mind, I was a neutral party—able to give advice without bias. And for me, she provided the finances and support for my research, travels, and pursuit of knowledge. We had a deep friendship.” The first semblance of vulnerability bled into his voice. “King James has no interest in allowing me back into court, hearing my advice, or funding my research. He has no respect for what Queen Elizabeth valued.”
“So this is about your pride.” Wintour loosed the statement as fearless as the lawyer he was.
Dee shrugged. “Perhaps. We are all passionate about something—you about Keeper persecution and I about knowledge and color arts. I spent half my lifetime creating a library of research, guidance, and tomes on color power. The queen herself visited my home and library at Mortlake weekly. But when I returned to London this past December, my house was destroyed and the library was ransacked.”
The intake of several hissing breaths punctuated his statement. Any masked would have loved to have access to such research on color power and White Light and even swordplay. Quality books and research were difficult to come by, even for St. Peter’s Color School. To lose such valuables would have been devastating.
“Queen Elizabeth helped fund my collection and I, in return, helped guide her sea captains and generals and other masked leaders. But King James said its destruction was not the crown’s problem. He placed no value in my lifetime of work serving the crown. So you see, gentlemen, why I want a hand in removing him from the throne and raising up little Princess Elizabeth.”
“For money?” Wintour asked. I liked how he continued to prod into Dee’s motivations.
“For status.” Dee adjusted his chair to the left of the fireplace and warmth flowed back into the rest of the room. “For purpose. Surely you can understand that. I went from being invaluable to the crown and a world-changer through my research to an outcast from the court with a ruined library.”
Wintour nodded but then asked, “Why doesn’t King James trust you?”
“Because I’m against White Light. You’re Keepers. My aversion to White Light should please you.”
“Keepers aren’t against White Light,” Father corrected. “Just against responding to its calls, because it addles the mind and makes you power-hungry. Proven by Igniters.”
Emma wasn’t power-hungry. I didn’t appreciate the generalizations and paranoia that Keepers seemed to hold about White Light and Igniters.
Silence reigned until the crackles of the fire took the throne.
Finally, Catesby looked around. “Satisfied?”
I stared at Dee—he stared back. Waiting. So I gave in. “How did you cure me?”
“I used a color Compulsion. It sent me to my bed for two weeks after the masquerade.”
So it had come down to strength. “But how are you so strong?” And how could I become the same?
“The same way I’m so old. Time. You must never relent in your study of color. There is more to learn than you will ever understand.” Dee stood from the table. “Are we done here, Catesby? I have things to attend to.”
Percy addressed Catesby as well, though jutted his chin toward Dee. “I just want to know why we need him.”
Catesby opened the door—a signal that we were finished. But not before he said, “Because he can open the tunnel back up for us. He can unearth our gunpowder.”
30 May 1605
“When I return, I’ll have your mask.” Father slung his cape over one arm and donned his broad-brimmed black hat. With his mask beneath, he looked a force to be reckoned with.
“When will you be back?” Even two months after the masquerade, the full movement of my face and scope of my vision felt unnatural. Sometimes I imagined my skin was stiff
ening again. Maybe the paranoia would never fully abate.
“Travel is never predictable. That’s how adventure shows up.” Father had decided my duty to the plot was more important, so I was staying behind. But that was exactly why I wanted to go. I wasn’t sure what my role was anymore. I knew my external duty—serve the Baron, blow up the king, discover the new Parliament date.
But the closer and closer we got to setting the plot in order, the less I liked the idea of murdering so many people. How did that make Keepers any different from the Igniters? The Igniters murdered hundreds of us over the course of years. We would return the favor in a single night.
It seemed more a way to start another war than to stop one.
Father stepped outside and mounted the dapple-grey horse provided to him by Catesby. “Likely a month or two.”
I nodded. At least he gave me an estimate.
“The Keepers need you while I’m gone, Thomas. You are a strong enough swordsman to defend them.” With a squeeze of his heels, Father was off. Trot, trot, trotting through the wet morning mist left over from May’s rain showers.
I watched him go. My tension and nerves left with him, as though stowed in his saddle packs. He was safe from Henry Parker’s inquiries and he’d return with my mask. I just needed to bide my time.
I returned to the Whynniard house and prepared for my first day returning to Monteagle’s service. I was ready to see Emma again.
Emma.
Her name rested in my mind, so simple—the opposite of her. Like a mask hiding the strength and complexity of her character. I’d waited dutifully until my day of service—not writing her any letters, not inquiring after her.
Not risking my chance to see her and confirm her well-being.
The time I spent waiting for this day had gnawed at my innards as though I’d swallowed the Stone Plague.
It had been a whole year since I discovered Emma dispatching the ruffians by the Tower of London. We were quite different people back then. I was now seventeen and about to receive my mask.
And she . . . Perhaps she wasn’t so different. But she made herself known to me. Vulnerable. And that made me different.
I didn’t just want to see her. I wanted to know more about her desires to become a portraitist. I wanted to make that happen.
I wanted to be the opposite of Henry and the Baron and encourage her to use her talents as cobblestones to pave the way to her independence. I wanted her to rattle the earth and be the start of a new masquerade that told the story of a young black girl who had color power beyond the men and peers of her city and wasn’t afraid to use it.
The Strand was one of the widest roads in London and my breaths always came easier because I wasn’t shoving through bodies or dodging puddles of refuse. It felt cleaner than the other streets too. People dumped their waste out their back windows rather than the front.
That’s how you knew the wealthy lived here.
I arrived at the Monteagle house on the Strand through a back alley, circling around so that they wouldn’t see me arriving from the direction of the Whynniard house. I knocked on the back door and Ward the footman answered. He didn’t greet me or say anything other than, “This way.”
This house was much smaller than the Monteagle home in Hoxton, but also more luxurious. Oil lamps in every glass window—though unlit because it was still early afternoon. Embroidered curtains hung delicately tied away from the glass, and each piece of furniture was stained a deep, rich burgundy.
I entered a sitting room. The Baron stood at my entrance, alone in the room. “Ah, good, you have accepted our offer.”
I gave a bow. “Thank you for your generosity.” Though I knew the Baron’s offer existed only to increase his reputation as a benefactor. He showed a height of character in taking me back on despite the fact I’d endangered his entire family with my plague.
“You will accompany me to Whitehall today. I have business to attend to.”
“Of course, sir.” Whitehall? Was he visiting the king?
I followed him toward the front door. I wanted to ask about Emma. I wanted to ask about Henry.
But it wasn’t my place. And no matter how many glances I sent to the hallways or shadows, I saw no one but Ward.
We rode to Whitehall. I used one of the stable horses, thankful I had learned how to ride at St. Peter’s. It didn’t take long and I wondered why we’d ridden at all when it was so close, but then I remembered that the Baron’s heartbeat survived on appearances.
With the clip of each horse’s hoof, people of the street looked up. They saw, first, the Baron and then me. Some returned to their business without a second glance, but others—the more wealthy who had been at the masquerade—watched me with widening eyes and lowering jaws.
They recognized me as the plagued boy who’d been healed.
And now I understood why the Baron took me with him.
I kept my horse a half-length behind the Baron’s. We took the road past the House of Lords. I averted my eyes, which may have looked more suspicious than if I had glanced at it.
“Parliament meets here.” The Baron pointed.
It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. I thought it would go against his high status to speak to me in such a familiar manner in public.
“It is an honor to serve King James as one of his members.”
I was sure it was. But supposedly it had also been the Baron’s “honor” to serve the Keepers before he was imprisoned by Queen Elizabeth. The Baron was too much of a follower to commit to any side. As long as the monarch was pleased with him, he would remain whatever that monarch wanted. “How often does Parliament meet?”
“It varies—especially with the plague outbreaks. The next meeting is slotted for November fifth, but who knows if that will hold.” Just like that he had handed me the information I needed. I pocketed the date—the final missing piece from the plot.
We arrived at Whitehall and the Baron entered for whatever business he had. I stood with the horses by the steps to the main hall. This is where I’d seen Emma in her silver gown. The last time I was here, I’d seen her face.
I could still bring it up to my memory—under the moonlight and dark as the most alluring shadow. Was she still at the Hoxton house?
The Baron didn’t return for another three hours. I remained standing as an obedient and patient manservant, though the wandering of my mind could entertain me for only so long.
When he finally exited, he looked pleased.
He mounted and waited for me to join him astride my borrowed horse before he asked, “Have you ever met the Earl of Salisbury?”
I thought of the short, stooped man speaking to King James at the masquerade. “Isn’t he a noble?”
“The king raised the little man to the peerage last year. The king calls him ‘my little beagle.’” The Baron laughed, then threw a glance over his shoulder back toward Whitehall as though the Earl might be following us.
I didn’t laugh, though I probably should have indulged the Baron.
I knew how irritating disparaging titles could be—like Cyclops. Though I’d take Cyclops over “little beagle” any day.
“Anyway, good man. Good conversation.” The Baron cleared his throat. “My brother-in-law, Francis Tresham, comes to town in a fortnight. He will likely require your services.”
I bowed in understanding. “Of course, sir.”
The Baron adjusted his reins and didn’t speak again until we’d returned to the Strand. By this time, it was evening. I saw to the horses and my stomach rumbled as they munched on a mound of hay.
I entered the home to ensure my duties were no longer needed and nearly collided with Emma around a corner.
She reeled backward and I instinctively put out a hand to catch hers so she wouldn’t fall. “Thomas!” She yanked her hand from mine, spun on her heel, and walked away.
I hadn’t even had time to process her presence.
“Ah yes, the Cyclops is back.” Henry d
idn’t even grant me a greeting as he turned to pour the Baron some brandy. The Baron snickered as he had when talking about the Earl’s nickname.
But I remained staring after Emma. She practically fled from me. Apparently her thoughts during our separation had taken a different turn than mine. Perhaps she was ashamed for having shown me her face. Or maybe she was angry about—even afraid of—my cure?
I couldn’t stop the plummet of my stomach or the frustration of not understanding. If I was to be a bauble on the Baron’s belt, that wasn’t worth two crowns per month.
“I think he scared away my poor betrothed.” Henry handed the Baron the balloon glass.
My mouth went dry. Betrothed?
Henry turned slowly with a wolf smile. “Hadn’t you heard?”
“Congratulations,” I said without emotion. So that was why Emma had reacted the way she did. I faced the Baron. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”
The Baron, more focused on his brandy than the conversation, didn’t spare a glance. “No. Thank you.”
I bowed and left, my cheeks burning. As I reached the back door, Emma showed up to hand me my hat from the rack. I took it but couldn’t choke out a thank-you.
She opened the door. “Good day, Mister Fawkes.” Her voice came out soft and subdued—a new side of Emma that I suspected came from binding herself to Henry Parker.
I wanted to yank her from the house and remind her who she was. She wasn’t some baron-in-training’s plaything. She wasn’t some wealthy wife who would have to hide her own skin color at the command of her husband.
She was fire and life.
She was awe and starlight.
But because I didn’t want to embarrass her and I didn’t want to bring down Henry’s wrath upon her, I poured all those words, all those thoughts, all those emotions into the most sincere bow I could execute. I held her gaze and willed her to see that I still admired her . . . and that I still knew her core.
If this was the last time I would see her, I didn’t want her to see any animosity or judgment.
“Good day, my lady.”