Henry Parker.
His blond hair rested in a sweep away from his forehead in utmost obedience—not a strand out of place. His smirking Grey mask hung on his belt. Henry recoiled upon first seeing me, but then a smile spread. Not a friendly smile. “Cyclops, my old friend?”
The footman—Ward—stepped aside. “He is asking for Mistress Areben.”
Henry’s smug look disintegrated into one of narrowed suspicion. “What do you want with Emma? And how are you in London?”
I removed my hat. I’d enjoyed having forgotten about this toadstool. “I was requested by your father, the Baron Monteagle.” I shot a one-eyed glare at the footman for failing to mention that part.
“Now why would my father—a Parliament member and friend to the crown—wish to speak with a one-eyed, maskless street rat?”
I never knew Henry’s father belonged to Parliament. Then again, prior to the plot, I hadn’t paid much attention to Parliament in any capacity.
Henry waved Ward away and then leaned against the door-frame. “He has been inquiring after Emma’s rescuer and she refused to tell him.” He gave my face a once-over. “I see now why she was embarrassed.”
I wasn’t her rescuer. I’d stood there like a slack-jawed toddler as she defended herself. Why didn’t she tell them?
I gave a small bow that exhausted the last of my patience. “Good day.” I turned to leave, but Henry blocked my exit with a rush.
“You cannot leave without allowing Father to shower you with his thanks.” He swept me inside. The shutting of the door struck my eardrums like the fall of the Edinburgh Maiden.
It was a mistake coming here. The Baron would ask about me—about my father. About my mask. My irritation with Henry fled as I focused on taming my tongue. I must not allow any slipups regarding the plot.
We wove through an elaborate hallway and entered a sitting room. The Baron Monteagle reclined on a daybed, his neck ruff crooked beneath his round chin. He sat up—with much effort, given his rotund stature—when we entered.
“Father, this is Emma’s rescuer. Thomas Fawkes.” Henry stepped away as though presenting me as a gift to the Baron.
I stood tall, like a gentleman. “It was my honor to escort your ward home after she was set upon by thugs.”
“You were her savior?” The Baron’s pink face slackened. He scanned my belt. “Are you not even masked?”
“Not yet, sir.”
His fingers twisted the hem of his handkerchief. “Tell me how you came upon Emma. What did you see?”
Desiring nothing more than to depart from the Monteagle place, I didn’t mince words. I told of how I heard her cry over the church bells, so I pursued. I came upon her fighting the men. I stepped forward and threatened them and they fled.
“I heard Emma’s mask was taken.”
I recalled, with amusement, the vision of Emma kicking her attacker in the nose. “She retrieved it quite expertly.”
“And . . . did she seem in pain? Could you see it . . . on her face?”
Something about how the Baron choked out the question seemed odd—too concerned. “She was shaken, but well. The shadows did not permit me to see if she’d been struck on the face, but she did not speak of any such wound.”
The Baron sank back onto the couch and Henry sat down in a chair near the empty hearth. “Thank you, Mister Fawkes. How can I ever repay you?”
That was the question I had come for, but now that it was spoken, I dreaded answering. How badly did I want the sword?
A new thought struck me. Catesby said we needed the inside information of a Parliament member. Could I secure that? It would send a rather loud sign of commitment to both Catesby and Father.
Henry wore a smirk that matched the painted mask at his belt. He wanted to see me ask for something.
I wanted to humble him. To erase that cockiness from his face. And I could . . . with the plot. He was an Igniter, and the Gunpowder Plot would strip him and his people of their pride.
So I swallowed my own. “If my lord is willing, I would be ever so honored to serve the Monteagle household . . . as an employee.”
They both went silent, but Henry’s smile spread. I angled my head so that he rested in my blind spot. Ah, much better.
“We have no use for another servant,” the Baron said, as I’d expected. “But Henry will give you some coin as thanks when you exit.”
At the very least, I’d tried. As I turned to leave, Henry spoke. “Tell me, Thomas, did you ever locate your father?”
My throat dried like a strip of leather in the summer sun. Did Henry suspect something about the plot? Why would he care if I had found Father? “Aye.”
He folded his arms. “And what of a mask, then?”
I didn’t want him knowing anything of my mask situation, but there was no tactful way to remain silent. “I will receive it in time.”
A moment of silence. Then, “Father, I think Thomas is just what we need.”
I barely held my suspicion in. Why would Henry speak up for me? Something had changed between my dismissal and his questions about Father. Had I given something away?
The Baron laughed through his nose and turned his chubby face to his son. “How so?”
“He could be Emma’s new escort.”
“She has escorts.”
“Yes, and they crawl back to us like whipped pups every time she gives them the slip. Thomas here”—Henry wagged a finger in my direction—“Thomas is trusted by Emma and he’s proven his mettle against a couple fraters. He’s also an excellent swordsman.”
I felt dirty having Henry stand up for me.
The Baron raised an eyebrow. “You have a sharp mind, son. Conclude the agreement.”
Henry faced me at his full height and authority. “You’ll be paid ten shillings per month. Your role will be escorting Emma to market once a week and, on occasion, caddying for the Baron and myself. What say you?”
Ten shillings? That was half what a caddy would be paid. The Baron leaned forward at this. Apparently saving a few coins and taking advantage of a one-eyed maskless caddy was his idea of a reward.
But I needed a sword. The plot needed a spy. And I was tired of living on the graces of Father’s purse. A man provided for himself and a snobbish ten shillings was far more pay than no coin at all. “I am . . . appreciative.” I was going to say honored, but best not start off my employment with a lie.
“The Baron and I will work out the details. Come by Wednesday to start and we’ll talk it over.” I managed a single nod and Henry saw me to the door. His smile chilled my spine. “It’s like old times, eh, Cyclops? You are in your rightful place and I am in mine.”
I ought to have thanked him for the employment. Instead, I walked away.
“Come back here, boy.”
I stopped but didn’t turn. So this was how it would be. Were ten shillings per month worth it?
“A servant bows to his master.”
I thought of my own home, my own land, curing the plague. Saving the lives of other men and plagued whom Henry spat on. So I turned and bowed. “Good day, Parker.”
“The proper term is my lord.”
I held my tongue. No final retort. No backward glance. My silence would burn a blister of fury more effectively than any final words could. I learned that long ago.
The door closed, separating me from one of the most unusual interactions I’d ever had. Henry Parker offered me employment.
Why would he want me to work for him? I’d take his coin if it meant bringing me one step closer to my goal—crippling the Igniters, freeing the poor, persecuted, and plagued . . .
. . . and humbling Henry in the process.
Thirteen
“You are my new escort?” The way Emma asked it made me feel like I was a slug she’d trodden on.
Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.
She stomped out the door and toward town. I could do nothing but follow. Did she think I’d asked to be an escort? When I asked
the Baron for employment, I’d hoped for something subtler. A stable hand or some sort.
But I didn’t expect Emma to understand having to do whatever it took to secure employment. She needed only ask for a purse of coins or baubles and the Baron would indulge her.
I jogged to catch up. “Um . . . Mistress Areben—”
“Ugh. Emma is fine.”
I strode alongside her. “Your guardian offered me employment and I accepted.” Not to mention that Catesby had clapped me on the back and called me a “proactive young soldier” when I shared my success. “If it is upsetting to you, then I will desist.”
“I can make you desist, thank you very much.” Her pace increased. How did one so much shorter than myself carry on such a long stride? I hurried to catch her, but my boots stuck in the mud, releasing a louder and louder squelch each time I ripped them free. “I”—pant—“must do”—squelch—“what I can.” I looked behind me and almost tripped.
Little rolls of mud were chasing me. Like a miniature ocean, the goop pulsed after me, snagging at my boots. “Will you stop?”
Emma snorted and the mud returned to its regular, immobile state. She waited for me to catch up, a tilt to her head. I tried to imagine what expression I’d see behind her mask. Amusement? Anger? Curiosity?
“You used your color power on me.” I shook the remaining bits of mud from the leather, but a whisper from her sent all the dirt and mud into the street so that my boots looked nearly new.
“Yes.” Then, when I did nothing but stare, she added, “My apologies.” She didn’t sound apologetic.
I needed to earn her approval so I could spy on the Baron. “He has a loose tongue,” Catesby had said. “Make sure you are there when it wags.”
I calmed my tone. “I need the coin.” I didn’t intend to sound so blunt, but I felt no shame in saying that. “I don’t want to follow you around. I don’t want to be your lapdog carrying your dress packages or shopping in market all day. But I do want to be able to eat and sleep somewhere other than the streets. There aren’t many options for a . . . plagued.”
Emma crossed her arms, looking much more like a petulant child than a lady of stature. But I’d seen her smash a man’s face in with her boot, and explode an alley. I envied this girl’s brawn, and I cringed at the fact I’d made her sound like a lady of shallow pursuits.
“I will not reveal your secret, Thomas. But if we are to spend my outings together and you don’t want me to abandon you to crawl back to the Baron or his controlling son, then I have rules.”
That was the first time I’d heard her speak ill of Henry. If anything, it made her more attractive. “Very well.”
“You will never lie to me.”
My muscles snapped to attention. I was part of a plot to dethrone her king. Never lie to her?
That was a request I couldn’t keep.
We stood there for a breath—she waiting for my response and me not giving one. It was too late to save the moment. She knew I’d lie.
“Look, I’m not asking you to lay out your life story. I just want to know that when you do speak, truth is coming out of your mouth. I will not question your silence. I’d also like to not have to question your words.”
I let out a breath. Perhaps I’d regret this, but I held out a hand. “Very well.” I realized a shake was an action men would make to seal the bond, but before I could withdraw my hand, she met it with her own gloved one.
“Any other rules?”
“Of course.” She resumed walking. “We will shop every day.”
Groan.
“I will purchase something every day.”
I stifled a real groan.
“You shall carry whatever that item is for me.”
That time I didn’t stifle. “What an honor,” I muttered.
She rounded on me. “And that is all you will report to Henry or the Baron.”
I ground to a halt so as not to run into her. Then my gaze narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that whatever else I do during my day, you are to share nothing with them.”
I wanted to ask what else she might plan to do—but as her escort, I’d get to see it firsthand. The realization compelled me to follow close on her heels. “You wish me never to lie to you, but you ask me to lie to your guardian and his son?”
Her chin lifted so high in affront that I almost apologized. “You will not be lying. You will be reporting truth to them. But to tell them everything would be . . . unnecessary.” She planted a hand on her hip. “If you do not agree to all my terms, Thomas Fawkes, then I shall tell my guardian that you forced yourself upon me and—after he castrates you—he will string you up on the gallows without a tongue!”
The words out of this woman’s mouth would make a bawdy soldier balk. For some reason, I couldn’t imagine the Baron Monteagle, in all his elaborate clothes and powder and pudginess, even thinking of such a retribution. But Emma’s ferocity was enough to make me say, “You have my word, then.”
A sharp nod and then our walk continued.
I had a feeling I would enjoy this job.
We reached the market and Emma purchased a set of summer gloves. I couldn’t imagine wearing gloves in this June heat, but every inch of Emma’s fashion gave the impression she was chilled. Where other ladies displayed cleavage on all ranges of the scale, Emma’s lace neck ruff went right up to her masked chin and high up the back of her neck.
It made her look elegant and a natural step above the other ladies.
The glover wore a Green mask, and after placing Emma’s new light pink gloves on thick parchment paper, he whispered color commands and the paper folded and bound itself into a perfect square. She thanked him and handed me the square.
I tucked it dutifully under my arm. “Now where to?”
“This way.” She withdrew a sealed letter from inside her sleeve. I couldn’t catch the name or address on the cover, but she held it firmly in one hand. Confident, like her stride.
Wherever we were going, it wasn’t near the square. I dodged a small girl leading two pigs on a rope. “If it is a letter, why not hire a caddy? Or give it to me to deliver?”
“It is one I must deliver myself.”
We walked in silence through several alleys. Emma’s pace quickened. My good eye darted to the shadows. We left the market and food streets, entering more of the art district. I hadn’t spent much time in this area. Carts and horses kicked up dust from the dried ground. People crowded the streets, holding handkerchiefs to their mouths to breathe more easily.
“You do realize the Baron and Henry are both Igniters, too, don’t you?” Emma sounded agitated, as though we’d been carrying on an argument instead of walking in silence for several minutes.
This was about my response the other day. I had better put an end to this conversation before it started. “I can’t discuss White Light.”
And especially not with her. I was part of a plot that rebelled against the Igniter movement. We were opposites, in more ways than just our stances on White Light.
“I only wanted . . . to talk.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re afraid.” She didn’t say this as an insult—more as an observation that I wanted to refute. Was I afraid? “The very topic of White Light has caused Igniters to hunt down and murder Keepers. Wouldn’t you be wary if you weren’t an Igniter?” So much for not discussing White Light. And murder was a dangerous topic during the calmest of times, let alone during a silent war. “Think on that.”
“I will.” She lifted her head and I caught a glimpse of her shadowed gaze.
We headed along the outer rim of the square toward the Thames. It was a breezy day after a fresh rain, so the stench of the river and streets had departed for a time.
“Why do you always wear your mask?”
“It’s what I prefer.” The tension in her voice hinted at more.
“I ask because my father does the same thing and I wondered if there was a reason that a maskless li
ke myself couldn’t understand.” I added a laugh to try to hide the ache. Those with color powers all shared an understanding and a unity that I would not be part of until Father deemed me worthy.
Perhaps he never would.
“I know of no special reason someone else might wear a mask day and night, unless he desired anonymity.”
“Is that what you desire?”
She just hummed. Now I wanted to know even more. “Does wearing your mask day and night make you stronger with your color power?”
Emma shook her head. “The only advantage it gives is to make my color power constantly accessible. I suppose you weren’t taught this since you didn’t receive your mask.”
“I appreciate the reminder.” It was meant to come out as humor, but even I detected the bitterness in my words.
Graciously, Emma didn’t remark on that. “Your mask stores color power. The more time you spend speaking with the colors, the more power the mask stores. And then once you send a command, your mask releases that power.”
I maintained my pace and interested expression, but inside I craved more information. I wanted to know everything about the colors and mask that were denied me. “And then what?”
“Then you need to rest. Using color power is exhausting.” She let out a deep breath.
“So how are some masked people better at color power than others? Do their masks store more of the power?”
“Color power is like any other skill—you grow in capability. The more you speak to colors, the more you learn how they respond to you. Each color responds differently. Sometimes you need to coax, command, or compliment a color to convince it to obey you. Eventually you build trust and relationship with the colors. For Igniters, that means trust and relationship with White Light, because all the other colors obey it. If you can speak to White Light, you can eventually command all colors. Though your mask will only ever reflect your strongest color.”
I went silent. White Light again.
“Here we are.” She jerked me to a halt at the corner of Cornhill and Broad Streets. Cobblestones lay beneath my boots and not the dry dirt. No dust hung in the air here.