LITMIR.BIZ

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body, hiding his terrified face behind her. Cyril Connolly is wrong. It is possible to be made wretched in a brothel.

      Half-dressed, they fall into a restless sleep, the sleep of guilty lovers in anguish as they choose something else over what they feel for each other.

       9

       Bill of Mortality

      A NOXIOUS COMMOTION AWAKENS THEM A FEW HOURS LATER. Sitting up against the headboard, Mallory looks like a cornered animal.

      “Margrave is dying! Margrave is dying!” Julian hears as he opens the bedroom door.

      Casting Mallory a long backwards glance, telling her to stay in his room and not come out, Julian runs upstairs, hoping it’s hyperbole.

      But Margrave does not look well. She’s winded, profusely hot, abnormally thirsty, wet, and gray. He crouches in front of her low bed. No one else wants to get near her; the other girls are afraid it’s pestilence (though Julian doesn’t think so); most of them have cleared the room. Only the lowly and unwanted Greta remains unafraid by Margrave’s side, holding her hand.

      “I didn’t feel well all night, sire,” the girl whispers, reaching for Julian. Her swollen tongue is bleeding. She has foam around her mouth.

      Julian races downstairs to the kitchen, grabs a few coals from the basket by the hearth, and shaves them down with a knife until fine powder lines the bottom of a mug. He fills the mug with a bit of ale and flies upstairs. In the ten minutes he is gone, Margrave has gotten worse. Her body is jerking. She mumbles incoherently. Greta is down on her knees. “Margrave, drink this,” Julian says. “It doesn’t taste great, but it will help you.”

      The girl takes a sip, makes a face.

      “I know,” he says. “It’s activated charcoal. It’ll absorb whatever’s making you sick. It’s an antidote for poison. Please, drink all of it.” God help them all, is it the rosary pea?

      Margrave drinks all of it. He waits with her while Greta mouths words of extreme unction from the Gospel of James. Is any among you afflicted? Is any among you sick? The prayer of faith shall save you. The Lord shall raise you. The hot burning wind blowing in through the open windows isn’t helping. Carling and Ivy reluctantly bring wet rags and Greta wipes Margrave down while Julian paces the room, smelling the wind. A rat king of anxiety is gnawing out his guts.

      Greta lays down her rags. Carling and Ivy cry.

      “What?” he barks. Margrave has stopped convulsing.

      From down below, he hears the Baroness holler. “Fire! There’s a fire!”

      Shrieking, Carling and Ivy push past Julian and plummet down the stairs. “You’ve done all you can for Margrave, O noble sire,” Greta says. “But she is gone.”

      Alas it’s true. Poor Margrave. Julian can’t bear to return to his room, where Mallory is waiting. Instead he follows the maids downstairs to inform the Baroness of the girl’s demise.

      Constable Parker stands grimly at the front door. The Baroness is with him. Parker is dressed in his most formal attire, a black uniform and a tall red hat. Next to him is the High Constable of Westminster with a royal staff in his hand. Behind them are foot guards from the King’s Regiment and horse guards from the Lord General’s Troop. What’s going on? Julian stops hurrying down the stairs.

      “By the proclamation of the Honorable High Constable of the City of Westminster—” Parker reads from an unrolled parchment.

      The Baroness interrupts him. “Wait, constable—where’s the fire?”

      “The City. Started near a bakery in Pudding Lane.” Parker is thrown off his officious manner.

      “Pudding Lane!” The Baroness utters a shrill cry. “Pudding Lane?”

      “Baroness, Margrave is dead!” Ivy wails, clutching the Baroness’s elbow. “She’s dead, madam!”

      “She’s been poisoned!” Carling joins in. “For sure, she has!”

      Baroness Tilly turns from the wailing girls, from the frowning constable, her gaze seeking out Julian, who stands motionless at the foot of the stairs. He wishes he could vanish before she catches his eye. “You said there wouldn’t be a house left standing between Temple Bar and London Bridge after the fire at Pudding Lane … And a prostitute’s been murdered …”

      Julian remains silent. Walk lightly, Devi told him. Carry no stick. Do not disturb the order of the universe.

      “How could you have known any of that?” the Baroness hisses.

      Parker thinks she’s addressing him. “Everybody knows it by now, madam,” the constable replies. “Fire started around midnight last night. It was small at first. Can you smell it? The Mayor of London is refusing to demolish the burning buildings to help contain it. He believes it’s not necessary. As if to prove him wrong, the fire’s been burning uncontained for over fourteen hours.” Clearing his throat, Parker raises his voice. “The fire is not why we’re here, Baroness. Where’s your niece? We’ve come to take her into custody for the murder of Lord Fabian. His body was found this morning in the Savoy Canal. We have reason to believe he’s been poisoned in your very house. And did I just hear correctly that Margrave has also been poisoned?”

      The Baroness pierces Julian with her glare. It’s too late for regrets. In the Baroness’s eyes … Julian can’t put a finger on it. There’s hatred, disbelief, incomprehension, and a terror of sorcery. That’s how she stares at him. As if he is the other.

      “Constable—arrest that man!” the Baroness shrieks to Parker, pointing her finger in Julian’s direction. “Arrest him for the lord’s murder, and for treason to the Crown! Arrest him for witchcraft. My niece is innocent! He’s the one who killed Lord Fabian!”

      “No, it wasn’t the kind master!” Greta cries. “Mallory killed our Margrave when she threw poisoned water in her face.”

      The other girls squeal their assent. It was her! It was her! Our kind master is innocent of wrongdoing.

      “He is sent by the devil, constable!” the Baroness yells. “He’s a warlock! He carries knowledge of all the poisons right here.” She taps herself violently on the head. “I can prove it. Ilbert, get over here! Where are you?”

      Julian is frozen. He can’t run out the front door, the constable and the palace guards are blocking the way. And what does he do about Mallory? He can’t leave her. The Baroness continues to screech, flinging her pink velvet arm at him, her manicured nails shaking the air. “Don’t let him get away!” She, too, is blocking the narrow entry in and out of the Silver Cross. No men can move past her to grab him. Meanwhile, the florid girls have formed a line of defense in front of him.

      Tilly’s high-pitched screeching mentally and physically paralyzes Julian. The High Constable bangs the floor with his heavy staff. “Out of the way, madam! Out of the way, ladies!” In one second, Julian won’t have the luxury of wavering, he won’t be able to move even if he wishes to.

      From behind, he feels a shadow barreling down the stairs. There is a hard knock into the center of his spine, and a shove forward. “Don’t just stand there—run!” Mallory says, already in front of him. “Back alley, go!”

      The Baroness shouts hysterically. “Mallory, Mallory, darling, no!”

      Julian and Mallory race through the kitchen, down the narrow corridor.

      The back door is blocked by Ilbert, who is curved over a broom and a metal bucket.

      “Move, hunchback!” Mallory yells.

      “Where are you two off to?” Ilbert straightens and raises the broom as a weapon

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