table.
“Where are you from, good sir, that you don’t know about the terrible pestilence that destroyed our town?”
The unknown forest, Julian tells her. Wales. Largely spared from the plague. One of these days, Julian will meet an actual Welshman and be promptly pilloried on Cheapside.
“I thought you’ve just come from across the river?” She lowers her voice. “You know, that’s where the Black Death took wind. From south of the river.”
Julian nods. It’s common knowledge—everything is worse south of the river.
“It got so bad,” the Baroness says, “death galloped in such triumph through our streets that King Charlie himself had had enough. He packed up his court and fled the city! That’s how we knew we was all doomed. When our own king abandoned us. His Majesty’s Government didn’t meet for a year.”
Julian commiserates. In 1665, the plague had reduced London to a wasteland. He hopes it’s a few years later, the worst behind them. He tries to make out that elusive date on the newspaper. LONDON GAZETTE, it reads. PUBLISHED BY AUTHORITY. What year does it say?
“Yes, our once lively city has become a graveyard,” the Baroness goes on. “Nothing but a field of dismal misery. There was nothing open because there was no one alive.” She dabs her eye. “I’ll confess to you, sire, the plague has been absolutely terrible for business!”
“One hundred and thirty parishes in London,” Julian says. “Surely there are still men left. The bells still ring.”
“Oh, even more than before, because now they ring for the dead. But the dogs don’t bark. Because they’re also dead. Dead with all the honorable deep-pocketed gentlemen!” She sniffles.
Good God, what year is it? He squints at the Gazette, adjusts in his seat. “Does that say July 1666?” he asks, something inside him falling.
“Yes,” the Baroness says slowly. “Why?”
“The Silver Cross survived the fire?”
“What fire?”
“The one near Pudding Lane.”
“Pudding Lane? All the way down there by the bridge, inside the wall? I wouldn’t know nothing about that. I don’t go down there. We always have fires in London, good sir. Too many candles.”
“You’d know this fire,” Julian says pensively. “There won’t be a house left standing between Temple Bar and London Bridge. Pardon me, I’ve been traveling so long, I’ve lost track of my days.” Maybe he’s wrong about the year. He’s never been good with dates. What a failing to have when dates are of the essence. Cromwell, Puritans, beheadings, republic, Charles I, Charles II, when was the Glorious Revolution? Was the Great Fire of London before it or after? A little knowledge is an awful thing—
“It’s a Tuesday. Second week in July. We just finished the beer festival for the Feast of Saints.” The Baroness smiles. “That was very good for business.”
“I’m sure.” Julian shifts in his seat. “Can I get a small advance on my salary so I can buy myself a wardrobe befitting a tavern keeper? You said we needed fresh flowers. Perhaps I can take a walk to the market. Is Covent Garden open?” He wants to walk to Clerkenwell. He needs to see what’s become of the life he once lived with her.
The Baroness agrees to an advance. “Usually I send Ilbert to the market, but frankly, he has appalling taste in flowers. He always manages to get the ugliest ones. When you see Mallory, remind her to lend you something to wear. And tell her Gasper is here. The girl needs to be told everything three times. He’s been waiting an hour.” Gasper is a skeletal man in the corner by the open door, a stinking man in rags with flies buzzing around him, his head tilted and trembling.
As Julian walks up the main stairs, he hears the Baroness berating a humpbacked imp. “Ilbert,” she yells. “How many times must I tell you—it’s against the law to wash the entrails of pigs in the local waters!”
“I’m not the only one that breaks the laws, madam. The alley is slippery with refuse. It’s hard to carry the carcass to a less local water.”
“Oh, Holy Helpers, Ilbert, you are but an arsworm! You know Scotland Yard is next door! One of them clappers saw you. He told me you was throwing coal ashes right into Parliament Street. Have you no mind, scoundrel? We’re in front of the Palace of Whitehall, the residence of our king! You can’t keep breaking the laws of men.”
“But all the men is dead, madam. You said so yourself.”
“The few that are left will stone you to death, you scoundrel! I will celebrate when that day comes. Until then, stop mouthing off to me and go sweep the stones outside, as decreed by the Commissioner for Streets and Ways. And stop hooping the barrels on the sidewalk and sawing timber on the street. I can’t afford another fine because of you.”
“Where would you like me to saw the timber, madam? In the palace gardens?”
“You are an annoyance and a disorder, Ilbert, in desperate need of reforming. They will dispose of you with the ashes, dust and dirt, and I shall have nothing whatsoever to say about it except hallelujah.”
Tucked into a dormered corner on the second floor, on the other side of the house from his favorite room, Julian’s quarters are spacious and sunny. From his two open windows he can see the eastern Thames, curving toward Blackfriars, toward the direction of the slate-colored Globe, he can hear the bells of a hundred churches. His room has a four-poster bed with a heavy canopy, an intricately carved armchair, a walnut cupboard, a small table under the windows where he can eat or write, a wardrobe where he can hang his clothes once he gets some, and a washing station in the corner by the fireplace that includes not only a basin, but also a bathtub with a stone hearth. He could use a bath after last night’s steamy banquet. Perhaps the girls could come and wash him as they had so kindly offered.
In the desk he finds a quill with a bottle of ink. Julian remembers Devi’s instruction to count the days. Opening the bottle of ink, he dips the quill into it, pulls up the sleeve of his robe, and with the quill tip punctures the inside of his forearm, near his wrist, tapping a dot of ink into the wound. One.
When he turns around, a girl stands silently in the doorway, towels and sheets in her hands, her expression wary, her brown gaze on his arm. It’s Mallory.
“I can explain,” he says, putting the quill away.
“No need, sire.” He can barely hear her voice.
“I’m marking the days.” He steps toward her.
“Aren’t we all. May I make up your room?” Her gaze is on the bed.
“Mallory …”
The girl can’t look into his face. It’s either shyness or embarrassment. She stares at the periphery of his ear, at a slice of his beard, at his black robe, at anything but him. When he tries to touch her, she flinches from him. Holding her by the flesh of her arm, he lifts her chin to him. His eyes meet hers.
Mallory is his girl.
Julian
