visibly assessed his options. He looked at Charlie then to the wider meat market.
‘I deliver things to her,’ he said finally. ‘She pays me.’
‘What kind of things?’ Charlie demanded.
‘Information.’
‘About?’ Charlie tightened his hold on the boy.
‘A brotherhood!’ yelped the boy. ‘She’s looking for a brotherhood.’
‘What kind of brotherhood?’ prompted Charlie.
‘Alchemists,’ said the boy. ‘She says they’re powerful.’ The boy swallowed. ‘They have a secret which could change the world.’
‘And how are you helping Lily to discover this brotherhood?’
The boy hesitated, and his eyes shifted almost imperceptibly to his chest. Thief taking had honed Charlie’s attention to small gestures. In an instant his hand was at the boy’s shirt, pulling free a paper hidden there.
‘What is this?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ said the boy, ‘I can’t read.’
Charlie eyed the paper, careful not to loosen his grip on the boy. He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t read well himself.
At first glance he saw words arranged in a circle. Names, perhaps.
‘This is for Lily Boswell?’ asked Charlie. ‘This is the information she wanted?’
The boy nodded mutely.
‘Where did you get it?’ asked Charlie.
‘One of the rebel factions. They meet by the Thames.’
‘A rebel faction?’
‘Catholics,’ clarified the boy. ‘They are mostly poor boys. From Whitechapel, near the tanneries. But they have a leader who is a noble. They say he is a ghost. A ghost who can’t be killed.’
Charlie was piecing things together.
‘Does the group use this symbol?’ He held up his key, tightening his other arm on the boy.
The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded.
‘They have it burned on to them. Here.’ The boy gestured with his forearm.
Charlie’s face darkened.
‘When were you to give this to Lily?’ He waved the paper.
‘Today at noon. She’ll take a carriage to the Palace, I’m to meet her there,’ he admitted.
‘The Palace?’ In his surprise Charlie released his grip slightly. Lily must be joining the parade of women hoping to catch King Charles’s eye. It made sense that a girl as attractive as Lily would try her luck. But it seemed beneath her.
Sensing his distraction, the boy made a sudden twist, slipping free of the carcass. Charlie made a grab, but the boy, slick with entrails, slipped from his grip. He skidded across the bloody floor and fled into the market. Charlie watched him go, deciding he had extracted all he needed. He moved his attention to the paper.
His eyes travelled over the ring of words. It was a round robin. Of the kind sailors write so as no one man is held culprit for challenging the captain. A round of names circled a short paragraph of script and a number four.
But the number was different to how it was usually written. The four had a kind of curly tail. Like a symbol.
Charlie sucked at his scarred upper lip and began slowly making out the names. These were surnames he was familiar with – Smith, Cutler, Skinner. Commoner’s names. Men who worked for a living. This fitted with what the boy had told him. Poor Catholics. But the paper did not. What impoverished Catholic boy could write?
Charlie’s gaze fell to the longer script, which was written in the shaky hand of a semi-literate. He read it carefully, trying not to move his lips as he read. Charlie froze.
‘The Sealed Knot ask their Grand Master Blackstone,’ said the writing, ‘not to use alchymy to fire the city.’
Blackstone .
His gaze went back to the document. He licked his finger, dabbed at the ink and tasted it. A cheap kind made from burned tar and honey, which flaked within weeks of drying. This writing was not old.
He turned it back and re-read carefully. Alchymy.
Charlie assessed what he knew.
Blackstone had contracted plague and vanished last summer. Charlie had assumed him dead and buried, his possessions burned.
He’d made an uneasy promise to Maria
‘I deliver things to her,’ he said finally. ‘She pays me.’
‘What kind of things?’ Charlie demanded.
‘Information.’
‘About?’ Charlie tightened his hold on the boy.
‘A brotherhood!’ yelped the boy. ‘She’s looking for a brotherhood.’
‘What kind of brotherhood?’ prompted Charlie.
‘Alchemists,’ said the boy. ‘She says they’re powerful.’ The boy swallowed. ‘They have a secret which could change the world.’
‘And how are you helping Lily to discover this brotherhood?’
The boy hesitated, and his eyes shifted almost imperceptibly to his chest. Thief taking had honed Charlie’s attention to small gestures. In an instant his hand was at the boy’s shirt, pulling free a paper hidden there.
‘What is this?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ said the boy, ‘I can’t read.’
Charlie eyed the paper, careful not to loosen his grip on the boy. He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t read well himself.
At first glance he saw words arranged in a circle. Names, perhaps.
‘This is for Lily Boswell?’ asked Charlie. ‘This is the information she wanted?’
The boy nodded mutely.
‘Where did you get it?’ asked Charlie.
‘One of the rebel factions. They meet by the Thames.’
‘A rebel faction?’
‘Catholics,’ clarified the boy. ‘They are mostly poor boys. From Whitechapel, near the tanneries. But they have a leader who is a noble. They say he is a ghost. A ghost who can’t be killed.’
Charlie was piecing things together.
‘Does the group use this symbol?’ He held up his key, tightening his other arm on the boy.
The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded.
‘They have it burned on to them. Here.’ The boy gestured with his forearm.
Charlie’s face darkened.
‘When were you to give this to Lily?’ He waved the paper.
‘Today at noon. She’ll take a carriage to the Palace, I’m to meet her there,’ he admitted.
‘The Palace?’ In his surprise Charlie released his grip slightly. Lily must be joining the parade of women hoping to catch King Charles’s eye. It made sense that a girl as attractive as Lily would try her luck. But it seemed beneath her.
Sensing his distraction, the boy made a sudden twist, slipping free of the carcass. Charlie made a grab, but the boy, slick with entrails, slipped from his grip. He skidded across the bloody floor and fled into the market. Charlie watched him go, deciding he had extracted all he needed. He moved his attention to the paper.
His eyes travelled over the ring of words. It was a round robin. Of the kind sailors write so as no one man is held culprit for challenging the captain. A round of names circled a short paragraph of script and a number four.
But the number was different to how it was usually written. The four had a kind of curly tail. Like a symbol.
Charlie sucked at his scarred upper lip and began slowly making out the names. These were surnames he was familiar with – Smith, Cutler, Skinner. Commoner’s names. Men who worked for a living. This fitted with what the boy had told him. Poor Catholics. But the paper did not. What impoverished Catholic boy could write?
Charlie’s gaze fell to the longer script, which was written in the shaky hand of a semi-literate. He read it carefully, trying not to move his lips as he read. Charlie froze.
‘The Sealed Knot ask their Grand Master Blackstone,’ said the writing, ‘not to use alchymy to fire the city.’
Blackstone .
His gaze went back to the document. He licked his finger, dabbed at the ink and tasted it. A cheap kind made from burned tar and honey, which flaked within weeks of drying. This writing was not old.
He turned it back and re-read carefully. Alchymy.
Charlie assessed what he knew.
Blackstone had contracted plague and vanished last summer. Charlie had assumed him dead and buried, his possessions burned.
He’d made an uneasy promise to Maria
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