The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(109)

"Yes, sir."

He turned back to the waiting ambassador, and they boarded the coach. As it rattled away eastwards, she suddenly realised what had felt so wrong, back in the theatre field. The horses, which should have been made frantic by the mere proximity of the fire, had stood placidly in their traces whilst one of the skrayling guards sat on the driver's seat, eyes closed. Only when the powder keg blew had they panicked. Bewitchment. It was the only explanation. Her hand strayed to her chest, to the comforting contours of the wooden cross tucked inside her shirt. Perhaps her countrymen were right after all to shun the skraylings. Fireworks and ice engines were one thing, but this smacked of devilry.

She patted her pockets, realising she had left her purse on the makeup table. The pennies were a puddle of molten silver by now, she supposed. Well, there was nothing for it but to walk back to London Bridge. Perhaps by the time she got there, the crowds would have thinned a little. Not that she was anxious to go back to Thames Street. The thought of facing Mistress Naismith, knowing she was in part responsible for making her a widow, turned her insides to lead.

Ned reached the end of St Olave's Street and skidded to a halt on the muddy cobbles. Over the rooftops he could see a column of black smoke rising to the heavens. Judging by the direction and distance, it could have only one source. The Mirror.

"Oh, Angel," he whispered.

Eyes swimming with tears, he crossed Long Southwark and headed west towards Bankside, making slow progress against the torrent of people fleeing towards London Bridge. He scanned every face as they passed, but though a few were familiar, none was the man he sought.

As he neared the Rose, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a pair of richly dressed whores, their blonde wigs and silken finery singed and soot-besmirched. One was weeping into a filthy handkerchief. The illusion was spoilt, however, when the other 'woman' pulled off her wig and threw it on the ground in disgust. Even through the thick makeup, Ned recognised the boy apprentice from Suffolk's Men.

"Hey, you! Philip, isn't it?" Ned ran over to the boys. "Have you seen Gabriel Parrish?"

Philip looked him up and down and sneered. "He's dead. Not that I care."

Ned stared at him in horror. No, not dead. Not Gabe.

The other boy looked up from his handkerchief and seemed about to say something, but Philip silenced him with a glare.

"Come on, Noll, show's over. Let's go home."

Philip pushed past Ned, tattered skirts held high. The younger boy trailed after him, still sniffing into his handkerchief.

Ned walked on, numb with grief. The crowds were thinning a little, and he made his way through them towards the field behind Paris Gardens. A trail of discarded shoes, beer bottles and trampled bodies led back to the gate. The hawthorn hedges were smouldering, too wet to burn after the recent rains. Wisps of burning thatch rained down towards him. The field was deserted, a waste of churned mud and ash. No, not quite deserted. Ned blinked, unable to believe his eyes.

Gabriel was still wearing his costume of gold brocade, though his stockings were filthy with soot and his golden hair stood up in sweat-soaked spikes. In the ruddy light of the burning theatre he was a boyish Lucifer, dazed by his sudden fall into Hell.

With a cry of joy Ned ran towards him. Gabriel stared back blankly.

"Gabe?" Ned halted, hesitant, just within arm's reach.

Gabriel drew a deep breath and his eyes focused again. "Ned?"

Ned flung his arms about his lover, pressing cheek to grimy cheek. "God in Heaven, Gabe, they told me you were dead!"

Gabriel returned the embrace. "I thought I was, but now I live again." His breath was hot in Ned's ear, sparking memories of their nights together. Ned kissed him, heedless of who might be watching.

"Come on," he murmured at last, echoing Philip's words. "Let's go home."

He led Gabriel down Gravel Lane to the outskirts of Southwark. Cautious householders, torn between fleeing the fire and leaving their homes vulnerable to looters, lingered in their gardens with bundles of valuables, staring at the pillar of smoke that loomed over the borough like a sign from God. Ned remembered he had left some of his own belongings behind at his mother's house when he went to stay with Gabriel, as well as the rosary Mal gave him for safekeeping. He supposed he had better go back home and collect them. There was nothing else to keep him there, except the rent from his mother's tenants. And if the house burned down, he would not have even that.

As they walked along the road towards Deadman's Place, they were passed by a coach accompanied by a dozen skraylings on horseback. The vehicle drew to a halt just ahead of them, and Mal climbed out.

"Ned?" He paused, hand on sword hilt.

Ned's knees gave way, and he dropped to the ground, head bowed. A pair of black leather boots, smeared with mud, appeared on the edge of his vision and halted before him.

"I'm so sorry, Mal," he mumbled. "I never meant–"

"Get up." A hand grasped his arm and hauled him to his feet. "I thought you were with Baines," Mal said in a low voice, drawing him aside.

"You knew about that?" Ned eyed his friend, trying to judge his mood. Mal's features were flushed from the fire, but he looked calm enough.

"Would you rather have been hanged for murder?"

Ned swallowed, and stared at the ground. "I deserve no less."