inside the wall?”
“I bought a chisel and a hammer,” Julian says, “popped out two Kentish ragstones, scraped out a hole in the interior bricks, hid the purse, replaced the boulders and spackled mortar around them to seal them. I’m not saying it was easy.” Gouging out a space in the interior stone with an inadequately short chisel, piece by piece, chunk by chunk, took hours. It was one of the more physically grueling things Julian has ever done.
“Oh, you’re a mason now, too.” Mallory’s anger dissipates. She eyes him with trepidation, a little amazement, a little hope.
“I’m not a mason,” he says, “but I became a mason. I did what I had to do.”
“O Lord, Julian! I suppose that’s quick thinking on your part, but why on earth would you hide it all the way up there?”
“As opposed to where, the Baroness’s bedchamber?”
“Why go all the way to Clerkenwell?”
“You’re from Clerkenwell,” Julian says. “Do you remember? You lived there once in a big gray mansion.”
“Must be another molly you were sweet on. That’s not where I lived. I lived in a ramshackle, falling-down, white-limed bordello where I slept on the floor while my mother entertained men in the bed, one of whom was my father.” Mallory flings her arm to point to the London Wall just up ahead near Aldgate. “The wall circles the City for a square mile! There’s the wall! There’s the wall! And there, too! You could’ve hidden the coin close by, and we wouldn’t have to cross a city on fire to get to it.”
“I didn’t know we’d need it so quickly,” Julian says. “I had no idea, did I, that you killed Fabian and Margrave, or that you’d hang murder over both our heads. I thought we had plenty of time to decide what to do. And I didn’t know there’d be a fire.” What garbage. What absolute tripe. Julian knew there’d be a fire. He just didn’t know when. He knew in part.
“Sounds to me like you knew nothing.” Mallory starts down Fleet Street. “Well, don’t just stand there like Lot,” she barks. “Are you coming or not?”
He catches up. “Where are we going?”
“Where are we going? Have you gone soft in the head? To Cripplegate, of course. To Clerkenwell. Just like you planned. We’re not leaving my gold in a fucking wall. What if the fire destroys it?”
Julian wants to tell her that the fractured Roman wall will be the only thing left standing of old London 400 years from now, that after the Great Fire, after industrialization, expansion, demolition, after the Blitz! a piece of the wall where he hid the gold will remain. He knows this because he’s seen it with his own eyes as he ambled past St. Giles through the maze of modern Barbican, searching for the café with the golden awning.
Julian points to the black plumes spreading north and west from the Thames, the vicious winds, the livid flame. “We can’t get to Cripplegate,” he says. “Between us and your gold is hellfire. But don’t worry. We just have to stay safe for a little while longer. Safe and hidden. We’ll get to it. Let’s wait it out. The wall’s not going anywhere, I promise you. Let’s find an abandoned shop, lie low. After the fire dies down, five days tops, then we’ll go get it.”
“This fire is going to rage for five days?”
A breath. “Yes.”
Mallory crows in disbelief. “What’s going to be left of this city after a fire that rages for five days?”
“Nothing.”
Julian wishes they were in the East End. Wapping, Shoreditch, Bethnal Green. The East End is a little safer because of the direction of the wind. Trouble is, the two of them are on the west side. And between east and west there’s a mountain of flame. Not listening to him anymore, Mallory rushes down Fleet Street; Julian follows close behind. Aldgate is unmanned. The gates are open. The gatekeepers have fled.
Inside the City walls, the heat and smoke are much worse. Julian knows something about out of control firestorms. In California, the Santa Ana winds are called the devil winds. Every September during the drought, they blow downhill through the mountain passes and scorch the forest using chaparral as fuel, and then obliterate the valley from San Bernardino to Santa Barbara, using homes as fuel. That’s what this is, too. But instead of thorny bushes and tangled shrubs, the City of London all in a blaze is chaparral for the wildfire. It’s the destruction of a civilization. Why can’t his stubborn girl understand? “Mallory, please.” He wipes his sweating face. He is so hot.
Without looking back at him, she hurries down Ludgate Street. She is brave because she knows he is right behind her. It’s as if in the heart of her soul she knows he won’t leave her side. “Is the man afraid of a little smoke?”
“Not smoke, Mallory. Fire. And yes,” Julian says. “Afraid of this fire. But not for myself. For you.” He tries to take her hand. She pulls away. Her legs get caught up in her skirts, she trips, rights herself, won’t even let him balance her.
“I can’t believe you’d hide all of it,” she says. “Not leave even one little coin for the just in case.”
“I sold one coin for the just in case,” Julian says, showing her the crowns and shillings inside his small purse.
She snatches it out of his hands and hides it in the apron of her skirt. “For safekeeping,” she says. “How much did you get for it?”
“Three hundred shillings.” Julian thinks she’ll be as impressed as he was.
“You got three hundred shillings for a priceless sovereign?” In disgust she shakes her head. “You were robbed. Come on, hurry. We need to get my money before you give any more of it away.”
Julian is troubled as they race forward, sweat dripping off them. But Mallory’s spirits have been lifted not only by the promise of a stash of gold nearby but by the actual shillings now in her possession. Things are looking up. She chatters excitedly. “Why so glum, mason? With the gold, we can get anywhere, bribe anyone, barter for anything. No guard will stand in our way. We’ll buy our way out. We are set for life. We’ll make it last. You’ll see, we won’t need much.”
“Much? How about nothing?” Julian says, looking around for a conduit, a fountain, a bucket of dirty water. They need to breathe into something wet—and soon. Smoke inhalation doesn’t favor survival. “Because that’s what we’ll have if we continue to Cripplegate. Nothing.”
“You yourself were blithely headed into the City not ten minutes ago!”
“To hide you!”
“Julian,” Mallory says, slowing down and turning her face to him. “There’s a time to think and a time to act. If we are going to make it, you really need to learn the difference between the two. Guess which time this is. Do you remember yourself on the stairs not an hour ago? Had I not reminded you with a sharp fist to your back that the time had come to run, not ponder, you’d be in Parker’s custody right now on your way to Tyburn. The Master of the Mint is dead! A prostitute is dead! And London is burning. This is no time to stand around, waxing poetic about what could’ve been and should’ve been.” She takes his hand and stares deep into his face. “No one can protect us if we ourselves are not prepared, not even God. Not because he won’t. But because he can’t. That’s what Jesus said. Carry oil in your lamps, he told us. I can’t protect you if you are not ready.”
“I’m not sure that by oil in your lamps Jesus meant murder,” says Julian.
“You and I have a chance for a real life somewhere,” Mallory says. “Someplace beyond this city. It’s waiting for us, like you said. But first we must act. We can’t simply will it to happen. We have to do something for ourselves. What will you do if the wall falls and we can’t find the purse? How will you feel if the guards find us hiding like leeches in some wet gulley? What are you going to say to me then? I’m sorry, O dainty duck, I tried?”