The Ashes of London. Andrew Taylor

dividers, pencils and pens.

      Master Hakesby set down the portfolio and examined the contents. Afterwards he returned to his drawing board. She watched him, straining her eyes to see what he was working on. Not St Paul’s, she thought. This was more than any church. She made out lines that crossed each other in a pattern. Not a grid: more complicated than that. Streets? A city? London itself?

      Was it his own design or one of Dr Wren’s? Or both? She had heard Master Hakesby say that Wren had too much work to handle all the detail himself, and besides he frittered away too much of his time in Oxford or in meetings at Whitehall or with prospective clients. Master Hakesby was his draughtsman, almost his partner, though the designs were usually in Dr Wren’s name.

      The hand holding the pen trembled. Hakesby steadied it with his left hand. He paused, took a deep breath, and continued his work.

      Cat was growing uncomfortably hot by the brazier. She loosened the cloak about her shoulders.

      At the same moment, Master Hakesby’s hand twitched, seemingly of its own volition. The side of it brushed the inkpot, which toppled over. Ink glided towards the portfolio. He swore. The inkpot rolled over the edge of the table and fell to the floor, leaving a trail of drops to mark its passage.

      Cat darted forward. The cloak fell from her shoulders. She scooped up the portfolio and the sheets of paper lying beside it.

      Master Hakesby looked at her. His lips worked but no words came out. Cat put the portfolio on a stool and crouched to pick up the inkpot. There was a rag on the table, which she used as best she could to wipe up the spilled ink.

      Hakesby was still staring at her.

      ‘Sir,’ she said, softly so the other men would not hear her. ‘What is it? Are you ill? Shall I—’

      ‘Be silent.’ His lips twisted into a scowl.

      She was looking at the plans, which were similar to each other. ‘It’s London, sir, isn’t it? Or part of it. But – but a different London.’

      His eyebrows shot up. ‘How do you know that?’

      She nodded at the geometric mass of fortifications in the lower right-hand corner, by the north bank of the river. ‘Because that’s the Tower, sir – it says so. And the Thames, from there to London Bridge, and—’

      ‘You can read?’

      ‘Yes, sir, and write a fair hand.’

      She had known serving women who could do both, there was no reason why she should not be one of them. She came a step nearer, and still holding the inkpot.

      ‘But all this is different, sir. The Tower’s not that shape. And that space to the west, where eight roads meet – what is that?’

      ‘It is a plan of London as it might be. Not London as it is.’

      ‘Dr Wren’s London?’

      ‘And mine, as well,’ Master Hakesby said, scowling. ‘Indeed, as much mine as his, if the truth be known. A vision of what this city might be.’

      His right hand, which was resting on the table, began to tremble again. He covered it with his left hand, pressing it down. He glanced at Cat and saw the curiosity in her face.