Page 45 of A Murder on London Bridge
I should have followed. That had been the plan—such as plans can be when the city is chewing on its own tail. Hollingsworth would see the Queen safely away; I was to meet him once the barge had cast off. Simple. Clear.
But just as my foot lifted from the quay, movement caught at the edge of the torchlight—a slip of shadow cutting across the fiery scrum.
Not a shadow. A boy. The page I’d entrusted with Hollingsworth’s message. His cap was flattened, his eyes too sharp for innocence. He threaded through the throng with thewiry ease of one born to alleys, ducking past elbows and skirts until he was near enough for me to see the grime upon his cheek. He went beyond me, paused, and turned. Our gazes met—only for an instant—but in that instant I felt the world tilt.
He jerked his chin toward the right—toward the edge of the privy garden, toward the smaller river gate where servants and errand boys came and went unseen.
“You have a message for me?” My voice came low, the noise of the river and shouting men pressing close around us. “From Hollingsworth?”
He shook his head. “Your maid. Anne. She’s in danger.”
For a heartbeat, the world stilled. The crackle of burning timber, the cries of frightened horses, even the slap of water against the hull—all dimmed beneath the thudding of my heart.
Anne. My Anne. Loyal, stubborn, foolishly brave. Had she been caught in the crush? Had she been taken?
Cold reason whispered it could be a trap. Parquier was clever enough for that. But another voice, louder, fiercer, rose above it. If she needed me, I must go.
“Where?”
He flicked a glance over his shoulder, uneasy. “Follow me.”
“Lady Halloran!” May’s voice rang out above the din. “You must board—now!”
“One moment,” I said, though even as I spoke, I knew moments were a luxury none of us possessed.
The barge lurched against the current, timbers groaning, and the Queen stumbled. May caught her by the arm and steadied her. She looked to me then—not as a ruler to one who served her, but as a woman who saw, in another’s eyes, both loyalty and affection.
“Lady Halloran!” the Queen cried, her voice breaking against the wind. “Come. Now.”
I shook my head. “Your Majesty, you are safe. You will live.”
She stared at me, startled—as though I had uttered not reassurance but prophecy. Which I hoped I had.
The river wind caught my cloak and flung it back. For a heartbeat, everything stilled—the crack of the flames, the shouting of men, even the creak of the oars. Catherine raised her hand, trembling, and I raised mine in answer. No more words passed between us, but understanding did. This was farewell. We would never see each other again.
The page tugged at my sleeve. “My lady, come. You must follow me.”
Before I could think better of it, I did.
The garden path felt like stepping out of a loud room into the inside of my head. The noise fell back as if it had hit a wall. Only the river’s slap and the confiding whisper of leaves arguing with smoke remained. Ahead, the boy darted through the ironwork of a side gate left on the latch. I followed before common sense could finish her indictment.
The little lane beyond hugged the palace wall—a service way for carts and careless secrets. The smoke pooled there, low and dense, as if fire were a tide and this was its eddy. At the far end, the boy paused, put two fingers to his lips, and let out a note that was nothing like a whistle and everything like a signal.
The hairs on my arms lifted. Was I walking into danger?
I should have turned back. I should have gone to the river, to safety, to the Queen. But Anne’s name had lodged beneath my ribs like a thorn. If they had her—if she was hurt—how could I live knowing I had abandoned her?
He went on. I went after.
We came out into a crooked run where the city asserted itself—no palace here, only London as it preferred to be when not being watched. A row of mean houses leaned together like old gossips; a cat, singed at the tail, shot past as if personally offended by the heat. The sky to the east had stopped pretendingto be night. It wore an ugly brilliance, the color of oranges that never grew. Sparks came in flocks, stinging when they landed. Even the wind had lost its sense of direction, spinning wild with the smoke.
I caught the boy at the corner. “Where are we going?” I asked.
He jerked his chin toward a narrow doorway half-hidden by a sagging awning. “Here.”
The door creaked when he pushed it open. The smell that met me was foul—sweat, rot, and something copper beneath. The boy stood aside, his face blank, as I stepped within.
“Anne?” My voice came thin, hardly my own. “Are you here?”
