Page 47 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Never.”
“So be it.” He reached into his coat. A gleam of steel flashed in the darkness.
“My Lady, you must speak!” Anne’s weak voice cried out.
“If I do, he’ll still kill us,” I said. “At least this way, we die with honour.”
Parquier flicked a hand, though he did not yet raise the weapon. He wanted confession—the satisfaction of bending a proud woman to his will. And, of course, he wanted the book—the one he did not yet have. Around us, the building groaned, timbers protesting, a beam creaking overhead.
“The fire comes, Parquier,” I warned. “Soon it will consume this building—and you with it.”
Something high in the rafters gave a thin, terrible crack—the sound of a joist giving way—and for an instant, every man in that wretched room froze. The air grew thick with the stench of burning leather and scorched wood. Parquier’s two minions exchanged a glance, then edged toward the door.
Sparks drifted down like startled gnats. Parquier’s eyes flicked upward, irritated rather than afraid. With his attention elsewhere, I worked loose the leather strap that bound me.
When only dust drifted from the rafters, Parquier’s shoulders eased. The smirk returned, faint but unmistakable.
“I tire of your theatrics,” he said softly. “Tell me?—”
The roof, having had enough, gave way. A great beam crashed beyond the curtained window, as dust and embers rained down like fiery ash from a broken sky. Anne cried out, choking on the smoke. Parquier swore and stumbled back, shielding his face. His men fled like the vermin they were.
“Best follow them, Parquier,” I called, “before the flames claim you.”
Another ominous crack split the air. He hesitated only a heartbeat, then turned and ran.
I rushed to Anne, untied her hands, and hauled her upright. Together we staggered toward the door. But before we reached it, the building, having had enough, finally surrendered. One final groan—one last shudder—and it came crashing down around us. I pushed Anne through the doorway to safety.
I was not so fortunate.
A beam struck true.
The world tilted as spark-flocks wrote orange punctuation against the dark. The ground received me with the side of my face and then with everything else.
Somewhere, far away, bells beat the city’s heart. Voices went tinny, then vanished. Water laughed along a bucket line. The Queen cried out in her own tongue.
And then there was nothing but the taste of ashes on my tongue, and the slow, creeping silence of the grave.
CHAPTER 24
THE JOURNEY HOME
Iwas floating … somewhere. In the smoke? The fog? I felt lighter than air itself, unmoored, drifting without a sense of time or place. For a moment I thought I might dissolve altogether, scattered like ash upon the wind.
Sound reached me first—dull, distant, as though I were listening through thick walls. Murmurs, perhaps? A low rumble that might have been a man’s voice? But it ebbed and flowed, fading before I could catch its meaning.
Then touch—a weight at my hand, firm and steady, tethering me. The more I drifted, the more I felt it. Warmth seeping into me, pulling me back from that endless haze.
Scents followed next. Not the acrid bite of fire and burning timber I expected, but something sharp, sterile, carbolic, as if I were standing in the bright white corridors of a hospital ward. The realization startled me. Had I survived, then?
I tried to open my eyes, but light pierced them like needles, so I closed them again, retreating to shadow. Still, the foghad thinned. The smoke that had seemed all-encompassing was giving way to shapes, impressions. A chair creaking faintly. The soft clink of glass.
And that hand. Always that hand, holding mine as though it alone might keep me tethered to the earth.
I let myself sink into that warmth, following it back toward the world. The fog curled and shifted, reluctant to release me, but the hand in mine tugged, insistent.
My lips were parched, my throat raw, as though I had swallowed soot. I tried to swallow, but even that small act felt monumental. A whisper escaped—no word, only a sound, a rasp of being.
The hand stirred. Fingers tightened around mine. A chair scraped softly.
