Welcome to my notebook. This is an extension to my blog, where I post stories, essays, poems, comics, and whatnot. The long stories go here. Please take a look around and don't hesitate to comment.

Believe it or not, this book was going to be a website, but I scrapped the idea after realizing that there are a million websites with information about the Elizabethan era. Then it was going to be about pirates, then the upper classes, then the underworld alone. I checked out fourteen books from the library, two about privateers, several about Elizabeth and the most famous courtiers, some about games and customs, one about London alone, and I wound up using information from only four of them. (I now owe the library over five dollars in fines—funny how quickly that adds up.)

In the end, I was able to synthesize everything I already knew from working at the Bristol Renaissance Faire up in Wisconsin with the books I read and the websites I discovered. The story turned into one about the everyday people, the ones who didn’t wear jewels, had never seen the queen, and moved through their lives just like all of the normal people I know. Pirates are fun to read about, and nobles are fun to imagine, but both are greatly romanticized and besides, who am I to compete with Pirates of the Caribbean and Elizabeth? We rarely hear about the lower classes, the common folk, nor do we touch on the gypsies, tramps, and thieves that were so numerous at the time.

Like pirates, thieves are easily defended, making them alluring and fascinating. However, they were anything but. Vagabondage was considered a punishable crime, but many Elizabethans were reduced to such when they lost their jobs or homes. Once considered or assumed to be a vagabond, it was impossible to be hired again; in short, the poor were punished for being poor. Sometimes thievery was the only way to survive, and the poor were extremely resourceful when it came to finding money.

Though I couldn’t find many ways to use the information I found about thieves, I studied them quite extensively and found every piece of information fascinating. Men who sat in the roads feigning madness were called Abraham-Men or Poor Toms. Those who pretended to have seizures to gain sympathy were called Counterfeit Cranks, after the Cant term for epilepsy, “The Crank.” Some carried around long poles with hooks on the end to nab things from clotheslines and through open windows, and they were called Hookers, Anglers, or Curbers. Some vagabonds tied arsenic or ratsbane to their limbs to irritate the skin and produce bleeding sores, which they then showed off to pitying travelers. Highwaymen were abundant, and because the sentence for highway robbery and highway murder was the same, many criminals had no qualms with committing both.

Less harmful vagabonds included minstrels, peddlers, tinkers, bearwards, fortune-tellers, and jugglers; all were considered disturbers of the peace, though they were generally honest citizens trying to make a living.

I spent all of October 2007 researching and planning. I took pages of notes, outlined what I thought I wanted to happen in my story, and even drew pictures of my characters when I was running out of inspiration. I wound up writing the story itself during November as a contestant of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, a contest that challenges writers to produce a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. As you may notice, though I wrote all month, my “novel” is a little less than a third as long as it had to be to “win” the contest. To make myself feel better, I tell myself that 50,000 words would have been overkill anyway. Besides, it would kill trees, so I’m doing my part for the environment, right?

As you read, notice all the little things you never knew about England in 1595 and the 70-year time period surrounding it. I jammed—ahem, carefully fit in as much information as I possibly could. The most enjoyable part of this project was learning the most random things about the Elizabethan era, but the second most enjoyable part was trying to include it all so that others could learn too. By the end you’ll be speaking fluent Cant and calling your handkerchief a muckinger. Marry, ‘tis true.


E. G. Morgan

The moon was undoubtedly out, it being nearly midnight, but if anyone had been on the street they wouldn’t have been able to tell. The old wooden houses on each side of the road had not been built well or with any thought to the problems that could occur in the future. The “street,” if one could call it that, was only about ten feet wide at its widest, and the wind and wear had persuaded the buildings to lean towards each other, creating a sort of vaulted ceiling like the one in St. Paul’s cathedral down the road. Therefore, if the moon had indeed been eclipsed by the power of witches (or, perhaps, Catholics), no one on Taylors School Road, nor indeed half of London, would have known.

That was why it was a bit reckless of Anne to slip through the uneven doorway of her home and find herself gingerly stepping across the street, pretending that she was successfully avoiding whatever muck had been deposited there. She looked left and then right, scanning the road, praying harder for the presence of light than for the absence of bandits. Directly across from her, the slight glow from the moon betrayed the metal lamp hanging just by the doorway of Jack’s house; as usual, it was unlit. Her house had a lamp too, as did every other house in London (it being a law) but most people “forgot” to light them, not wishing to waste precious candles. There was a law that every house should have a lamp, yes, but there was no law saying they had to be lit.

Anne continued her slow journey across the road, but once she had reached the middle, her excitement got the better of her, and she ran the rest of the way. Meeting Jack in the middle of the night was scandalous and dangerous, but she loved the thought of adventure.

An hour passed. The moon had moved in the sky, even further behind the buildings than before, casting the street into pitch blackness. Anne reemerged from Jack’s house, her sudden fear of being caught allowing her maidenhood to remain unblemished. There had, however, been kissing and cuddling, and Anne was so blinded by love that she skipped, eyes half closed, across the narrow road.

Halfway there she hit something dark and solid, and all she could feel was pain before falling to the ground. Whatever was leaking from her abdomen was warm on her hands, but the voices above her were cold in her ears.

“Nedget!”

“She sneaked up on me!”

“You loggerheaded scut!”

“Look, she bumped into me, and…”

“Ne’er mind it, let’s bing afore someone castles us.”

Their footfalls had nearly faded away before Anne’s world went black.



Mary had just finished plaiting her long, dark hair when she heard the cry. It was followed by two wooden spoons clattering to the table, a four-legged stool falling with a thud on the rushes, and the front door slamming against a wall as it was flung open. Her eyes widened in alarm. If her parents were so upset by the sounds in the street, something was seriously wrong.

“Help! Attend! For God’s sake, someone, help!”

Mary picked up her skirts and ran.

The slivers of sky that could be seen above the old buildings were a dull grey, sunlight nothing more than an assumption in this part of town. Normally, the streets would be calm this early in the morning, families still breaking their fasts before heading off to work, but the neighborhood had skipped its morning meal to see what the commotion was. A small circle had formed in the middle of the street, comprised of Mary’s mother, her knuckles in her mouth and tears in her eyes, Mary’s father, his arms around his wife, the Ashbys from next door, and the Giffords from across the way. Young Jack Gifford, just two years Mary’s senior, was in the process of staggering backwards, his face stricken and white. He turned toward his house and ran the remaining few feet to it before gripping the empty windowsill and bending over. Mary rushed to him at the sound of his first retch and gathered his hair into a tail at the back of his neck. She had done the same for her brothers enough and therefore thought little of her reaction, though she found it difficult to concentrate on Jack without knowing what was occurring behind her.

Any neighbors who were not in the street were standing in their doorways, men assuring women that all was well, older sisters warning younger children to stay inside. Mary rubbed Jack’s back, feeling his whole body shiver; never had she seen anyone so upset. When he was well enough to stand, she gave him another pat and returned her attention to the crowd in the street.

Mary approached her parents and laid a hand on her mother’s back. The woman spun about as if pinched, but her face instantly softened when she saw who it was. There were tears staining her round cheeks, and she grasped Mary’s hand tightly before stepping to the side. Through the gap her mother had created between herself and her husband, Mary could see a pair of feet, a tangle of skirts, a red-stained hand resting on a blood-soaked bodice, and finally, a pale face with blue eyes wide open. Someone had removed her cap and was stroking her long blonde hair with shaking fingers; his face was contorted and dripping with tears, but Mary recognized him as Mister Sayer, the head of the family that lived next door. That would mean that the girl he was holding was—

The blood in her veins turned to ice and her heart ceased to beat. Her mouth formed a word, but her voice made no sound. She swallowed and tried again.

“Nan?”

At hearing her name, the girl lying in the street sat up and grinned at everyone. There was a moment of surprise and an audible gasp, but it was followed by a burst of laughter from all the neighbors standing in their doorways. Confused, Mary’s parents looked at each other, then at their neighbors, and when they finally realized they had been cony-catched they laughed too. Everyone passed around quarts of the finest sack and celebrated, right in the middle of the street at dawn on a Tuesday morning. Nan was alive, and the sun came out.

It took several moments for this happy image to dissolve, but when it did, Mary found that she was still staring at the cold, dead body of her friend Anne Sayer, lying in a tacky pool of blood, eyes fixed on paradise. She would never smile or laugh again. It was now Mary’s turn to retch.

The three Chandlers were several hours late to work, having sent a neighbor boy into the market to tell their respective employers that there had been an emergency. None of them would have been able to work anyway; Mary’s mother was a strong woman, but Anne’s death had her weeping uncontrollably, hardly able to breathe. Her father, too, was having difficulty speaking through the thickness in the back of his throat. The only explanation Mary could give was that she and Anne were both seventeen years old, and Mister and Mistress Chandler knew that their daughter could just as easily be lying in the street dead herself.

Mary sat in her doorway with her arms around poor Jack Gifford, the man who had been going to marry Anne within a month, listening to his deep, shuddering breaths while watching her parents help Mister Sayer with the necessary arrangements. Robert found the nearest four neighbors, calling to him Mister Ashby and Mister Gifford, as well as Goodman Noke, a frail sixty-something and the oldest gentleman on the street. The four men discussed everything they knew about Anne’s death and discovery with her father, and when they had decided on their story, they sent for the bailiff.

He arrived after a good hour had passed, a big, hulking man with cruel eyebrows and pock marked cheeks. There was no pity in his eyes as he listened to the men tell their story. He would glance periodically over to Anne’s body, which had meanwhile been covered with a green wool blanket to ward off flies and nosy neighbors, and Mary could see the boredom in his face as the men surrounding him tried to help him understand the situation.

“’Tis my fault.” Mary swiveled her head, startled by Jack’s sudden outburst. She smiled sadly and petted his hair.

“Nay, Jack, ‘tis not your fault.”

“But it is!” he retorted, his puffy red eyes rolling around in his head. “I met her last night.”

Mary shook her head in confusion. “Met her?”

“She… she visited me. In the middle of the night.” His chin dropped to his chest, and he covered the top of his head with his hands. The knowledge that he had been the last to see her alive was killing him.

Mary was silent for a few moments, wanting desperately to ask something but not sure if she really wanted to know the answer. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “Did you… and she…” She found it difficult to finish her thought.

Jack did not need her to finish it, though. “’Sblood, Mary Chandler!” he cried, glaring at her with tears in his eyes. “I love—I loved her. I would ne’er have… taken her before we were married.”

“But you were pledged, were you not?” she asked, attempting to explain herself and calm her hysterical friend. “If you were pledged, were you not lawfully husband and wife?”

He ran his hands through his hair, his last outburst having expended all his energy. “How did you know that,” he wondered in a monotone.

Mary’s eyes were drawn to the lump underneath the green blanket. Her father and the other family heads were standing next to it, all of them fidgeting nervously while the bailiff lifted the blanket to lazily inspect the body. In response to Jack’s question, Mary simply murmured, “Nan told me.”

“Don’t call her that,” he whined. “I called her that.”

Mary wanted to snap at him, to tell him that all of her friends called her that, but then she pictured him holding the pretty blonde girl and whispering to her in the dark: “My darling Nan,” “Sweet Nan,” “I do love thee, little Nan.” The name “Nan” held more meaning for love-struck Jack Gifford than for anyone else, and Mary held her tongue.

A terrifying thought suddenly occurred to her, and Mary’s eyes widened as she turned her face to Jack again. “You remember Elinor Frith,” she whispered urgently.

“Aye, I remember Elinor Frith. She has only been dead a fortnight.” Jack did not seem interested in what Mary was trying to tell him.

“Marry, Jack, and how long has Anthony Frith been dead?”

Jack looked at her and slowly his eyes widened in understanding. “Nay, Mary, you cannot mean it.”

Mary glanced up at the bailiff. He was asking something, and Mister Gifford pointed toward his son.

“Jack, attend me,” Mary cautioned in a whisper. “They hanged Anthony Frith for killing his wife to marry another. The scandal is still fresh, and you must not become the next Anthony Frith.”

The young man looked into her eyes. “I did not kill her, Mary,” he said, his voice wavering. Mary looked back at the bailiff. He was slowly approaching.

“You must not tell the bailiff you were pledged to Anne, or that you saw her last night. Do you understand?”

He nodded and wiped his hand across his face, erasing the tears that stained his cheeks. His face was red and sad like a little boy’s who had been denied some sweetmeat, and Mary patted his arm sympathetically. She made sure she was a modest distance from him and looked up just as the bailiff stopped in front of them.

“John Gifford, are you not?” the man asked abruptly. Jack nodded slowly, muttering “’Tis Jack” under his breath, and stood. Mary did not move to help him up or console him any further—the less friendly they appeared, the better it would be for Jack.

“Now, John, your father tells me that you were good friends with the young lady there.” The bailiff waved a hand in the direction of the green blanket, and Jack took a deep breath to calm himself.

“’Tis Jack, sir. Your business is with me, not with my father or my brother.”

The bailiff narrowed his eyes and the color seemed to rise in his cheeks. “Is not ‘Jack’ the same as ‘John’?”

“Nay, sir, ‘tis not,” Jack replied, becoming incensed by the bailiff’s obtuseness. “My name has always been Jack and always will be, ‘less my father and brother be taken to heaven afore me.”

By the look in the bailiff’s eyes, Mary wondered whether Jack would suddenly find himself at St. Peter’s gate.

The frown that had crossed the bailiff’s face disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by a sort of grimace that would have to pass for a smile. “Well, John, tell me something about your lady love.”

Jack’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he tried to contain his anger. “Her name was Anne Sayer,” he began, voice as level as he could make it. “We decided together that we would marry, and our families gave their blessings.”

“But you are not married?”

He shook his head, a tiny shift to the right, then to the left, then center. There was a muscle working in his jaw, and Mary got up from her place on the threshold, just in case she would be needed to restrain him.

The bailiff flashed that ugly smile again and continued his interrogation. “When did you last see the pretty lass?”

Jack knew that the man would not be at all helpful in finding the real killer, but he also knew that he would be considered the primary suspect if he wasn’t careful. “Yesterden, before supper.”

“Did you speak?”

“Nay, sir, we merely passed in the street.”

The bailiff seemed intrigued by this. “You passed your betrothed in the street? Without a word?”

“She was hurrying to prepare supper for her father, and my mother had done the same. There was no time for words.” He swallowed again and added, “I did take her hand, though, sir, to remind her of my love.”

Mary smiled inwardly, glad that Jack had not needed to lie about his meeting with Anne the previous afternoon. Anne and Mary would walk home together every evening from the shop on Three Needle Street, and yesterday Mary had seen this sweet exchange. As usual, she felt the sharp stab of jealousy that accompanied such moments, more envious of Anne’s happiness than of her choice of husband. Mary only knew of one man who wanted to marry her, and it certainly would not be a love match.

“And who is this?” The bailiff’s eyes traveled from Jack’s face to Mary’s, then scanned her from head to toe, either to evaluate the threat or examine the merchandise. She imagined it was the latter.

“Mary, sir. Mary Chandler.” She bobbed a small curtsy and tried to smile.

The man was silent for a moment, his mouth turning up in a cruel grin. “If I wanted to hear you speak, I would have asked you to, girl.” Mary blushed and the bailiff continued, this time speaking pointedly to Jack and ignoring her completely. “How do you know this girl?”

Jack glanced back at her and said, “The Chandlers have lived on Taylors School Road as long as the Giffords. I have known her my whole life.”

“Is that so,” the bailiff stated. “She’s a comely girl,” he added, returning his probing eyes to her. “Why are you not betrothed to her?”

The two young people exchanged a look, and Jack spoke for both of them. “Mary is my friend and naught else. In faith, she is the favorite of Thomas Fowler, the ruffmaker.” Mary’s eyes widened at hearing Jack gossip, but she just as quickly regained control of her emotions; the bailiff would not follow up with Mister Fowler, luckily. Jack continued, his voice full of contrived emotion. “I would not deny her such comfort if ‘twere in store.”

There were several moments of silence in which the bailiff tried to decide whether to believe this tale. Meanwhile, Mary and Jack were holding their breath, and everyone in the vicinity, previously straining to hear the entire conversation, were completely motionless. Finally, the bailiff let out a breath and returned to his usual bored expression.

“Mister Sayer,” he began, turning to Anne’s distraught father, “I have come to the conclusion that the lass was attacked by robbers. I’ll send for the coroner so you can bury the girl as soon as possible. Get her out of the street and whatnot.”

“If my Anne was attacked by robbers, Master Bailiff, they should be caught and punished!” Mister Sayer’s face was a deep crimson, his eyes rimmed with red.

The bailiff gave him that same lazy, hideous smile and replied, “Aye, Mister Sayer, you say true. I shall do my best—I swear to you on my honor.” Mary heard Jack snort, and she was thinking the same thing: what honor?

The bailiff left without another word, presumably to send for the coroner, and the shocked neighborhood remained in the street, wondering what was to be done. Finally the less interested neighbors went back to their homes and their jobs, leaving only Mary’s, Jack’s, and Anne’s families to keep watch over the body. Once the coroner had come and gone and Anne had been carted to the churchyard, the families paid their last respects. Mary looked down at her, imagining her to be simply asleep. Her eyes were drawn to the girl’s neck, the smooth whiteness only interrupted by a thin satin ribbon. Mary reached down and followed the ribbon until it ended in a loop; dangling from the black satin was a silver cross, the one given to Anne by her late mother. Mary’s sad smile became a frustrated frown as she realized the absurdity of the bailiff’s pronouncement. Robbers—a likely story.

Gossip had always been a problem in London, as in everywhere else, but give four laundresses a few hours alone together after a murder and you’ll have fifteen different stories circling the block. Ellen Cobley decided that Anne had killed herself, but the thoughtful girl had gone outside first to avoid spilling blood inside the house. Bess Malins agreed with the bailiff that robbers had done her in, but Bess’s love of particularly graphic tales had her adding things about “loss of virtue” and “wanted more than her jewelry, if you understand my meaning.” Mary Shern, the oldest and most jaded of them all, still held that Jack had done it out of boredom and spite, while Kate Littlebury thought it terribly romantic that Anne, like Thisbe or Juliet, killed herself after learning of Jack’s death by drowning in the Thames (“it was a different Jack, of course”). By the time Mary Chandler and her mother arrived at the shop on Three Needle Street, the air was thick with whispers of Anne Sayer, Jack Gifford, suicide, thievery, and murder.

As soon as Mary walked in the door, the youngest three women leapt to their feet, anxious to hear what had actually happened to their coworker Anne. Tired of listening to rude gossip and extrapolations, Mary set them all to rights by simply saying that Anne had been stabbed by no one knew whom and had been dead for hours before her father found her. The women exchanged a glance; their tales were much more interesting.

The ruff shop at Pepys, which is what any Londoner would call the pretty little two story building on Three Needle Street, was a well-to-do place, catering to courtiers and merchants and providing the best care available for the pleated fabric wheels that wealthier citizens liked to wear around their necks. Servants and wives would bring in the floppy, stained accessories in the morning after their masters, mistresses, and husbands had spent all night feasting and dancing, and the girls at Pepys would have them cleaned, pinned, and ironed by early afternoon, just in time for the next round of festivities. Jane Chandler, Mary’s opinionated mother, and Mary Shern, nicknamed “Medusa” by the other girls, were in charge of setting the ruffs as they were the oldest and most experienced. Ellen and Bess were trying to learn, but Bess had trouble paying attention and Ellen’s lack of confidence was her worst impediment. Mary and Kate (and, just the day before, Anne) were still in charge of washing, starching, and dying, not yet trusted with the delicacies of ruff making.

Kate had begun to wash, but the process took a great deal of time and the older women much preferred to sit and chat than help the young girl. When Mary entered the back room, which smelled of lye and damp, only three lengths of lawn were lying about waiting for their starch to dry, while seven others were hanging from lines still recovering from their first stage of preparation. Mary tested the starched strips and found them damp, but in this case, dry enough; the sooner the gossipmongers in front had been given something to do, the sooner they would stop discussing Anne. Kate began to protest when Mary picked up the lengths, but she thought better of it after remembering that Mary had been through enough already this morning.

Bess was the first to see Mary reenter the room, and she was the first to suddenly become tight lipped, not wishing to let Mary know they had been gossiping again. Ellen and Mary Shern followed suit, and Jane sent a sympathetic smile to her daughter, who tried to smile back. Mary unceremoniously handed the three strips of lawn to the three oldest women, knowing that Ellen was the only one in the group who would not initiate conversation while the other three were trying to concentrate. She returned to the back room and began taking the nearly dry lawn from the line, needing to do something with her hands to keep from going insane. Dying was not uncommon in London, from accidents and old age and lingering strains of the plague, so it surprised her that she would take Anne’s death so seriously. Perhaps it was the fact that Anne was her age, making Mary’s life seem even shorter and more precious. Maybe it was because she had died so mysteriously and gruesomely, making it impossible for her father or her fiancé or anyone else to avenge her. Mary brushed another glob of the sticky starch into the long, white strip of fabric and shuddered: what a horrible way to die.

“Good morning, ladies!” a man’s too-cheerful voice exclaimed from the shop’s doorway. “Has the air ever smelt so fresh?” The four women grumbled something in reply, and the man chuckled happily. “What sad hens I’ve employed!”

Kate and Mary exchanged a look just before the man appeared in the doorway. He was tall and simply dressed, with a long braid and a short beard and mustache that did little to flatter his thin face. He was grinning, showing every one of his gray teeth (he was the only person Mary had ever heard of who actually cleaned his teeth on a weekly basis), and above the corners of his mouth his boyish cheeks were a pleasant pink. He glanced at the younger girl and chirped, “Good morning, Mistress Kate,” before turning to look Mary in the eye. His smile changed, becoming less confident, as if he had suddenly forgot what he was about to say.

“Mistress Mary.”

She put on her best attempt at a smile and bent her knees in a short curtsey. “How now, Master Thomas?”

He smoothed a hand over his graying hair and nodded. “Certes, certes…” he stated vaguely, and Mary wondered if he would agree with her all day or eventually answer the question. He did neither.

“No time to chat, ladies, much to do.” Thomas spared another look at Mary, smiled, and hurried from the room.

Mary stood for a moment, more than a little confused about what had just transpired. She knew the man liked her; he offered her all sorts of treats and privileges, and he was consciously gentle with her mother, who certainly gave her approval of the match. It baffled her, though, that a middle-aged, down-to-earth man like Thomas Fowler could be reduced to a blushing schoolboy at the mere sight of her.

Kate had the audacity to giggle once Thomas had left, and Mary frowned at her. The sight of Kate sobering so completely and so suddenly softened Mary’s mood, and she dipped her fingers in the pail of clean water to flick the droplets at the back of her young friend’s neck. Kate squealed and returned the favor, though the war ended as soon as they realized how noisy they were being. Not only would Mary Shern and Jane be angry, but Master Thomas might withdraw his proposal (not that he had stated it verbally yet, but everyone knew it was coming).

The girls busied themselves with their starch, barley speaking. As Kate was laying out a starched length to dry, she murmured, “In faith, I’ve ne’er seen a man so in love, Mary.”

“How would you know?” Mary retorted. Kate was only fifteen, barely a woman.

Kate rolled her eyes. “I have six older brothers, Mary.”

“All of them as beautiful as a summer day.”

“All of them as poor as Tom.” Mary was impressed by Kate’s simile: a beggar on Cheapside who feigned insanity to gain pity was often called a Poor Tom, but Mary doubted if Kate had ever seen one.

“They may be poor, Kate,” Mary countered, “but they shall still have hair on their pates in ten years.”

Kate grinned. “Aye, but if Master Thomas were to ever lose Pepys and have to sell his things, his wife could use his bald crown for a looking glass!”

Both girls doubled over in laughter, the thought of seeing themselves in an old man’s shiny skin too absurd an image to endure. When Ellen was sent in to see if everything was all right, neither of them could speak for lack of breath. Ellen was able to piece enough of the story together to realize that Mary and Kate were nothing short of mad, and she returned to her gossip without sparing them another thought.

“You are lucky, though, Mary,” Kate said after she had caught her breath. “As the master’s wife, you’ll be able to tell Bess and Medusa just what you think of them, and then send them out into the street!”

“I couldn’t do that,” Mary insisted, but somewhere in the back of her mind, the thought of such power was appealing.

Mary was just about to empty her pitcher of beer into the six earthenware mugs on the table when Ned stopped her with his hand. She looked up to find him grinning from ear to ear, holding a brown jug in one hand and pointing to it with the other. Confused, Mary took it from him and pulled out the stopper before putting the mouth of the jug to her nose. The heavenly aroma of fermented pears wafted out of the jug, and Mary's eyes fluttered in ecstasy for a moment before she set the jug on the table and flung her arms around her older brother's neck. Ned chuckled and returned the embrace.

Just as Mary had poured the last drops of perry into the now full mugs, Jane set the first trencher of food on the table: a loaf of bread, already sliced, surrounded by a stew of steamed carrots and other vegetables, including, as a treat, a whole potato, boiled until tender. The next plate had the usual bacon, but Mary could smell the variety of spices. Jane had outdone herself in order to properly celebrate the first Sunday dinner that the Chandlers had shared for months.

There was no need to call the family to the table—Ned, Will, and their father Robert would have smelled the meal from miles away and would have been running the moment they caught a whiff. Agnes was playing with her doll and was rarely hungry anyway, but even she was seated, napkin over her shoulder, before Jane could blink. The picture was complete: all six of them, together again.

As the head of the family, Robert led the prayer, thanking God for the success of his sons, the beauty of his daughters (Agnes giggled), and the diligence of his wife. "A finer family I ne'er could have wished for," he concluded, then added a quick prayer for the food and for Anne Sayer's soul, which after a full week should have arrived in heaven, before giving the signal that all should eat: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen."

Mary allowed the others the privilege of choosing the choicest morsels, for she had her prize. Smiling, she took a long, slow sip of the pear juice she had been craving, feeling it burn a delicious trail down her throat. Looking up, she saw her father take a swig, and unconsciously she braced herself for what she knew would undoubtedly come.

"Ned, prithee, explain to me what is in my mug."

Ned and Mary exchanged a look. Little Agnes, who had been in the middle of taking a sip from her own mug, stopped short and set the mug on the table as if it had suddenly become intolerably hot to the touch.

Ned was unsure how to begin. "There was a wealth of perry in the country, father. I... I knew how my sisters did love the taste of it, and because Lord Norris gave me a small allowance, I bought a jug to bring home to Agnes and Mary."

"And we wished to share it with you, father," Mary added, "and with Mother and Will."

The quietest of the three oldest, Will blushed at hearing his name, ducking his head to remain as separate from this issue as possible.

Robert set down his mug, a thin smile on his face. "If you recall, Ned," he began slowly, "we are not country laborers, nor are we plough stots, beggars, or shepherds. Nothing keeps us from drinking good beer, or even sack. Wherefore, then, do you insist on drinking this?" At the end of his speech, he waved a hand at the mug, half full of a poor man's drink.

"We are sorry if it offends you, father," Mary said, not at all sorry but rather wishing him to understand. "You need not drink it, but Agnes and I love it so. Was it not kind of Ned to bring us a gift from his travels?"

Instead of chastising his daughter for speaking out of turn, a thing he found very hard to do when she looked at him with her brown eyes wide and pleading, he pushed the mug further toward the center of the table and said, "Return my portion to the jug. Enjoy it amongst yourselves."

Mary smiled and picked up his mug. Standing, she poured the perry back into the jug and filled the mug with beer. She did not fail to notice the way her father's eyes were laughing.

When she had sat back down, the perry issue resolved, everything returned to normal and friendly conversation ensued. Jane enquired about Will's work apprenticing the candlemaker, who had in the two months since the apprenticeship began become a second father to young Will. Agnes, as forward as her sister, wanted to know all about Lord Norris's daughter, and Ned assured her that mistress Elizabeth was nearly as pretty as herself. Robert, of course, wondered how the Norrises lived while visiting their other homes in the country; he was especially interested in the kinds of candles they used. Since Ned had begun working for Lord Norris four years before, the family had always used beeswax candles—after all, they could afford them. Robert could list several reasons why his own tallow candles were a better choice, but his excuses would all be slight stretches of the truth. His father would never admit it, but Ned was fully aware that tallow candles were smellier, greasier, and smokier than beeswax. The oldest son found it difficult, obviously, to tell his father that the product he made and sold was cheap and unwanted, so he avoided answering the question and said instead that the Norrises lived as well in the country as they did in the city.

Because neither Will nor Ned had spoken to their family for months (though Will had been living in the same city, while Ned had been hundreds of miles away), they were interested to hear about Mary’s possible betrothal to the ruffmaker. Ned seemed congratulatory, but Will was less than enthused; he was a simple boy, honest, emotional, dedicated, but hesitant to let anyone take his older sister away from him. After all, who could tell stories like her, playing all the characters at once and so convincingly that he felt he was there? At that moment, Will resented Thomas Fowler.

Ned was especially interested in hearing more about Anne Sayer. He had heard whispers, and Robert’s prayer was hinting at something, but he had only heard the “what”—never the “how” and the “why.”

Of course, no one could give a “why,” but Mary described everything they did know, even to the bailiff’s hypothesis about the killer.

“I met a robber in Bristol,” Ned said, swallowing a mouthful of bread. “He was missing a finger.” The young man pointed to the knuckle of his ring finger that was closest to his palm. “The wound was still healing.”

Mary screwed up her nose. “How horrible! I would not be able to endure such pain.”

Ned raised his eyes. “Be sure you do not steal, Mary, and if you must, steal nothing worth more than two shillings.”

Jane shook her head. “Do not encourage your sister to break a Commandment, Edward.”

Mary ignored her and said, eyes wide, “Why two shillings?”

Ned leaned closer, his eyes dark and narrowed. “Any man caught stealing anything worth more than two shillings will not be branded. He will be hung, drawn, and quartered!”

Mary and Agnes gasped and Jane cleared her throat. “Edward, this is hardly the time for such talk.”

Ned mumbled an apology, but he winked at Mary, perfectly content at having disgusted her in the middle of a meal.

After supper, the whole family helped to wash the trenchers; Jane insisted, and when Jane insisted, even Robert listened to her. They sat around the table when the work was done and talked about the past months until the candles burned low and Mary’s eyelids began to droop. Agnes, ever the sensible one when it came to sleep, had long since retired.

Unable to stay awake any longer, Mary rose and embraced her brothers, not knowing if they would still be there when she woke the next day. When Will sniffed as she wrapped her arms around him, she squeezed tighter and whispered, “I shall visit you, William, within a fortnight. I promise.” Seeing her fifteen-year-old brother so homesick nearly broke her heart, but for his sake she smiled brightly and retired to the small room she shared with her sister.

As she undressed down to her chemise, all Mary found she could think about was Anne. Unpinning her hair, she wondered whether Anne’s soul was with the angels in heaven. What if she had gotten lost, or misdirected? Once again, Mary wished she knew exactly what happened after one’s life ended. Death was the only thing that frightened her, and the things she had been taught in church about heaven and hell gave her very little comfort. Mary blew out the candle and crawled beneath the coverlet beside her sleeping sister, thinking for the millionth time that whatever came after life would have to wait: with Nan taken from them so early on, Mary would have to live enough for the both of them.

The biggest ruff Mary would ever starch belonged to Lady Elizabeth Trentham, the new wife of Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford; it arrived a few days after Will and Ned returned to their work, and the lady who delivered it insisted that it be ready in time for supper with Her Majesty that evening. The lawn was the finest she had ever handled, and if Mary had scooped all the starch she would use into a tankard first, it would have been equivalent to a half gallon of ale. At nearly seven yards long and nine inches wide, the strip of fabric had to be loosely looped several times around the drying line, and once dry the folds that such hanging created had to be smoothed out with water and starched again. It was the only ruff Mary Shern ironed that day, and she had barely finished when Lady de Vere’s servant returned around seven o’clock that evening. It took nearly one hundred pins, and Medusa’s goffering iron (a steel, finger-width stick specially designed to hold heat better than any other) had to be placed by the coals a total of twelve times. Even though Lady de Vere was a sort of celebrity, everyone was happy to see it go, including Master Thomas, who would be handsomely paid for his laundresses’ work.

Thomas was a fair master, though. When the next Friday came, he pressed a shiny shilling into each outstretched palm, then added to that a sixpence, which, as Mary realized after some sluggish arithmetic, added up to a total of three pennies more than she usually received per week. She could get a gallon and a half of fresh milk with threepence, or eight oranges rather than the typical seven her family bought as a treat for Midsummer. Surprised and overjoyed by her raise, Mary slipped the coins carefully into her purse and moved toward the door. Thomas stood only one or two feet from her, but rather than touch her with his hand, he called her name to keep her from leaving. Kate and Jane were already in the street waiting for her, but Mary turned.

“Mistress Mary,” Thomas said again, then paused as if trying to decide what should come next. Rather abruptly, he held out his fingers as if wishing to place a small object in her hand. She raised her arm and allowed him to, but when she saw what it was, she smiled and began to return it.

“You’ve already given me my pay, Master Thomas,” she said, as if he could have forgotten. The man looked confused for a moment, then out a short “ha.”

“No, Mistress Mary, this is a supplement. Your, ah, mother invited me to sup with you on Sunday, and I wished not to overburden you.”

Mary gazed at the shilling in her hand and felt her heart sink, not because she would have to set an extra place at the table, but because this was the final step: after dinner came betrothal, as all young women knew.

Noticing her hesitation and believing it to be modesty, Thomas closed her hand and covered it with his own calloused one. “Take it,” he murmured, showing the most emotion she had ever seen him give.

“I thank you, Master Thomas,” Mary said, managing a smile. To her surprise, he turned her hand over and gently pressed his dry lips to the back of her knuckles. Mary grinned despite herself: the old man liked her so well, he was trying to court her! Afraid that he would mistake her smile for amusement or, God forbid, happiness, she took her hand back, curtseyed, and left the shop.

In the street, Jane’s eyes were sparkling and Kate was suppressing her giggles.

“I wish you had told me, Mother,” Mary began as she handed the older woman the extra shilling, warmed by her blushing fist. Jane smiled and placed the coin in her purse, then patted her daughter’s cheek.

“I’ll meet you at home, Mary,” she said, taking Kate’s arm and leading her toward a market stall piled high with fresh vegetables. Kate glanced back and gave Mary a look of sympathy before following Jane as she shopped for tomorrow night, Midsummer, and Sunday’s fateful dinner.
Mary stood silently for a moment, unsure whether her mother abandoned her to torment her or help her. Walking home alone was often a joyless chore, especially for one so fond of company as Mary, but it would also give her the solitude necessary to prepare herself for Sunday night, which would prove to be quite an interesting affair, she imagined.

Usually Mary turned on a little side street that cut through town and led straight to Taylors School Road, but just as she reached it, she decided that whatever extra time and air she could get would help her reconcile herself to this marriage. Thomas was a good man, she reminded herself. He was well off and generous with his wealth, and if she played the dutiful wife long enough he might let her run his shop or maybe even a little shop of her own. The idea of the independence such a career would bring made her heart beat just a little faster—if only she could remain unmarried, too.

Before she realized it, Mary found herself heading for the stocks market, a place she had not noticed since she was a child. Her father had once taken his family past here on their way to Cheapside after a particularly affluent month, intending to show them the wealth of shops. They were each given nine whole pennies; not quite a shilling, but certainly the most money any of the children had ever held. While passing the stocks, though, Jane’s gasp drew everyone’s eyes to the figure standing alone in the middle of the square, his neck and wrists trapped between grimy slabs of wood. Jane and Robert hurried their children past but not before Mary recognized the face of her mother’s only brother, his eye blackened and tomato juice dripping from his cheek.

Neither Will nor Mary understood why their shopping trip to the heart of town had to be so short, but Mary now recalled that after a whispered conversation in the doorway of her home, Jane pressed Robert’s hand and watched as her husband hurried down the street, a bundle of food under his arm. He sat with the unfortunate young man for the remainder of the day, feeding him bits of bread and beef while no one was watching. Mary could not say if this generosity was worth it or not--Hal was hanged two years later for killing a man in a drunken brawl.

The stocks were empty today, the tall pillory post clean but for an old blood stain and the hanging metal “bridle” used to still the tongues of those outspoken women, the kinds who smoked tobacco in pipes and refused to wear hats. Mary breathed a short sigh of contentment, knowing that neither she nor anyone she knew would be publicly humiliated in this market. Her future husband, surely, would never cry out as a nail pierced his ear, binding him to the pillory. He would never stand in his chemise, hair lank and wet, flinching as townspeople threw all manner of vile foods.

Then again, he would never poke fun at a bailiff, drink too much sack, kiss his wife goodnight, play at clubs, or do anything remotely scandalous. This would be Mary’s greatest trial: living with the kindest, most generous, friendliest, most boring man London had ever seen.

Mary kept moving through the square, watching the stocks as if her uncle’s ghost still lingered, trapped between the boards for eternity. She was in the middle of a sigh when her shoulder collided with something with a muffled thud.

“Cry yer pardon, lass, I did see ye not.”

Mary smiled uncomfortably at the ground and shook her head in a “ne’er you mind” sort of way. One never knew what manner of person loitered near the pillory, and it was best not to make conversation with strangers, so she kept her head down and continued walking.

Before she could get far, the voice spoke again. “Lass, didje lose this?”

Picking up her head, Mary turned and saw the man dangling a white square of linen at the level of her eyes. She furrowed her brow to examine it, and sure enough it was hers—the bluebird in one corner was poorly-wrought, as if she had never seen one before, and the misshapen initials in the other could belong to no one else. Funny, she thought; she could have sworn she had put the muckinger in her purse, making it rather difficult to “lose.”

The person holding her muckinger was young-looking but could have been anywhere from Mary’s age to twenty-four. His hair was dark and had not been cut or washed for some time, but the length of it suited his round face and the style suited his reddish brown, several-day-old beard. His entire appearance was rather shabby, but underneath it he was of average height (if a little short), broad-shouldered, and about as handsome as Jack Gifford, if such a thing were possible.
As Mary reached out and took hold of the muckinger, the man gave it a sharp tug. Her hand followed and her body came with, bringing her so close to him that she could smell horses on his chest and damp earth on his hair. The look in his eyes was hungry as he took her mouth with his. Against her better judgment, Mary surrendered, loving the feel of his rough beard on her face, his palms pressed into his back.

When they parted, Mary realized that she was still standing two or three feet from him, her hand reaching out to take back her handkerchief. The young man’s eyes were friendly and his smile innocent, no trace of the roguishness she saw before. As she finally took the embroidered square from him and carefully returned it to her purse, Mary blushed and reminded herself that it was probably best to stay out of her head. Unaware of her thoughts, the boy let go, leaving his fingers in the air for a moment while smiling at her.

Just as Mary thanked him and began to turn around again, the boy blurted out, “I’m Kit.” He cleared his throat, apparently embarrassed by his lack of tact, and Mary once more turned, unsure exactly what to say. Deciding finally that there was nothing wrong with being polite, Mary allowed him a tiny smile.

“I am Mary,” she replied, inclining her head but not curtseying. If anything, the boy should have bowed to her, not the other way around. He did not, but by his attire and his country accent, she was not at all surprised.

“Ey!” a voice called from behind her, and Mary turned. Two more men stood on the other side of the stocks market, both dressed like Kit, one taller and one fatter. “Stop yer cutting to the dell and let’s trip!”

Kit muttered something under his breath and it sounded like “Codso,” but Mary chose not to believe that the boy would say something so rude in her presence. It could have simply been an innocent country word for all she knew, because for the life of her Mary could not understand anything Kit or his friends had said.

Kit smiled and shrugged by way of apology. “Off to Chepemans,” he said.

“Where?”

“Chepemans. Yon.” He pointed behind her at the beginning of the market, bustling with shoppers preparing for tomorrow night’s Midsummer festivities. Mary gazed at him, confused.

“Cheapside?” she offered.

“That’s what I said,” Kit replied, grinning. He thrust out his hand and she warily placed hers in it. He took a big step closer and slowly lifted her hand to his lips, looking into her eyes with an arrogant smile on his face. Mary was still furrowing her brow in confusion when he dropped her hand and stepped past her, brushing her shoulder with his as he had in the beginning. Mary was frozen to the spot; no one had ever flirted with her so outrageously, and it was… thrilling.

Just as she was shaking herself out of her thoughts, Kit’s voice sounded again. “And Molly,” he said, “I think ye lost this.”

Mary turned around and Kit pressed something into her hand before turning and jogging towards his friends. “It’s Mary!” she shouted, but he simply waved his hand disappeared into the market.
It wasn’t until she began walking again that she opened her hand. The white piece of fabric in her palm had a bluebird stitched into the corner. Frantically she searched for a hole in her purse and found none; she counted her coins and decided that they were all there. It was, she supposed, possible to drop a muckinger that had been hastily stowed in a purse, but dropping it twice in the span of a few moments was suspicious. No less suspicious than the country boy with the arrogant smile.

The six-foot-tall bonfires that dotted the streets of London cast upon all the revelers a yellowish, unearthly glow. Like thousands of tiny crescent moons, the people of the City were half lit and half obscured, each endowed with a fairy like halo. The smells of fire smoke and roasting meat combined with the fumes of beer and cider, but above all the sticky scent of candied nuts, sugared fruits, and other tasty sweetmeats permeated the air. The most respectable of citizens would argue that Midsummer was a frivolity to be enjoyed by children who should then be sent straight to bed, but more often than not, those citizens would find themselves dancing around a fire at midnight with a tankard of ale in one hand and a laughing maiden on the other. Or in bed late the next morning with a splitting headache and no recollection of having ever disobeyed their own commandments.

Mary knew from the moment she stepped over her threshold and into the street that something magical was going to happen tonight. She knew it every year, of course, and rarely did something magical ever happen, but there was no harm in wishing. Will had been allowed home for this night, so Mary took her younger brother’s hand, lifted the hem of her skirts, and started to run. Laughing, Will followed, careful to avoid his sister’s billowing cloak. Her enthusiasm, as usual, was contagious, and Will knew that no one enjoyed life as much as Mary.

The moment the two young people turned onto Candlewick Street, Will spotted a group of four boys ranging from twelve to sixteen years old standing against a building and chattering excitedly. Her brother let go of her hand and was about to run over to his fellow apprentices, but Mary stopped him by calling out his name. He turned and slouched while Mary closed the gap between them.

“Meet me here at midnight, aye?” she said, sounding much like her mother and hating it.

“I will, M-Mary,” he replied, which was more than he could usually be persuaded to stammer. Mary smiled and pushed lightly at his arm, propelling him toward his friends. Once sure that they had accepted him into their group, she glanced around and wondered what to do with herself—midnight was three long hours away. Normally she would have Anne and Jack tugging at her arm, but Jack had decided to stay home, and Anne… well, Anne was surely enjoying a much holier version of Midsummer wherever she was. Mary giggled, picturing white-robed angels singing bawdy songs with tankards in their hands, but she immediately sobered, looked to the sky in search of punishing lightning bolts, and whispered an apology to God.

Following Candlewick Street to Walbrook Street, Mary kept her ear tuned into the loudest sounds of merriment, for undoubtedly that was where she would find the most excitement. Every other day Mary was a modest, respectable young woman, but three or four times a year she was allowed to be thoroughly reckless and completely anonymous, of which she took advantage. Festival days for many were the best days of the year, but for Mary, they were the reason for living.

If Candlewick Street was quiet, Walbrook was deathly so but for a small group of stragglers and a young man and woman who were not as concealed as they apparently thought they were. Mary averted her eyes and hurried to catch up with the group ahead of her, led by a young blonde girl whose high pitched laugh Mary recognized immediately. Kate gasped and took Mary’s hand as if she had not seen her just the day before, and the girls laughed and sang all the way to the stocks market.

The happy shouts became louder and the fire glow became brighter with each bounding step they took. Finally the street opened up, revealing just what Mary had been craving for months: unbridled happiness. Men behind makeshift tables served tankards of beer, ale, and even sack (which was obviously served first to the better dressed merrymakers and anyone who proved they could pay for it). In the mood for a drink, Mary let go of Kate’s arm and moved toward the nearest table. Two men were lingering there with mugs in their hands, carelessly studying each patron. One was tall and the other was fat, and Mary had a short moment to wonder how she knew them before someone tugged her into an impromptu dance. In the half-dark and the whirling faces, it was impossible to tell who her partner was, but she knew the Gathering Peascods well enough to get through it on her own.

When the second verse came, the step required her to walk toward her partner until she met his shoulder. In the brief moment during which Mary was close enough to her partner to hear him speak, he murmured, “How now, Molly?”

As she executed the next step, mirroring the last, Mary smiled and replied, “A fine guess, sir, but my name is Mary.”

The man chuckled and allowed her to join hands with the other ladies in the circle, admiring her grace and, as was his habit, how she looked beneath her cloak. Mary was a pretty girl, the perfect weight with long, healthy-looking hair. When it was his turn to dance around the circle, Mary found she had been unconsciously doing the same thing, though it was much easier to admire his figure without a cloak in the way. As he skipped around the circle, the fire nearby casting its glow upon different parts of his face with each movement, she realized with a start where she had seen that figure and heard that country brogue.

Mary smiled as she finished the second verse, her partner now foremost in her mind as he had been the entire day, though she hated to admit it. His smile, his flirtatiousness, and the shameful vision she had had the day before gave her something to dream about that night and to smile about the next morning while doing her chores. She had not expected to see him again, but there he was, his still-unshaven face grinning broadly, about to link arms with her for the final verse.

“Hold on!” he cried, giving Mary just enough time to place a hand on her cap before nearly lifting her off the ground as he swung her about. Mary shrieked, the contraction of her heart caused not by fear, but by exhilaration. Kit’s laughter rang in her ears, and even before she had spun in a complete circle she was dizzy.

Once the dance was over, he bought her a drink and complimented her dancing. With a flirtatious smile, he added, “I cut bene whids when I say that th’art a pretty little cheat.”

“I cry your pardon?” Mary wondered, eyes wide.

“He says you’re pretty,” the man behind her clarified, and she turned to find Kit’s tall friend looking down at her. The fat one was next to him, unable to keep his eyes in one place as if he were searching for something. “Kit, for a courtesy man, you don’t ken how to cut to benely dells.”

Mary could do nothing but stare.

“Molly,” Kit began, “meet Noll. He’s a bully rook, an tall.”

Noll nodded uninterestedly and whapped the fat one’s shoulder. He jerked his head and the two of them disappeared into the crowd.

“’At’s Fulke, his coz,” Kit explained. Mary shook her head up and down, pretending to understand what he said, and took a sip of her beer. A fiddler several feet away struck up another dance, and Kit relieved Mary of her mug, setting both vessels on the nearest table and taking her hand. The dance was a Black Nag, and Kit surreptitiously intertwined their fingers as the dance progressed. His eyes were fixed on no one but her.

Kit was flirting outrageously and Mary enjoyed every scandalous moment of it. She completely lost track of the number of drinks she had had, of the location of Kate’s giggling band, and of time. When midnight rolled around, Will was waiting at the corner of Candlewick and Walbrook, but Mary was nowhere to be seen.

Kit could not help but bump into people—because he was so drunk, Mary assumed. His pockets seemed bottomless and he kept buying her sweetmeats and comfits and drinks, which became impossible to refuse. Her head felt light and everything was spinning and sparkling like in a fairy story. And then Kit kissed her.

She had been waiting for it, of course, ever since she met him, but she had never expected her visions to come true. Having never kissed a man before, she did not know exactly what to do, but it did not seem to deter him. His lips were moist and his mouth smelled of perry, which made her stomach perform a little flip of excitement. With one hand at the side of her face and the other in the small of her back, she was his willing prisoner. It was then that he asked her to run away with him.

After a moment, Mary’s smile faded and even through the alcohol fumes she realized that his last words had not been a figment of her imagination. There was a dull throbbing in her ears and a falling feeling in the pit of her stomach; her body knew that what he had proposed was serious. He kissed her again and repeated his offer, but still she was silent. Leaving her family, leaving her job, leaving her wealthy prospective husband seemed like madness--but if not the thrill of the unknown, what was it that Mary had always yearned for? When he kissed her once more, whispering the words against her lips, Mary giggled, hiccupped, and decided that she could get used to this.



Thomas Fowler knocked at the door and was going to use the time before the door opened to smooth his hair down, just to be sure he was as presentable a suitor as possible. However, the door opened far too quickly for him to finish the motion, so Jane Chandler found him frozen with his hand flat on the top of his head, holding a sack of oranges at his side. Thomas should not have been worried about his appearance, though: next to Jane, he looked positively royal.

The woman’s face was pale and the moment she realized who he was the life in her eyes went out. Her cap was askew, her hair falling out of her braid as if she had not looked into a glass all day. Most frighteningly, her hands were shaking; as the second best ruffmaker in his shop, Jane Chandler’s hands never shook.

“Oh,” she breathed, as if it took effort to speak. “M-Master Thomas, I fear I forgot to… to tell you…”

Thomas blinked, more confused than he wished to let on. “That’s quite all right, Mistress Jane, I… understand?” His assurance did not seem to help—perhaps, he thought, because it lacked confidence. Jane simply looked at him.

“My h-husband has been out, sir,” she stammered, gripping the edge of the rough table until her chapped knuckles turned white. “He has been s-searching for her all den, but…” Jane pressed her lips together and offered a tiny shrug that seemed to take a great deal of effort. Thomas’s furrowed brow relaxed as his face fell.

“Mary?” he tried to say, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat and was going to try again, but hearing the name set off something in Jane. A great sob escaped her throat and she buried her face in her apron, which Thomas saw now was stained with tears. She shook and wept silently, and the gentleman hesitantly placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I c-cry your pardon, Master T-Thomas,” she murmured, sniffling. “I w-would not be so… distraught if Anne…”

“Had not been killed,” Thomas offered, nodding. “I would we knew something, had some clue. Poor Mary…”

The two adults allowed a heavy silence to cover for their inability to speak. According to a frantic Will, Mary had been gone since he had left her at the crossroads the night before, and though she had only been gone a day, her family feared the worst. No body had been found, the victim of Midsummer over-merriment. It seemed unlikely that she would have traveled the half mile to the river, but raking the Thames would certainly be a final resort. Her clothes were all in their proper places, none of the neighbors had seen her, and only Kate knew who Mary was with the night before. Mary’s disappearance was just as mystifying as Anne’s death. How bizarre that both of London’s recent scandals took place on Taylors School Road.

While Mary’s mother was sick with worry and while her father was off scouring the streets of London, Mary was savoring spoonfuls of thick stew in an inn just outside of the City proper. The beef was noticeably rancid, but the salt did a great deal to hide the taste of it, and the stewed vegetables were softened to perfection. Besides, Mary would have eaten anything—they had been wandering the shire for hours after swallowing a quick, cold lunch, and before that she had slept through breakfast.

Mary’s face flushed a pretty shade of crimson at the memory of where she had been that morning. She had been a little disoriented after waking up in a strange room at the Saracen’s Head outside the city gates, curled up against Kit’s sleeping body with her arm tossed possessively over his chest. But once her eyes had adjusted to the dim light and her head had stopped spinning from the excess of alcohol she had consumed the night before, she looked down at his peaceful face and smiled. Softly, she kissed the spot just under his ear.

“Good morrow, Molly,” he had said, eyes still closed, without a hint of sleep in his voice.

Startled, Mary sat up on her elbow, then noticed a draft and quickly drew the comforter up toward her neck.

“I did not know you were awake.” Her own voice was thick with sleep, and she cleared her throat with a quiet cough.

He did open his eyes then, and they were glimmering mischievously. “’Tis my habit to be shifty, Moll. I’m a bene colt, an thou didst castle it not.”

Mary paused for a moment before allowing a giggle to escape her lips. “Kit, forgive me, but I understand naught that you say.”

“I said, sweetheart,” he began, rolling onto his side and pushing her gently into the straw-filled pillows, “I’m naught but a thief, and ‘tis in my line of work to be a trickster.” He lowered his lips to the base of her throat and Mary shivered, still growing accustomed to such intimacy.

“A thief?” she asked, her voice a much higher pitch than she had expected.

Kit smiled and replied, “I stole you, did I not?”

She wound her arms around his neck as she responded, “Yea, but I came willingly.”

“And how I love it when you do.” He kissed her full on the mouth this time, and when he lifted his head again he said, “Thou’st ken, Molly, that ‘tis a thief’s duty to cly any Abram dell he finds after he’s couched a hogshead.”

Again, Mary furrowed her brow in confusion, but it did not take long for his meaning to be made clear.

For the remainder of the day, she thought back to the sweet things he had said that morning. He had joked about being a thief, but Mary knew he spoke the truth, for he had stolen her heart. Then again, she had no idea where his income came from, though he seemed to always have over a pound in coins in his purse—or “budget,” as he called it. She couldn’t keep track of the number of drinks, sweets, and souvenirs he had bought her throughout their afternoon travels. Mary soon let it go, though, quite enjoying being spoiled. And if he liked her, let him buy her whatever he liked.

Setting her spoon down at the edge of her shallow bowl, Mary shifted her foot forward and rubbed it, quite provocatively, she hoped with a prim little smile, against Kit’s ankle. The man had been listening to Fulke and Noll chat about something or other, but when he felt the girl's foot his eyes shifted to hers and the faintest of smiles appeared on his lips.

“’Tis best an we bing afore midday,” Noll was saying. After a full day in their presence, Mary was beginning to pick up words one by one. She knew that Noll had decided they would leave before the sun was highest in the sky, and she pouted.

“We have traveled so far already, Noll,” she began with the slightest hint of a whine in her voice. “Must we leave so soon?”

“We have traveled nowhere at all,” he replied tersely, his words and accent suddenly clear, as if he had “turned off” his country brogue. Something told her he had done it so that even she could understand. “Did you not notice that we circled round and round? Thanks to Kit’s navigation, we are exactly where we began yesterden, with only the Thames to separate us from Holborne.”

They seemed so much farther from home than that. After leaving the Saracen’s Head around noon, they followed Holburne Road to Ely Place, where Kit and Mary dallied in the gardens—Fulke and Noll were nowhere to be seen during those blissful hours, but they appeared suddenly as Kit and Mary were leaving. The party continued west for a half-hour before turning off at a footpath and meandering through the Linciln’s Inn fields, full of grazing cattle, then turning upon Drury Lane, which led directly to the Strand. Mary had heard of it, of course, but she had never been this far from London before. The Strand was even wider and longer than Cheapside, the shops just as grand but more numerous, and the houses here were enormous. Kit explained that the Earl of Bedford, the Earl of Northumberland, the Lord Chancellor, and even royalty lived on the Strand, building miniature palaces to be near Her Majesty’s court. They made their way through the bustle at Charing Cross and visited the Royal Mews—Mary had never seen so many beautiful birds. And just across the square from the mews was Whitehall Palace itself, a gem in the English countryside, swarming with people wishing to see whoever might be home—it didn’t really matter if it was aging Queen Elizabeth or charming Robert Devereux or even old Lord Burghley, because all of them were more exciting than the fishmongers, farmers, and shopkeepers of Londoners’ day-to-day lives.

The four of them cut through the palace grounds and skirted Westminster Cathedral to use the church’s stairs down to the river. For threepence each they hired a wherry and crossed the wide Thames to land at Lambeth Marsh, and once on the other side they lazily strolled through the countryside, ending at the slightly disreputable Falcon Inn. They traveled about five miles in nearly seven hours, seeing twice as much of Holborne and Southwark than Mary knew even existed, and according to Noll they had accomplished nothing. He had spoken with such condescension that Mary knew what he thought about her, but the look in his eye would have been enough of a hint.

“And Kit,” Noll added, the thick accent returning to his voice, “whilst thou’st been dallying with this cheat, Fulke and I’ve drawn half of dewse-a-vill. When darkmans comes, thou’d best prove thou’st wish to remain a drigger, ‘less me and Fulke bing a waste.”

Mary didn’t have to ask what “cheat” Noll had spoken of—by the off-hand nod he sent in her direction and the way he spat out the word, she knew it was her. Assuming “darkmans” was the nighttime, she gathered that Kit would have to do something to “prove himself” once the sun set. But what?

This childish ploy to keep her at a distance was too difficult to endure. Mary dropped her spoon and looked Noll in the eye, greatly enjoying the surprise that flashed across his face.

“Kindly refrain from speaking in your ‘secret tongue’ while I am in the same room,” she began, making her tone as authoritative as she could. “One would think you were raised by gypsies.”

Kit and Fulke exchanged an amused look, but Noll’s gaze never left her own. “’Tis no secret tongue, madam. ‘Tis Cant we speak.”

“Cant?” she repeated, her voice losing its edge. She had heard of it, but only in whispers. The vulgar oaths, the code words, spoken only by beggars and thieves. Hoping Kit and his friends were simply jesting, she asked, “Is it a game you play?”

Noll ran a hand through his lank hair and swore, “Fish, Kit. Tell her and put her out of her misery.”

Mary looked between the three of them and waited for whatever terrible news was about to come. She had suspected since the previous night that Kit had not been completely truthful, that he had been hiding something. With all the clues in place, the thieves’ language, the endless supply of coins, Noll and Fulke’s shifty eyes, the dimmest of city girls could gather that Kit and his friends were anything but lawful citizens of England.

Kit ducked his head forward, glanced unnecessarily about the empty room, and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “We’re driggers, Molly.”

Noll was the first to see the confusion in her eyes, and he was obviously frustrated by it. With no regard for who might hear (he needn’t have worried anyway—the innkeeper and his wife were in the kitchens, and no one had arrived at the Falcon since midday), Noll cried, “We’re bloody thieves! We pick pockets and trick people out of their purses to make a living.”

Mary was silent for a moment, taking in what Noll had said and comparing it against everything she knew about Kit. There was no doubt, judging by Noll’s passionate cry and Kit’s sheepish grin, that it was true.



Mary slowly untied the string at the front of her bodice and began pulling it through the rows of embroidered holes. Kit sat at the edge of the bed, and though her back was to him, she knew he was watching her.

“Can I help?” he asked, sounding like the young boy she had taken him for the first day they met. Mary shook her head, her long braid swishing across her back. A night bird in the tree outside called to its mate, filling up the empty moment and the uncomfortable silence.

“Marry, sweetheart, I knew not ye’d take it so rough,” Kit finally murmured. Mary pulled the string through the final grommet and laid it gently on the stool in the corner of the room, then shrugged off her bodice and placed it on top of that. Kit watched as she unhooked her skirts and untied her bumroll, then kicked off her shoes and removed her white stockings. Clad only in her chemise, she crawled under the coverlet and sighed heavily. She felt Kit’s weight as he flopped down next to her, and soon his hand was at her shoulder and his mouth at her neck.

“Are ye certain ye’re not wearing too much clothing for such a warm night?” he muttered, his lips close to her ear. Mary felt a bubble of excitement somewhere in her stomach, but she suppressed it.

“I am quite comfortable, grammercy.” The apathy in her voice seemed to stun him, and Kit removed his hand as if burned.

“’Sblood, Mary, I meant no offense,” he retorted, his tone somewhat softer than he had expected it to be. After all, it wasn’t his fault that she was being so cold, so he should be angry with her, not the other way around. Shouldn’t he?

Just as he had rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling, Mary sat up and looked at him for the first time since supper. “You called me Mary,” she said, amazed.

Kit pushed himself up from the mattress and leaned on his elbow, smiling. “I’ll call ye whate’er ye wish,” he murmured, reaching up to touch her face. She smiled for a moment before brushing his hand away and lying back down.

“My brother—my older brother, Ned—told me about… your kind. About how you would have your fingers cut off, or be nailed to the pillory. He told me if you stole more than two shillings, you would be hung.”

“He was right,” Kit admitted, gazing down at her. “But a colt’d have to be caught first.”

“You’ve never been caught?”

“Naught but once,” he replied, and at her questioning look he lifted the hair away from the left side of his face. In his ear was a gold ring, welded shut, which should not have been an unusual sight. Around the ring, though, were pink and white lines, thick scars to remind him of the time the bailiff drove a nail through his ear and into the pillory.

“I was young,” he continued, “and hungry. I cloyed some casson to eat with my bread and milk, and when the beak catched me he decided I’d cloyed the bread and milk too. Fined me a groat and nailed me up.” He fingered the earring and smiled despite the memory. “Bloody convenient, though. I’d always wanted an earbob.”

Mary was surprised at the giggle that escaped her lips. She did not want to feel comfortable with him anymore—she couldn’t stay and shouldn’t get used to him. But he was so casual about his misfortunes, so grateful for life, which was everything she wanted to be. And how could she scoff at his profession if it provided all the excitement she had always dreamed of?

“Ye’d not be caught, Mary,” he said after a moment. “I’d not let you.”

She laid the back of her hand against her forehead and sighed dramatically. “But my family, Kit,” she replied. “My mother needs me to take care of my siblings, especially Will. Agnes is a clever girl, but Will… He’s simple. He needs me most of all.

“And there’s Kate at the shop, and old Thomas Fowler…” Remembering her husband-to-be completely deflated her, and Kit’s smile faded as he watched the light in her eyes dim to nothing.

Kit brushed the hair from her forehead, a sweet gesture she had never expected a criminal to make, and looked into her eyes. “I’ll take care of you. A pretty little cheat like you will do well in this trade, but I’ll not let anything happen to you so long as I’ve a breath in me.”

She smiled and tilted her chin up to receive his kiss, then rolled over and pretended to sleep. Her mind was whirring, counting the hours ‘til dawn, the money in her purse, the miles to London. But she also counted the treats Kit had bought her, the ways he had kissed her, the times her stomach had flip-flopped as she thought about him.

There was always Will to think about, and Agnes; they both needed their older sister. Mother was probably worried sick, and Father had most likely spent the day making inquiries about her disappearance. Yet there was adventure to think about as well, freedom and excitement and love, running from the law like Robin Hood and gaining fame like that highwaywoman Moll Cutpurse, who showed up at her trial drunk just to annoy the magistrates.

The straw-stuffed mattress rustled as Kit rolled over, sleepily snaking his arm around her waist. There was no use peeling him off of her: let him have someone to hold onto as long as he could, Mary thought. Kit knew without a doubt that she would stay with him, but he had always been a little cocky.

The snow had stopped falling about an hour ago, but the big flakes had covered the city in graceful white waves of beauty. It was the coldest night the young people of London had ever experienced, but the unseasonably chilly December weather resulted in an impromptu Frost Fair, right in the middle of the great, frozen Thames. The air was thick with sweetness, for everyone in the country loved anything covered in sugar, and the sounds of “Fine lace!” and “Kid gloves!” mingled with the trills of young laughter and the splatter of snowballs against wool cloaks. One did not have to wander far, though, before the thick blanket of frost deadened the noise and stilled the world.

Mary turned her head at the wild cheers that erupted to her right, drawing her attention from the troupe of dancers executing a raucous Peascods. The noise came from the competitors in a spontaneous archery match. The men, wrapped in cloaks and gloves, were shaking hands and gesturing excitedly at the targets fifty paces away. The one nearest her shook his head but remained smiling; he had lost—again—but didn’t seem to mind. The man hefted his old archery bow and trotted over to Mary, grinning.

“I missed by this much,” he said, placing his free hand several inches from the occupied one to show by just how much he had missed.

Mary smiled and rubbed his arm. “Wondrous well, Thomas. Shall you try again?”

“Nay,” he replied. “I’m too old for this.” He kissed her forehead, a grandfatherly peck, and began to walk away. “Would you like a packet of those honey-roasted things?”

Mary shook her head and smiled, which he acknowledged with a wave before finding the almond vender.

The smile vanished as soon as he was out of sight. Finally finding a moment for herself, Mary trudged through the snow toward the far end of the fair, toward London Bridge. It was quiet here, and the most peaceful Mary had felt since June.

There was no helping her marriage to Thomas Fowler. He was likely the only man in London generous (or foolish) enough to marry a girl whose name had been tarnished by an “abduction,” as she had explained through her tears after arriving on her doorstep two days after Midsummer. He was the only one who believed without a doubt that she was wholly innocent in the matter, and he was the only way she would survive in London. No one would hire a single girl with such a reputation, nor would they buy anything she had to sell (assuming she had any skills). Her brothers were too young and poorly paid to support her, and her mother and father would not be around for long. There was only one option, and though it provided neither happiness nor adventure, at least it provided food and shelter and allowed her to keep her job to earn a little pocket money.

She took another step and heard a loud, choking cough behind her. With no one else around, it was doubtful that the person had followed her by accident, so she whirled and prepared to face whoever it might be. The figure behind her was doubled over as if in pain, his whole body shuddering with each cough. She ran to him, careful not to slip on the ice, and rubbed his back to give him whatever comfort she could. As the coughs began to subside, he held out his hand. Mary jumped away, startled, and gasped as she looked at his hand: where his third finger was supposed to be, there was nothing but a red and black stump. The man straightened himself up and rasped, “Didje lose this?”

She looked again and this time saw that in addition to a missing finger, the man had a white muckinger. Tentatively she took it from him and examined each corner. Indeed, it was hers.

“’Tis better-worked than the last one,” he added.

Astonished, Mary blinked and peered into his face. His reddish-brown beard was rather long and his muddy hair longer. There were dark pouches under each bloodshot eye, and his cheeks were thin and skeletal. He looked like an urchin, a poor consumptive orphan, but an ancient one. And strangely familiar.

“Kit?” she asked.

The man seemed to smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “I tried to sneak up on ye, to surprise ye like I did the first time, but…” His voice trailed off and he held a fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “I can’t do it like I used to.”

Whatever sadness she had felt after leaving him, after marrying Thomas, after resigning herself to an adventure-less life, was nothing compared to the sadness she felt when she saw him so ruined. Whatever liveliness he had had was gone now, all traces of beauty extinct after only a few short months. This, Mary decided, is what it feels like when hope dies.

“Your finger,” she managed.

He held up the poor hand and let out a short huff of what could have been laughter. “Winter’s rough on a drigger, Molly—er, Mary. We does what we must, and sometimes we’re caught.”

“Mary!”

Both young people whirled to find a figure trotting towards them, hunched against the biting wind. “My husband,” Mary sighed, her voice betraying her complete lack of sympathy for the old man. “Here.”

Mary dug in her purse until she found what she was looking for, then pressed the bright shilling into Kit’s hand.

“I won’t take this, Mary,” he insisted.

“You will,” she commanded. “Find a physician, or an apothecary, or a hot meal in a warm inn.” He began to protest, but she covered his freezing hand with her mittened one. “If not for your sake, then for mine.”

Thomas drew closer, and Kit looked Mary in the eye. “You’ve saved my life. Ye ken that, do ye not?”

She smiled warmly. “My debt is repaid, then.”

“Mary,” Thomas panted, having finally reached them. “Are you alright?” He gave Kit a quick appraisal and took Mary’s arm.

“I am well, Thomas,” she replied, allowing him a thin smile. “This man needed my assistance, and I gave it.”

“But Mary,” he argued with a whine. She patted his arm.

“Everyone deserves a little charity at Christmas.”

Mary caught Kit’s eye and held it for a moment, wishing to remember what he had once been. The arrogant smile was gone, replaced by a mouth too sad to even turn up at the corners. He shut his eyes and coughed into his sleeve.

“Come, Mary,” Thomas said finally. He took his wife’s arm and began to steer her away. “Have some of these, they are delicious.” Holding out the paper envelope of honey-roasted almonds, he was about to shake them into her hand when he said, “You should not dirty your mittens. Where is your muckinger?”

Mary patted her purse and quickly checked her sleeve. “I must have lost it. How strange. It matters not—you may enjoy your treat alone.”

As he watched them walk away, his love and her husband, Kit sighed. The shilling would come in handy, whether he took her advice and found a physician or spent it in his favorite bousing ken to make the pain go away. He opened his hand, loving the sight of a shiny coin upon her own handiwork. The bluebird in the corner was indeed better-worked this time, the initials somehow more grown-up in addition to being different. Now she was “MF”, not “MC”. If she had stayed with him, she would have just been “M.” “M” for Molly. “M” for Mine, he thought with a smile. The smile turned into a grin, which turned into a laugh, which turned into a cough. But while he knelt in the snow, doubled over from the pain in his lungs, he realized that his last theft had been pitiful. What kind of thief stole a woman’s handkerchief?

Then again, Mary had given him a few things he would have never been able to steal, even when he had his health and his youth. Her heart, for example. Her time. A shilling, as materialistic as it was, and a few moments of happiness at the end.

He looked up. The snow had started to fall again, but he could still see Thomas and Mary returning to the fair, arm in arm. That was how he would remember her, he decided: not walking away, but going somewhere while he stood still. Going to take care of her family, her husband, her home. It was neither glamorous nor exciting, but it was life, something he was quickly running out of.

Shoving the muckinger and the coin in his purse, Kit wrapped his arms around himself and trudged down the river. The apothecaries would be closed at this time of night, the physicians retired to bed, but Kit knew of an inn whose keeper was quite knowledgeable about remedies and the like. Maybe, if there was still time, something could be done. For Mary’s sake.


The end.