Scattering Like Light (34 page)

“I heard,” I said softly, squeezing his hand. “Let’s hope that Olivia managed to wipe her out completely.”

“Olivia certainly deserves a second chance, much more than Catherine anyway,” Callum agreed, holding me close again. “I can’t believe that you did it, Alex. You gave me back my life.” He leaned down to kiss me but I ducked, burying my face against his chest, determined to remember the smell and feel of him before I finally asked the question which I could no longer avoid.

“And I guess there’s a girlfriend in that life, someone who’s racing towards the hospital right now, coming to check that you’re OK?”

His fingers were soft on my chin as he lifted my face towards his. He leaned in and kissed me very softly, very sweetly. “There is only one love, Alex, only one love in both my lives.” And just for a second, for the very last time, I caught the flicker of a bright, happy aura before he kissed me again.

London, 1665

She always knew she was different, gifted somehow. Things she wanted usually came her way, things she decided tended to happen. But she said nothing to anyone about this special talent; it wasn’t safe. Here in the city most of the people were sophisticated, but just outside the city walls the mob would still hang or drown anyone they determined was a witch.

So her life was good, easy. There was plenty of money in the family, no one went hungry and she always had the nicest dresses to wear. When he came into her life she decided that she wanted him. He was tall, with glorious thick hair, a perfect smile and looks that could have captured the heart of the ladies at court. Luckily he hadn’t been summoned so far, and neither had she, but there was little time. At seventeen she knew that she should be betrothed soon, and it was him she wanted. He was from a good family; there would be no problem from either of their fathers. Without even trying she wove her magic round both their hearts, sealing them together.

Spring was a glorious time. They walked and rode, mostly outside the city to avoid the problems with the sickness and the poor people who would follow them about, begging for any crumb they could provide. They made their plans to marry and a date
was set for Midsummer Day. Her father was away travelling to the north but would return by then. So they waited impatiently, keen to start their married life, to be together forever.

As the spring wore on the sickness in the city worsened. Most of the noblemen and women left to go to the country where the air was cleaner, but she knew she was safe, safe with her love, ready to be joined as one.

When her father returned he bought a fabulous selection of gifts for her dowry, and news that they had been granted permission to marry in the best church in the area. “St Paul’s!” he exclaimed, chortling. “My daughter is to be married in St Paul’s! It will be a beautiful day.” He scooped her up and laughed with her, the daughter he loved so much. “I have something else for you both, something very special.” Opening a small suede pouch he lifted out two identical bracelets, beautifully wrought in silver and each with a mysterious, mesmerising stone. He placed one on the wrist of his daughter, the other on that of the man who would be his son-in-law. “They come from far away,” he said, dropping his voice. “And they are the only pair in the world. They symbolise love – love that will never be broken, never forgotten. Each is inscribed with the same words –
Amor memoriae
– Love of memory – so that when you wear them you will remember this love that you have for each other and never forget.”

She looked at her new bracelet and was filled with joy; her marriage was set for the next week, her father was home and she was wearing the most beautiful piece of jewellery she had ever, ever seen. Everything was perfect.

It was the sickness that ruined everything: the sickness that was running rife through the poorer sections of town, where the people
lived close together and wallowed in filth. Her world was far apart from that, she thought. But she was wrong.

She had seen her love that morning; they had met and walked together. He had tried to urge her to run away with him, to abandon the plans for the wedding in St Paul’s, to be together that night. But she had laughed, telling him that it was too close to the date, that they must wait. He had kissed her with an unusual passion before leaving.

She was returning home after stopping at St Paul’s when she saw one of her servants, a good man, running down the street. She stopped him and he looked at her with eyes wide with horror, not wanting to tell his young mistress what he had seen. But she insisted. “It – it is the plague, mistress. The mark of the plague is on their door.”

“What are you talking about? Whose door?”

“The door of your intended; your man.” He hung his head, not wanting to watch her world crumble. “I saw him being escorted inside myself.”

She stepped back in dismay, waving at the servant to leave. “No, there must be some mistake. He is well, I know he is! He will be at the wedding.”

“They sealed the door yesterday. He must have slipped out before they caught him and brought him back. No one can leave now.”

“You must be wrong. I will see for myself. Give me your cloak.”

The servant did as she commanded and left quickly, not wanting to disagree with her. She wrapped the cloak around herself and made her way towards his neighbourhood. He had not talked of it that morning when she had been with him, so the
servant must have got his facts wrong. He must have!

She walked up Fleet Street towards his family’s home, praying that her gift would not desert her; that what she wanted most would come true. But the servant hadn’t lied. The door was sealed, the mark of the plague freshly inscribed on the wood. Still refusing to believe the evidence of her own eyes she slipped down a little alley to the side of the house, where she had sometimes stolen secret kisses with her love. There was a small window leading to one of the maid’s rooms. Perhaps she could get the girl to open the window and talk with her. Quickly checking that no one was watching she bent down to peer inside.

There was no mistaking what she saw. The servant girl was lying in her bed, pale and exhausted, looking as if she was close to death. Someone was leaning over her, tending to her with utmost kindness, kissing her feverish brow, holding her close, declaring his love. And as she watched this tragic farewell she suddenly realised who it was who was holding the maid so tenderly. The same hands that had caressed her face not an hour earlier, the same lips that had declared their undying love to her, the same blue bracelet flashing on his wrist: the man she would marry.

She realised that she had been deceived, that his reason for wanting to run away with her was to escape from the plague. And having been refused, he had been about to escape alone when he had been caught and returned home. Back to the girl who had probably given him the sickness, locked in where they could die together.

She thought that she would die of the pain in her heart: how could this have happened? How could the man she loved with her very life have done this to her? She stumbled away from the scene at the window, running without thinking, desperate to be far away.
She ran until she got to the wharf, and stopped, gasping for breath, looking into the murky water.

A cold dread ran through her veins as she considered her limited choices. She couldn’t yet tell if he had given her the plague, but by the time she was sure, she could have given it to her entire family: her beloved parents, her little sisters. That wasn’t a choice. She couldn’t risk anyone knowing that she might have it, as they would automatically lock up her family, so she couldn’t go for help.

She looked up at the familiar façade of St Paul’s, where she would not now be married, and realised that there was only one real alternative.

Ripping the bracelet off her arm she searched on the rough ground for a suitable stone, then scratched and scratched at the inscription until she had made the change she wanted. The Latin wasn’t perfect, but it was enough for her. Placing the bracelet back on her wrist she stood and looked around at her familiar world, silently bidding it goodbye. Wrapping the heavy wool cloak tightly around herself she stepped off the edge of the wharf. As the cold waters of the River Fleet met over her head she made one last wish; that he should continue to suffer until someone was willing to sacrifice everything for him.

Two days later the cart carrying bodies delivered another load to the hastily dug plague pit in the grounds of St Bride’s Church. With cloths over their mouths the men worked quickly, tipping in the rich and poor together, not bothering to check for any signs of life. They were all doomed anyway. As they started to cover the bodies with quicklime the sun caught the fire in the bracelet on one man’s wrist for the last time before disappearing forever. The little stream rising through the festering soil swirled around him
and as he took his final breath the water scorched a track through his lungs. In the dark of the pit and the murky recesses of the River Fleet the two amulets set her last wish in motion on a far grander scale than she had intended. They had their first sacrifice, the first to search incessantly for what was now inscribed on her amulet. She had removed just one letter, and added a very faint one of her own, but that was enough.
mors memoriae
it said now – death of memory, not love. That would be Arthur’s punishment until someone’s love was strong enough to set him and those who followed free. The waiting had begun.

Acknowledgements

Scattering Like Light
was mostly written after the publication of
Small Blue Thing,
so for the first time I had the feedback of real readers to guide me. In fact, I’ve been overwhelmed by the support I’ve been shown by readers: on the website, by fan mail, and during school visits. You have all been fantastic and spurred me on to bring Alex and Callum’s story to its conclusion.

I’d also like to thank Mike Evans, who bid an unfeasibly large amount to have his daughter’s name in the book and to support the Authors for Japan fund (for the 2011 earthquake), Alice Jacobs for Latin advice and translation, and all the other writers I’ve met along the way who have been so positive and shared my (occasional) pain.

As usual the staff at the ever-expanding Nosy Crow have been magnificent, but the biggest thanks must go to my family: the newest member, Bailey (I was outvoted on Beesley), who brings new meaning to the old excuse
the dog ate my manuscript
; Ellie, who read the draft copy first and made some vital changes; Jake, who hasn’t read a word but gives silent encouragement in his own recognisable way; and Pete, who is constantly supportive, constructive in his criticism, and always there for me. This final volume is dedicated to him, as without him there would have been no book, and Alex and Callum would never have left West Wittering beach.

Find out more about Alex and Callum at
www.smallbluething.com

Copyright

First published in the UK in 2012 by Nosy Crow Ltd
The Crow’s Nest, 10a Lant Street
London SE1 1QR, UK

This ebook edition first published in 2012

Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and / or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd

Text copyright © S. C. Ransom, 2011

The right of S. C. Ransom to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

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