It was a month after the terrible disaster that became known, rather prosaically, as the Great London Earthquake. The city was just beginning to get its feet under it and move forward again. Bodies had been gathered and largely buried or disposed of. The number of dead was lower than might have been expected given the fires and collapsed buildings in crowded tenement blocks. Rubble was being cleared. The wreckage along the riverfront was being carted away. Most main streets were open to traffic and business had begun to revive. Goods could move freely and shops were struggling back to life to supplement the always thriving street vendors, provided the teamsters and lightermen and shopkeepers were still alive. The worst of the damage had struck the heart of the City eastward, with relatively less structural failure and loss of life west into Westminster and Kensington, or north to suburbs such as Islington, or south beyond the Thames.
It was a chilly day in early October when King William requested Grace North join him to make a tour of damaged buildings and dislocated people. The pair rode in a carriage viewing one of the remaining open fissures near Cannon Street. Grace seemed so overcome by her emotions that she couldn’t bear to emerge from her carriage. So beloved was she that the crowd was soon comforting her, assuring her that they were well and would muddle through. God bless you, ma’am, they called after her as the coach rolled away with her covering her stricken face with a handkerchief.
In the northern part of the city, the tour moved on to inspect a prison that had been commandeered as temporary housing for refugees from shattered parishes to the south. They met the governor of the prison, now turned into a hotelier, who showed them the crowded courtyard and first-floor cells. Cooking fires were everywhere. Laundry was strung across the grounds. There was much bowing and curtsying from the surprised residents.
At the end of a hallway, King William extended his hand toward a short set of steps and the door at the bottom. “This room hosts a ward of injured children, orphans now. I should like to visit them. There is little we could do better on this day than raise the spirits of suffering children, don’t you agree?”
“I do, Your Majesty.” Grace nodded pleasantly and they started down the steps.
The king looked back at the governor. “Sir, I would like to come upon these children alone, with Mrs. North. It would be a terrific treat for them if their king wandered in unannounced. Would you stay where you are?”
The governor looked confused but bowed and remained planted at the top of the steps. King William opened the heavy door himself and allowed Grace to enter first. She covered her nose with a handkerchief to fight the dank stench. The king paused to mop his brow before they proceeded along a narrow corridor lit only by a dim flickering light at the end.
They entered a large room with several other doors opening off it. With only a single gas jet on the wall, it was still quite dark. Through one of the open doors, Grace saw the back of a woman, with her head bandaged, bent over the form of a young girl. However, King William indicated another open door on their right and he went to it. He stepped aside and Grace went in without a thought.
The door slammed shut and a bright green glow flashed.
Grace North stood frozen. The walls pulsed with runes brought to life with the shutting of the door and the joining inscriptions around the perimeter of the room. She turned back to the door and grasped the handle, pulling violently on it. It was locked.
“What is this?” Grace hissed like a caged cat.
The king drifted back into the shadows where he intersected with a new shape who was barely visible. The two figures exchanged a few whispered words. The king moved quickly to depart the prison suite while the second form detached itself from the darkness and limped forward into the light of the gas jet, leaning heavily on a cane.
“Welcome back to London, Ash.” Simon Archer’s voice quivered with restrained emotion. “By the way, you are my prisoner.”
Ash’s eyes were wide with fury and she jabbed a hand toward him. She glared in anger and squeezed her fingers into a fist. Simon scoffed at her attempt to curse him. He shook his head. After a second of effort, Ash realized her magic was gone, and anger turned to fear.
“What have you done?” she cried.
“I have trapped you. Byron Pendragon had prepared a cell for you in the Bastille, which I suspect you knew. Well, I have re-created that cell here. And you will stay here until you die.”
“We had a deal, Archer!” Ash screamed. “You traitorous bastard! We had a deal!”
“Deal? I don’t recall a deal. My people stopped Gaios from destroying Britain. Meanwhile, you abandoned the people you love so dear. For all your crimes, your life belongs to me now.”
From the open cell on the far side, Kate and Charlotte emerged. They wore shabby clothes that had allowed them to pass for displaced wretches in the dim light. Kate’s mouth was a grim line, watching the captured necromancer. Charlotte hid behind her, still more fearful than normal since Imogen’s death.
Kate put a comforting arm around the child. “Don’t worry, dear. She can’t hurt you.”