slightly older than herself, was standing at her table, a worried expression on her face. She looked familiar, but Lucy couldn’t place her. She looked to the woman’s clothes for some indication of her station and rank. She wasn’t the tavern maid, that was certain. Her kirtle was a soft gray taffeta, unstained, but slightly dusty as if she’d been traveling.
Finishing the last sip of her pint, Lucy stood up, dropping a slight curtsy. “Yes, miss? What can I do for you?”
“I should like to purchase the London Miscellany, ” the woman said, her clipped, slightly haughty words confirming her gentlewoman’s status. She thrust out a coin. “Now, if you please.”
Lucy looked around. She saw the innkeeper direct her a warning glance. Master Aubrey had given her strict instructions. “No hawking inside. No one wants to share their customers’ coins.”
Lucy pushed out one of the wooden chairs at her table. “I’ll sell it to you if you sit and have a pint.”
“I don’t want a pint.”
“At least sit down. Please, miss. The owner will throw me on out on my arse—pardon!—if he thinks I’m hawking inside his shop.”
“Oh, I see.” Looking about, the woman sat down. She slid over a coin, which Lucy quickly palmed before pushing the Fire poem across the table. The innkeeper started over, a baleful look on his face.
Lucy smiled pleasantly up at him. “Some mead for my companion if you please, sir.” She glanced at the woman, who was staring at the first page of the pamphlet, and made no attempt to pay for her own drink. Reluctantly Lucy handed the innkeeper a coin, mentally counting what she had left. She prayed that he would not expect her to buy another drink for herself, for she could not spare any more.
Thankfully, the barman nodded, satisfied. “Hannah!” he called gruffly to the serving maid. “Another mead here!” He even took the dingy towel hanging from his waste to wipe away the little pool of liquid that had spilled on the table, before moving off.
Now, the woman had begun to anxiously page through the Miscellany. At the pamphlet’s last page, the woman’s face grew pale; indeed, she looked quite ill. Belatedly, Lucy wondered if the woman had taken sick. She edged back in her chair, lest the woman should sneeze upon her. She cursed herself for not carrying a posy that might ward off the sickly vapors. Although the physician Larimer had declared London well-rid of the plague, the ague and other deathly maladies never truly went away.
To Lucy’s dismay, the woman’s eyes had filled with tears. “You said this poem was found with the body?” she whispered, pointing at the woodcut on the front. Lucy could barely hear her over the din of the inn.
Lucy nodded. “I saw him myself. Poor sod. He was killed through and through with a knife. Before the Great Fire. A wonder his body survived, and that’s a fact.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you.” She stood, turning quickly on her heel. Before Lucy could say anything more, the woman turned and walked unsteadily out of the tavern.
Without thinking, Lucy raced after the woman, who had gotten a few paces down the street. “Miss! Wait!” Lunging forward, she grasped the woman’s arm. Something was clearly amiss. “Pray, you are not well. Let us sit back down. Have your drink.”
Lucy led the woman back into the Golden Lion, almost as one might lead a child. The serving maid, Hannah, was standing by the table they had just vacated, looking bemusedly at the steaming tankard in her hands. “Oh, you came back,” she said. “I was about to dump this back in the kettle.”
The woman still looked dazed, and a bit teary, but seemed to revive slightly when she placed her hands around the warm tankard.
“Drink,” Lucy urged. She wondered if the woman’s wits might be addled, given her odd countenance. Then she recalled the woman’s clear and elegant speech. Distraught as the woman might be, she did not seem
Finishing the last sip of her pint, Lucy stood up, dropping a slight curtsy. “Yes, miss? What can I do for you?”
“I should like to purchase the London Miscellany, ” the woman said, her clipped, slightly haughty words confirming her gentlewoman’s status. She thrust out a coin. “Now, if you please.”
Lucy looked around. She saw the innkeeper direct her a warning glance. Master Aubrey had given her strict instructions. “No hawking inside. No one wants to share their customers’ coins.”
Lucy pushed out one of the wooden chairs at her table. “I’ll sell it to you if you sit and have a pint.”
“I don’t want a pint.”
“At least sit down. Please, miss. The owner will throw me on out on my arse—pardon!—if he thinks I’m hawking inside his shop.”
“Oh, I see.” Looking about, the woman sat down. She slid over a coin, which Lucy quickly palmed before pushing the Fire poem across the table. The innkeeper started over, a baleful look on his face.
Lucy smiled pleasantly up at him. “Some mead for my companion if you please, sir.” She glanced at the woman, who was staring at the first page of the pamphlet, and made no attempt to pay for her own drink. Reluctantly Lucy handed the innkeeper a coin, mentally counting what she had left. She prayed that he would not expect her to buy another drink for herself, for she could not spare any more.
Thankfully, the barman nodded, satisfied. “Hannah!” he called gruffly to the serving maid. “Another mead here!” He even took the dingy towel hanging from his waste to wipe away the little pool of liquid that had spilled on the table, before moving off.
Now, the woman had begun to anxiously page through the Miscellany. At the pamphlet’s last page, the woman’s face grew pale; indeed, she looked quite ill. Belatedly, Lucy wondered if the woman had taken sick. She edged back in her chair, lest the woman should sneeze upon her. She cursed herself for not carrying a posy that might ward off the sickly vapors. Although the physician Larimer had declared London well-rid of the plague, the ague and other deathly maladies never truly went away.
To Lucy’s dismay, the woman’s eyes had filled with tears. “You said this poem was found with the body?” she whispered, pointing at the woodcut on the front. Lucy could barely hear her over the din of the inn.
Lucy nodded. “I saw him myself. Poor sod. He was killed through and through with a knife. Before the Great Fire. A wonder his body survived, and that’s a fact.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you.” She stood, turning quickly on her heel. Before Lucy could say anything more, the woman turned and walked unsteadily out of the tavern.
Without thinking, Lucy raced after the woman, who had gotten a few paces down the street. “Miss! Wait!” Lunging forward, she grasped the woman’s arm. Something was clearly amiss. “Pray, you are not well. Let us sit back down. Have your drink.”
Lucy led the woman back into the Golden Lion, almost as one might lead a child. The serving maid, Hannah, was standing by the table they had just vacated, looking bemusedly at the steaming tankard in her hands. “Oh, you came back,” she said. “I was about to dump this back in the kettle.”
The woman still looked dazed, and a bit teary, but seemed to revive slightly when she placed her hands around the warm tankard.
“Drink,” Lucy urged. She wondered if the woman’s wits might be addled, given her odd countenance. Then she recalled the woman’s clear and elegant speech. Distraught as the woman might be, she did not seem
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