Fire Catcher by C. S. Quinn Page B

subterfuge that had never failed him yet. Whichever door Lily touched in the fumigation house would be marked.
    It never did to overplay your hand.

Chapter 22
    Blackstone eyed the Wax Chandlers’ Guild on Lothbury Street. The heat from the flames could already be felt. But the thick stone walls offered protection.
    Candlemakers were running in and out of the Guild Hall, ferrying boxes of half-dipped candles. Two clergymen from the nearby church were staggering past with a six-foot candle elaborately carved with scenes of the crucifixion.
    Blackstone smiled and moved towards the entrance. He turned the bottle in his cloak. Bringer of Death.
    The candlemakers were only adding fuel to his pyre.
    Men were digging a pit to bury goods and Blackstone’s stomach lurched. He was remembering a different pit. A different time.
    ‘Your sister?’ asked the gravedigger.
    Blackstone nodded impassively. He let the body drop by the open grave. The head fell back revealing blackened features.
    Blackstone could see the gravedigger thought him heartless. He didn’t care.
    Too much had happened for him to grieve for this death. Soldiers had come. He’d heard his father’s screams. When they started on his mother Blackstone knew. He would become a soldier and take his revenge.
    ‘Burned after death?’ suggested the gravedigger slowly. ‘She didn’t move her arms to keep the flame from her face.’ He crossed himself. Witches made spells by burning corpses.
    Blackstone’s eyes flicked up sharply. He was thinking of his wife. Beautiful Teresa and the thirteen blessings. All burned to ash.
    Blackstone forced his thoughts back to the present. The torture of plague had burned through his body, sending thoughts and memories spooling into inaccessible corners. Something about the fire in the city . . . It seemed to be bringing them back. But erratically. In sudden snatches.
    ‘Hold,’ said an agitated-looking guard as Blackstone approached. ‘Guild members only.’
    He was eyeing Blackstone’s rosary in obvious dislike.
    ‘I bring a message from the King.’ Blackstone showed his seal.
    ‘Even so,’ said the guard, ‘only guild members are allowed in the building. We have secrets to protect. Our brotherhood has sacred practices.’
    Blackstone pressed his index finger to his chest in the secret sign.
    ‘Truth is light,’ he said, ‘light the way.’
    The guard glared suspiciously.
    ‘I don’t recognise you from the guild dinners,’ he said. ‘Where are your wares sold?’
    ‘I supply the King’s household,’ lied Blackstone. ‘I’m often away from the city.’
    The guard seemed disappointed by the reasonableness of the explanation.
    ‘I’ll need to search your cloak,’ he said. ‘We can’t be too careful. There’s rumours of Catholics throwing fireballs.’
    He gestured Blackstone should open his cloak, and pulled at his hanging pocket roughly.
    ‘What’s this?’ asked the guard.
    ‘A little lead is all,’ said Blackstone, ‘for making pigment.’
    The guard rubbed it against his lips, tasted the metal and returned it.
    ‘And this?’ He drew free the bottle and peered at the dark liquid inside.
    ‘Wine from Italy. You may try some.’
    The guard thrust it back at Blackstone.
    ‘I’m an Englishman. A good Protestant. I don’t drink foreign filth,’ he said, eyeballing Blackstone aggressively.
    ‘As you wish,’ said Blackstone good-naturedly.
    The guard looked as though he would have liked to say more. He stepped aside muttering ‘ papist ’ under his breath.
    Blackstone took in the high carved-wood ceilings of the hall. Candles winked from every corner. Rolls and slabs of beeswax had been carefully stacked in one corner, etched with their owner’s mark. Boxes of fine candles in straw were stacked all over.
    It could hardly have been more perfect.

Chapter 23
    The fumigation house had once been a medieval manor. But the rickety half-timbered building had since been engulfed into the wider city by a