Page 4 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“We’ve got to leave, Moll. Now,” George urged, his hazel eyes wide with concern.

“’Tis too late for Thomas,” Francis inserted quickly. Though identical to his brother, his crooked nose—a victim of one too many a fistfight—stood as a testament to the fact his temper ran much hotter.

“’Tis the plague,” George continued hoarsely. “Thomas came down with it this morning.”

“He’s dead now,” Francis added and pointed.

Moll drew an unsteady breath and followed the line of his finger. At first, she could only see dense, dark clouds of smoke. Then a blast of wind lifted the smoke like a curtain and offered her a glimpse of the street beyond.

‘Twas Threadneedle Street. Had she come this far in the crowd? How long had they caught her up? ‘Twas surprising, but then, the realization of what she saw focused her thoughts.

The tailor shop burned. Flames danced on the rooftop and licked through the broken windows. As she watched, the top floor collapsed and the thread-and-spool sign above the door fell to the ground in a shower of sparks. Then, just as quickly as the clouds of smoke had lifted, they dropped again and blocked her view.

She turned away. She’d seen enough.

“We can’t stay,” George hissed. He stepped forward.

“Wait.” Francis pulled him back by the collar. “Look.”

A group of heavily armed men appeared at the end of the street, striding in their direction, the fire’s orange glow glinting on their swords and the barrels of their muskets. Behind them, trundled several horse-drawn carts filled with boards. Moll knew what it meant. They all did. The men were there to blockade the plague’s spread. They would nail boards over windows and doors to seal the plague and its victims—real and perceived—inside.

“This way.” Francis jerked his head over his shoulder.

The narrow space between the buildings only grew smaller at the opposite end, but by turning sideways, they managed to squeeze through and emerged onto the street behind.

“’Tis clear here, still,” Francis announced in a hoarse whisper.

“Then, let’s make haste.” Moll pointed toward the Thames. “We can—”

“No, Moll,” Francis grabbed her wrist. “This way. We can’t leave without them, Moll.”

“Them?” Moll knit her brows, puzzled, as he pulled her to a nearby cellar door.

“Here.” He caught hold of the rusted iron ring and yanked open the door to point into the yawing darkness.

Moll peered over his shoulder into the gloom. At first, she saw nothing, but then her eyes adjusted. Children. Young and scared.

“They can’t go home now,” George hissed from behind.

She didn’t need to ask why. With the musket-carrying men caging people like birds and the fire ravaging the streets, whether their parents truly had the plague or not didn’t matter. Lord help her, but what had they done to deserve such a scourge?

The children blinked.

Moll nodded. There was little time to waste and nothing to do but move forward. Briskly, she clapped her hands. “Out, poppets. Let’s give wings to our feet, shall we?”

The children didn’t hesitate. She counted them as they hopped out of the cellar like frightened rabbits. Four in all. A girl of perhaps nine, and three boys, two near the same age of perhaps seven, and the smallest child of probably two or three.

Gently, Moll took the youngest by the hand and moved out onto the street, surveying her surroundings. Smoke and shouting men surrounded her on three sides, now. Again, there was only the one choice.

“This way,” she said.

They took off. The children fell into a line behind her with Francis and George bringing up the rear. They’d nearly reached the end of the street, when a man stepped around the corner to block their path.

“Halt!” he barked as he brandished his musket, the barrel gleaming in the firelight. “From where you hail, you and this ragamuffin lot?”

Moll’s stomach dropped, but she jutted her chin and replied, “Manchester, sir. We’re straight this very day from Manchester.”

‘Twas clear the man doubted her. He took a menacing step forward.