Page 55 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

The men’s voices grew louder, reverberating from the walls above, at first distant, but then in words they all could hear, “’Tis the Queen! The Queen!”

Taran’s broad shoulders stiffened.

“The Queen?” Francis gasped.

As if in answer, the unmistakable grinding of the castle gates resounded through the air.

Taran turned to Moll, his jaw clenched tight. “Dinna let anyone know she’s ill.”

She swallowed. With a queen who hung men for riding through plague-ridden lands, who knew what else she might do?

“The Queen!” the shouts resounded again.

Taran drew a sharp breath. “’Tis best I leave. The rest of ye, stay here. We canna risk news of Charlotte escaping the room, aye?” He eyed each boy in turn, from the youngest to the twins, then moved to the bed to stand there a moment before reaching down to trace a finger softly over the back of Charlotte’s hand.

The little girl lay still.

“Heal her, Moll,” Taran murmured, and then he was gone.

As the shouts outside grew louder still, George pulled the window shut.

“Try again, Moll,” Francis urged from his post at the foot of the bed. “She was struck down so quick. Try again.”

Frowning, Moll dropped her ear to Charlotte’s chest for the tenth time.

The beat sounded uneven, frail. She waited, listening for more. Disappointment washed over her. Nothing. Nothing from the heart. Still.

Then, she heard it. The echo. Moll held her breath.

Surely, she was mistaken?

Filling with fear, Moll listened with every fiber of her being. There was no denying it then. Beneath the beat, she heard the same despairing resonance as she had with Lady Haddon.

She choked.

Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Lord help her, she should have known. Despite the bright face the little girl had worn since leaving London, she ached for her mother.

“What is it?” Francis whispered.

How could she tell them? Yet, even more, how could she deny them the truth? “Her heart…’tis broken.”

The twins tensed as one. The younger boys gasped. Confused, Wee Jack began to cry.

“Can you heal her?” Francis clenched his hands into fists.

Moll drew a shaky breath. Both Lady Haddon and Charlotte would die, and soon, if she couldn’t fetch the mushrooms from the stables, but how could she make her case, when she must keep Charlotte’s illness a secret? And how—

“The gates!” she gasped, leaping to her feet.

“Gates?” George repeated.

Charlotte moaned in her sleep.

“Sleep, poppet.” Moll kissed the young girl’s cheek. “I’ll be back with a brew to set you to rights. You’ll be dancing in your new gown by the end of the week.”

“Truly?” Francis mouthed as Moll pushed past him.

She nodded, firmly. There could be no other ending. She wouldn’t allow it. Charlotte wasn’t going to die, not when the cure stood just outside the castle walls. A pox on Lord Haddon and the Queen of England if they tried to stop her.