Page 2 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Almost as if in answer to the thought, her mother’s voice again whispered through her mind, as soft as a summer’s breeze. ‘Tis in the blood, child. You carry the gift to ease pain of the heart.

Moll rolled her eyes and slammed her palms flat on the market stall board. ‘Twas a curious gift, to be chosen to heal the pain of the heart when her own heart held so much pain.

A gust of chill wind blew against her face as a well-dressed woman turned down the lane with two rosy-cheeked children in tow.

Picking up a scrap of material, Moll called out, “Velvet, my lady. Fine velvet scraps and silk, as well.”

The woman passed her by with nary a look. The children paused long enough to stick out their tongues before hurrying after their mother, giggling along the way.

Moll scowled and rubbed her arms through her thin sleeves. A drop of rain struck her cheek. From the looks of the dark clouds roiling overhead, ‘twould be yet another long, cold night—unless Thomas had finished the mayor’s peasecod-bellied doublet and collected the price. The thought summoned a bitter smile to her lips. The past few months, Thomas rarely touched a needle and instead spent his days lying abed, cradling a bottle of spirits in the crook of his arm.

The cathedral bells tolled in the distance, and across the street, the Leadenhall merchants roused themselves to close their stalls.

‘Twas time to go home. Moll knotted her brows in yet another frown. She’d sold only three silk scraps the entire day. ‘Twas only enough for bread. Again, she would have nothing left to pay the moneylender, but what could she do? Tell the man the truth and pray he’d find pity enough to grant her more time? The thought made her laugh. Pity? From a moneylender?

“You’ve gone mad, Moll,” she muttered as she packed her wares.

As the last cathedral bell chimed, she grabbed her basket and took off for Lombard Street. If the moneylender did—by some strange twist of fate—grant her the time, she had barely time to buy the bread and run home before the Bow Bells rang. She couldn’t risk angering Thomas by showing up late again. Her back was sore enough.

Fat raindrops spattered around her on the cobblestones as she flew down Pudding Lane. She’d nearly reached the end when someone shouted, “Moll, wait!”

She didn’t stop. She recognized the voice. ‘Twas either George or Francis, the twins, redheaded-cutpurses who roamed London’s streets. They were just boys, really, hardly more than children she’d befriended upon her arrival in London, a year ago.

Again, the boy called her name.

She hadn’t the time to spare. Whatever he wanted would have to wait.

Moll scowled and ducked into a narrow alley. As she headed deeper into the maze of London’s streets, the gusts of wind blasted her nostrils with the usual stink of dead fish, but oddly, this time ‘twas mixed with an acrid stench. Smoke? The realization furrowed her brows all the more and she slowed her pace to glance about, uneasy.

A man galloped past, riding low over the back of his horse, the beast’s hooves furiously striking the cobblestones. Moll watched with a dark sense of foreboding and quickened her step, and despite the scattered rain, the stench of smoke only grew stronger the further she went.

As she turned onto Lombard street, the looming confrontation with the moneylender pushed all other thoughts aside. Again, she began to fret. Surely, he wouldn’t take the only coins that would keep her fed? Surely, even a moneylender could possess a shred of compassion?

Gnawing her bottom lip with worry, she passed by the slate-roofed, half-timbered townhouses lining the street, the iron signs hanging above their doors the only defining feature that set them apart.

Finally, Moll paused beneath the sign fashioned as a bag of coins.

Mercy. If only the man would show mercy. The desperate thought made her eyes roll. Mercy? From a moneylender?

“You’re an addlepated numbskull, Moll,” she half-growled as she shoved open the door.

The weathered-wood floor creaked beneath her feet as she stepped inside the shop. ‘Twas empty, save the small table holding the leather-bound ledger and quill, but she’d no sooner closed the door and heard the sound of footsteps.

At the back of the room the curtains parted, and the moneylender, Brian de Hause, stepped through, a distinguished man in a brown velvet doublet resplendent with brass buttons and black leather Spanish boots. A fine silver chain hung about his neck, and from the band of his russet-colored copotain hat, a pheasant feather stood on salute.

Moll dipped a nervous curtsey. “I’ve only three farthings, sir, barely enough for bread,” she croaked, her throat suddenly dry. Next week, she’d likely have even less—unless she found more gold-gilled mushrooms.

The moneylender cocked a cool brow and laced his hands behind his back. “Moll is it?”

Apprehensive, Moll curtseyed again.

The man’s sharp gaze dropped to her collarbone. His steely eyes hardened.

‘Twas instinct that made Moll take a step back, then she recalled the yellowed, fading bruises that dotted her neck—Thomas’s handiwork from the week before. She’d long since abandoned hiding the bruises. Truly, it wasn’t worth the effort when they never had the chance to fade away.

A muscle twitched on the moneylender’s jaw, then he strode past her and opened the door. “Go, Moll,” he said with a terse nod. “Buy bread, but eat it first and take your time returning home, will you? I’ve men to round up, to beat your husband’s worthless hide.”

Moll stared at him, stunned, and then loath to tempt her luck, bolted out the door before he could change his mind.