Page 3 of Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Several streets over, she stopped to catch her breath. ‘Twas tempting to laugh from pure joy at the thought of Thomas suffering a beating, but ‘twas a beating she couldn’t allow, no matter how sorely her heart wished. ‘Twas she who would pay the price, once he’d recovered.

Reluctantly, she picked up her skirts and ran down the street. She’d buy the bread later. She had Thomas to warn.

Moll barreled around the corner of the pewter smithy, but she didn’t see the half-bent old woman until they went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

Moll sucked in a breath as a sharp jab of pain lanced through her ankle. There would be no running home to warn Thomas now. Lord help her, she’d be lucky if she could limp.

“Ach, have a care, lass,” a gravelly voice complained.

Moll glanced at the old woman half-sprawled in the street. ‘Twas Bertha, an aged, withered crone she’d befriended, months ago.

Horrified, Moll scrambled to her knees. “Bertha, forgive me. Are you hurt?”

She held out a helping hand, but as her fingers brushed the woman’s skin, a spark crackled between them.

Moll jerked back, surprised.

Bertha’s rheumy eyes took on an uncanny glow. “Ach, Moll, dinna fret over me, lass. I’m as right as rain,” she cackled as her cold, bony fingers closed over Moll’s wrist. “Stay a moment, will ye? Let the men close the streets. We canna have ye on the wrong side now, can we?”

“Pardon?” Moll lifted puzzled brows and squinted in both directions. The streets were empty. There wasn’t a man in sight. “Whatever are you speaking of, Bertha? There’s no one here.”

A flurry of wind blew the curls back from her cheek and brought a fresh whiff of smoke to her nostrils. She frowned. The rain had stopped. There would be little to stop a fire spreading, now.

Bertha patted her arm. “’Tis no matter, lass.” Her lips split into a conspiratorial grin and she added, “Never will ye suffer that man’s touch again, lass, and soon? Aye, soon ye’ll know a real man’s love. ‘Twill be love at first sight for the both of ye, though neither of ye’ll know it at first, ye fools. Aye, ‘tis a force ye canna halt.”

Love? At first sight? Moll smothered a laugh, but then, she’d always thought the old woman mad.

“Come, Bertha, let’s stand, shall we?” Biting back the pain, she struggled to her feet and again, held out her hand.

Bertha’s bony fingers lashed out to close over Moll’s ankle.

“Ouch,” Moll choked as pain stabbed her to the bone.

Mumbling, the old woman let her go, and then leapt spryly to her feet. She grinned, her face splitting into a thousand wrinkles. “Aye, ‘tis I who have helped ye, lass. Ye can leave now. The children await. Have no fear, take them all. Aye, the more the merrier. ‘Twill only melt his heart all the faster, aye? He thinks he’s a lone wolf. Pah!” With a hearty laugh, she shooed Moll off as one might a dog, and then without a backward glance, shuffled around the corner of the pewter smithy.

Moll arched a curious brow. The old woman had always stood on the precipice of madness. Clearly, she’d now ventured over the edge. With a shrug, Moll picked up her basket and eyed the mushrooms that had rolled out onto the street. The delicate gills had been crushed. They were useless now.

Grimly, she collected the silk and velvet scraps and with her basket packed, rose unsteadily to her feet. There was no hurry to rush home now. She might as well buy the bread and eat it as the moneylender suggested. With the way her ankle throbbed, she’d be fortunate to return home before the midnight hour.

With a sigh, she turned toward Baker Street, hobbling at first, but then, to her astonishment, moving quicker with each step as the pain in her ankle faded.

At the end of the street, she paused, puzzled. Had she misjudged the injury? She scowled. Surely, she had. ‘Twasn’t as if Bertha had healed her in any fashion. She rolled her eyes at the thought and turned once again toward home when she spied a dark column of smoke rising from behind the building to her left.

A door slammed behind her as several men joined her in the street, pointing to the smoke in concern.

Moll saw him first, a bald man charging down the street straight at her.

“Plague,” he gasped. “They’re blocking the streets. Run.”

Moll stood, stunned. Had she heard correctly? Had he said…plague?

Then, about her, chaos erupted. Screams rent the air. A tide of people swelled down the street with clouds of smoke curling at their heels. They pushed and shoved her every which way. She pushed back, screaming and striking out lest she be trampled. Before harm befell her, hands suddenly grabbed her from behind and yanked her into the safety of an alley, scarce shoulder-width.

Moll collapsed against a rough brick wall to catch her breath as the crowd stampeded past.

Drawing herself upright, Moll turned to face her rescuers.

To her surprise, the gangly, wide-eyed twins, George and Francis, stared back at her, their freckled faces smudged with soot.