Free Angel of Ruin by Kim Wilkins Page A

figures the number of times they had touched more than accidentally. Ignoring his discomfort, she helped him into his coat and hat and led him out onto the Walk.
    “Which way, Father?” she said.
    “There is a churchyard, a mile or so to the west. It is very peaceful.”
    “Come then.” She took his hand in her own, momentarily surprised by how aged it was. Her Father always seemed to her ageless, some marble-skinned god of wisdom. They walked down the hill towards the main road. He strode along with characteristic self-possession, his affinity with the city lending his blind footsteps an almost arrogant confidence.
    “Be my eyes, Deborah,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
    She veered left and they walked under dark, overhanging jetties. “I see a tobacconist, and a butcher, an inn with the sign of a bull upon it.” She scanned for the details that would satisfy his imagination. “I see a warm haze over the city, and here we are about to pass a gentleman with …” She broke off as the gentleman moved into earshot.
    When he was past, Father said impatiently, “What about him?”
    “With a silver nose, Father,” she said quietly. “He must have suffered syphilis.”
    “Was it a fancy nose? Or plain? What kind of man was he?”
    “Plain-shaped, but embossed. He was dressed in wealthy clothes, but they were dirty.”
    “A syphilite on a downturn,” murmured Father. “What else do you see?”
    “The nightsoil cart approaching. Let us cross the road away from the smell.”
    “The churchyard should be nearby on the left.”
    “Yes, Father. Come with me.” She led him across the street and down another dark hill to a walled churchyard. She let go of his hand for a few moments to open the gate, then they entered.
    “Go to the newest graves, Deborah. Oh, I can feel the sun on my face.”
    “Yes, the sun is shining, and there are many trees around. Here, we stand at a gravestone.”
    “Whose is it?”
    She read from the inscription. “John Edward Cross. Born 1589, died 1663.”
    “Who else?”
    Deborah remembered this game from childhood. Father wanted her to find an unfortunate who had been born the same year as him. She scanned the graves nearby. “Yes, I think I see … Let us approach a little closer.”
    “Yes, yes.”
    She led him further into the churchyard. “Here we are. Philip Pettigrew. Born 1608, died 1659.”
    “1659!” he exclaimed. “Ha, he did not make it far.”
    “Not in comparison to you, Father.”
    “Indeed not, but I have always been of a strong constitution.”
    “You must be, Father, for here is another. Andrew Benjamin Olson Parkes. Born 1609, died 1661.”
    “And here am I only a year younger and still as healthy as a horse!”
    “Would you like me to find you some more, Father?”
    “No, for I know there will be too many. I am glad that you are with me, Deborah. Your sisters are not worth much, but you are a good child.”
    “Thank you, Father,” Deborah said, aware that sheshould perhaps defend Mary and Anne, but too pleased with his praise to ruin the moment.
    “I think you are right about my poem,” he said, his red-gold hair glistening in the summer sun. “It needs a new title.”
    “Father?”
    “I think I shall call it,
Paradise Lost.”
    It wasn’t until after supper on the third day that Mary spied her chance to be alone with Uncle William. The owners of the house, Sir James and Lady Aileen, had decided on an evening walk. The sun was still in the sky, the long shadows drew out along the street, and the heat of the day had eased. She had sent Anne with them and purposed to stay behind with William, feigning a sick stomach.
    “Sister, can you go and take little Max with you,” Mary had said. “He would love the exercise, and I am too ill to walk.”
    “If you wish,” Anne said, surprised, wondering at Mary being alone with detestable Uncle William. “Only I shall have to tie him.”
    Tie Max! The thought almost brought tears to her eyes as she