Free The Crimson Ribbon by Katherine Clements Page B

different. There is no space. No air.
    In September, Lizzie fades like a rose without rain. She takes to her bed on the first of the month, claiming a weakness in her limbs and an agitation in her heart. There is plague in the city and Margaret will not allow visitors, apart from Pastor Kiffin, who spends hours ministering to Lizzie at her bedside, but she entrusts Lizzie’s errands to me.
    Negotiating the city’s warren of side-streets, and bartering with the cloth merchants may have frightened me at first, but as days turn into weeks, and it becomes clear that Lizzie will not soon leave her bed, I start to enjoy my new duties. It is the first taste of freedom I have had for months.
    As I grow bolder, looking forward to my outings, my grief seems to lessen. The bad dreams that plagued me nightly during the summer fade to memory, memory that I quash with new dreams of Lizzie.
    Cheapside is sticky in September swelter. Hawkers, dulled by the heat, wear kerchiefs around their faces, like bandits, protection against the pestilence. Fruit-sellers flick away flies with horsehair switches. I ignore the familiar flutter of fear as I do the ragged children clamouring for pennies.
    I find my way to Cornhill and the Pope’s Head and pause there, pulled up short by a gathering of men in the street outside the tavern. They lounge, mugs in hand, pipes puffing lazy smoke into the thick air. A few look me over. I press on, head down, feeling their eyes follow me into Pope’s Head Alley.
    The narrow passageway bustles with activity. People jostle for space outside the shops. Building work is going on overhead, houses stretching their eaves towards the thin streak of light, as if gasping for air. Moon-eyed children sit in a huddle on planking that has been laid down before a toymaker’s shop, waiting for the day’s puppet show. A rainbow of bottles, ointments and balms sparkle in an apothecary’s window.
    The high walls of the tavern thwart the worst of the midday heat but the air is still stifling and smells of rot. I have heard from Charlotte that fear of plague causes the night-soil men to abandon their rounds and the evidence is here: a thick mulch of dirt festers in the drain along the centre of the alley. I balance on the planks that give safe passage and make my way to the print shop.
    Master Stukeley, licensed printer and bookseller, sits at his desk, quill in hand, scratching away at his ledgers. As I enter he sizes me up, completes the line he is working on, places his quill in the pot on the table and blows on the paper to dry the ink. He smoothes back his hair with both hands and clears his throat, in no hurry to attend to me.
    The place is sultry and full of dust, with the pungent stench of hot leather and the privy. One wall is covered with shelves of books, some with fine bindings. Beneath them are stacked wooden crates, a chaotic assortment of pamphlets, newsbooks and tracts. This is a man’s world of politics, sealing wax and strong, sweet sack.
    Through a doorway towards the back of the room, I can see another man, dressed in a leather apron. I watch the back of his head as he moves in and out of sight, working at the printing press.
    Stukeley stands up. ‘Good day to you,’ he says. His coat is patched and his stockings mismatched; his hair flies wild about his head.
    I bob a curtsy. ‘Good day, sir. I am to fetch a packet for Mistress Poole, of West St Paul’s. She sent me in her stead.’
    Lizzie’s message delivered, I find myself breathless.
    Stukeley wrings his hands. ‘Ah, yes, Mistress Poole. She is well, I hope?’
    ‘She is not, sir, but it is not the plague.’
    ‘You look a little flushed,’ he says.
    ‘It’s hot.’ I fan my cheek to prove my point.
    He indicates a chair opposite his worktable. ‘If you would . . .’
    I sit down.
    ‘Boy!’
    There is a clatter from the back room and the man comes to the doorway, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He has taken off the apron and his shirt