The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Forty-Seven

Knowing that the plague had been sent by the masters and only infected the named had proved itself to be surprisingly uncomforting to Hawth. With the little girl in her arms she ran through the smoke filled streets, doing her best to calm the child, and herself, while not breathing in any of the sick air.

"Do you know where you live?" Hawth asked, trying very hard to keep the panic from her voice.

The girl's lip wobbled and her chin scrunched up. She was obviously right on the edge of a flood of tears. But she managed to hold herself together just long enough to point over to the left. Hawth sighed in relief. She hadn't managed to get a word out of the girl. She didn't even know what she was called, but if the poor thing could remember where she lived, none of that mattered.

Hawth adjusted the weight of the child on her hip and looked over, hoping someone would recognise her before the torrents started.

There were plenty of people hanging around, all gathered in the direction the girl had pointed.

"Looks like there's a search party after you, missy," said Hawth with a smile. "They'll all be glad to see you back safe and sound."

But no one paid them any notice as they approached, and barely acknowledged her presence as she pushed into the crowd.

She spotted a tall, lanky-looking lad of about her own age leaning against a carriage and watching the goings on with a bemused expression tinting his finely-drawn features. At first she had taken him for an officer, with the tight britches and well-tailored jacket, but the colours were all wrong. He was wearing the livery of a great lord. That was strange. The court was supposed to have decamped to the country-side, not hiding out with the bakers and candlestick makers of the city.

She pushed her way through to him, cradling the child's head with her hand in order to avoid the worst of the jostling.

As she drew closer, she caught his eye, and he gave a smart-looking bow, but kept his eyes fixed on her, as if he was unsure whether her social standing deserved a better one.

Hawth did her best to ignore that. "What's going on?" she asked.

Whatever aristocratic baring her gown had managed to lend her, had clearly been wiped away the moment she opened her mouth and spoke. She couldn't fool a footman. He knew that she was no lady, and Hawth found herself vaguely amused to realise he must think her a courtesan of some sort.

He shrugged, all thoughts of deference wiped from his features, and Hawth realised he was chewing on a clove.

"Some street-brat ran into the road and got trampled," he said, sounding impossibly bored by the situation.

"So what are all these people doing?"

Another shrug. "Waiting to see if he's dead, I suppose." He grinned at that, pushing the clove between his teeth and letting his eyes linger on the neck of her gown. It wasn't nearly as low as fashion was currently dictating, but from the look on his face, he wasn't feeling particularly deterred by that fact.

Hawth turned her face away, and made a great fuss of smoothing the child's hair so that he wouldn't see the look of disgust etched on her face.

She was going to suggest to the girl that they'd best start knocking on doors to find her mother when there was a scream from one of the houses. Not the high pitched yelp of someone being attacked, but long and low. The howl of a person suffering the utmost despair.

There was a shift in the crowd. Hawth felt their attention being drawn, as one, to a window. A candle, strategically placed on the windowsill, was snuffed out by an unseen hand. A groan flowed through those waiting below.