The apprentices were weathercocks for the mood of the city. When London was at ease with itself, they were just lads — dawdling, flirting, and jabbing at the world with crude, clever jokes. But when London was stormy, they changed. A dark and angry lightning arced unseen between them, and sometimes they broke out into wild, passionate mobs, breaking doors and skulls with their boots and cudgels.
Mother glanced around at the little loitering groups, and she too began to look worried.
‘There are a lot around,’ she agreed quietly. ‘We will go home. The sun is sinking anyway. And . . . you will need your strength. It will be a warm night tonight.’
For a brief moment Makepeace was relieved, then Mother’s last sentence sank in. Makepeace stopped dead, overwhelmed by disbelief and outrage.
‘No!’ she snapped, surprised by her own firmness. ‘I won’t go! I am never going back to the graveyard again!’
Mother cast a self-conscious glance around, then gripped Makepeace’s arm firmly and dragged her into the mouth of an alley.
‘You must!’ Mother took Makepeace by the shoulders, staring into her eyes.
‘I nearly died last time!’ protested Makepeace.
‘You caught the smallpox from the Archers’ daughter,’ retorted Mother without hesitation. ‘The graveyard had nothing to do with it. You will thank me for this some day. I told you — I’m helping you sharpen your stick.’
‘I know, I know!’ Makepeace exclaimed, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. ‘The “wolves” are the ghosts, and you want me to learn to be strong, so I can keep them out. But why can’t I just stay away from graveyards? If I keep away from ghosts, I’ll be safe! You’re throwing me to the wolves, over and over again!’
‘You are wrong,’ said Mother softly. ‘These ghosts are not the wolves. These ghosts are mere hungry wisps — nothing in comparison. But the wolves are out there, Makepeace. They are looking for you, and some day they will find you. Pray that you are full-grown and strong by the time they do.’
‘You are just trying to frighten me,’ said Makepeace. Her voice shook, but with anger this time, not fear.
‘Yes, I am! Do you think you are a poor martyr, sitting there at night with those little will-o’-the-wisps licking at your face? This is nothing. There is far worse out there. You should be frightened.’
‘Then why can’t we ask my father to protect us?’ It was a dangerous angle to take, but Makepeace had come too far to turn back. ‘I bet he wouldn’t leave me out in graveyards!’
‘He is the last person we can go to for help,’ said Mother, with a bitterness Makepeace had never heard before. ‘Forget him.’
‘Why?’ Suddenly Makepeace could not bear all the silences in her life, all the things that she was not allowed to say or ask. ‘Why do you never tell me anything? I don’t believe you any more! You just want me to stay with you forever! You want to keep me to yourself! You won’t let me meet my father because you know he would want me!’
‘You have no idea what I saved you from!’ exploded Mother. ‘If I had stayed in Grizehayes—’
‘Grizehayes,’ repeated Makepeace, and saw her mother turn pale. ‘Is that where he lives? Is that the old house you talked about?’ She had a name. At long last she had a name. It meant that she could look for it. Somebody, somewhere, would know where it was.
The name sounded old. She could not quite picture the house it described. It was as if a heavy, silvery mist lay between her and its ancient turrets.
‘I won’t go back to the graveyard,’ said Makepeace. Her willpower set its pike in the earth, and braced for the onslaught. ‘I won’t. If you try to make me, I’ll run away. I will. I’ll find Grizehayes. I’ll find my father. And I’ll never come back.’
Mother’s eyes looked glassy with surprise and anger. She had never learned to deal with Makepeace’s new defiance. Then the warmth leaked out of her expression leaving it cold and distant.
‘Run, then,’ she said icily. ‘If that’s what you want, good riddance to you. But when you are in the hands of those people, never say that I did not warn you.’
Mother never yielded, never softened. When Makepeace challenged her, Mother always raised the stakes, calling Makepeace’s bluff and pushing back harder. And Makepeace had been bluffing about running away but, as she stared into Mother’s hard eyes, for the first time she thought that she might actually run. The idea made her feel breathless, weightless.
And then Mother glanced at something over Makepeace’s shoulder, out on the main street, and stiffened, aghast. She breathed a few words, so faintly that Makepeace only just caught them.
. . . Speak of the Devil . . .
Makepeace looked over her shoulder, just in time to see a tall man in a good coat of dark blue wool stride past. He was only of middling years, but his hair was a flare of white.
She knew the old saying, Speak of the Devil and he will appear. Mother had been talking of ‘those people’ — the Grizehayes people — and then she had caught sight of this man. Was he someone from Grizehayes, then? Perhaps even Makepeace’s father?
Makepeace met Mother’s gaze, her own eyes now wild with excitement and triumph. Then she turned, and tried to dart for the street.
‘No!’ Mother hissed, grabbing her arm with both hands. ‘Makepeace!’
But Makepeace’s own name jarred against her ear. She was tired of ‘making peace’ with troubles that were never explained. She wriggled free, and sprinted into the main thoroughfare.
‘You’ll be the death of me!’ Mother called after her. ‘Makepeace, stop!’
Makepeace did not stop. She could just make out the stranger’s blue coat and white hair in the distance, disappearing around a corner. Her past was getting away from her.
She reached the corner just in time to see him disappearing among the crowds, and set off in pursuit. Makepeace was aware of Mother calling her name somewhere behind her, but did not look back. Instead, she pursued the distant figure down one street, then another, then another. Many times she thought she had lost her quarry, only to glimpse a distant shock of white hair.
Makepeace could not give in, even when she found herself hurrying across London’s great bridge and into Southwark. The buildings on either side grew dingier and the smells more sour. She could hear laughter drifting from the waterside taverns, and oaths and oar-creaks from the river itself. It was darker now, too. The sun was sinking from view, and the sky had dulled to the colour of stained tin. Despite this, the streets were unusually crowded. People kept getting in her way, and blocking her view of the white-haired man.
It was only when a road spat her out into a large, open space that she halted, suddenly daunted. There was grass under her feet, and she realized that she was on the edge of St George’s Fields. All around her seethed a shadowy, restless, raucous crowd, heads silhouetted against the darkening sky. She could not judge how far it stretched, but there seemed to be hundreds of voices, all of them male. There was no sign of the white-haired man.
Makepeace stared around her, panting for breath, aware that she was attracting hard, curious glances. She was dressed in clothes of plain, cheap wool and linen, but her kerchief and cap were clean and respectable, and here that was enough to draw stares. She was also a lone female, and one of less than thirteen years.
‘Hello, love!’ one of the dark figures called. ‘Come to tickle up our courage, have you?’
‘Nah,’ said another, ‘you’re here to march with us, aren’t you, miss? You can throw stools at those bastards, like the Scottish ladies! Show us your cudgel arm!’ Half a dozen men laughed uproariously, and Makepeace could sense menace in the teasing.