Page 77 of The Phoenix Bride
“I don’t think we should bring Duchess, Sam,” I say.
“I suppose you’re right. She might jump into the water. Pevensey!” he calls.
A butler in red livery appears in the foyer. “Yes, sir?”
“We are taking the barge.”
“Where to, sir?”
“Aldgate.”
“Ah.” Pevensey presses his lips thinly together in poorly veiled consternation. “Is it your intention to miss your wedding ceremony, sir?”
“Less an intention than an unfortunate requirement, I’d say. But Cecilia is with me, so I don’t think she’ll mind.”
Pevensey gives me a hard stare. “Indeed. But—I don’t think we will find a bargeman willing, sir, without an extortionate fee. Considering the conflagration.”
“I don’t care what it costs. Just be quick about it, please.”
“Very well,” he says dubiously, and he bows before he leaves.
“I’m so grateful,” I say to Sam.
“Oh, no trouble at all,” he replies cheerfully. “Honestly, I was very nervous about the wedding, so it’s something of a relief. I do hope Master Mendes is well, and that His Majesty won’t be too insulted. Let’s pray the flames slow, so they don’t reach Aldgate before we do.”
—
A bargeman is secured impressively quickly, although he is no doubt charging the equivalent of a year’s wages. I ought to feel guilty about incurring such an expense, but I am too relieved to care. Peering outside the window, I see a number of panicked servants rushing in and out of the Edens’; looking for me, I expect. They don’t even consider the fact I might be hiding in my fiancé’s home.
Soon enough, we are on the water. Sam’s barge is small but beautiful, an impressive confection of turquoise-painted wood and plum-colored canopy. The crest of his family is emblazoned on the side in gilt. As we begin to move forward, we stare at each other—me in my wedding gown, him in his fine suit—and we both laugh.
“Forgive me,” I say. “I’ve ruined the day, haven’t I?”
“Of course not! This seems much more important than the wedding.”
“You and I are the only ones who will think so.”
“Yes,” he replies. “Well—we are the bride and groom, after all. I think it should be up to us, in the end, what we choose to care about. You look very pretty in your gown, did I mention that?”
“Thank you,” I say, touched, and I raise a hand self-consciously to the pearls dangling from my ears.
It is testament to the panic of the city that few bother to stop and watch us as we pass by; the banks of the Thames are thick with boats and people, swarming like flies over carrion, desperate to escape the approaching flames. Their voices buzz and swell, punctuated with the occasional shriek or groan. Above us, the seagulls circle with purposeful vigilance, as if they intend to scavenge from the flames.
As we continue, the crowding only gets worse. The river teems with other boats, slowing our passage considerably. In the distance, the glow in the sky grows ever brighter.
“Gosh, itisbusy, isn’t it?” Sam says, looking out over the other barges. “Much of the court is here. I suppose they want to see the fire. Oh look, there’s the king!”
“What?”
Sam points to an enormous barge in the distance, canopied in red velvet, populated by an impressive crowd of people. Sam waves to them. A tall, dark-haired figure spots him, and waves back.
“Shall we go greet him?” he asks me. “Apologize for not showing up to the ceremony? It’s likely he’s already forgotten about it, to be frank. He often responds to invitations and then neglects to go. Perhaps it is his French blood.”
“We can’t, Sam,” I say. “There isn’t time. We must continue to Aldgate.”
“Very well,” he replies, unbothered, and pats my shoulder.
We continue down the river, past the Strand, past Temple Bar, where I am relieved to see the coffeehouse remains untouched. But then we see the fire itself, and all relief disappears. It is a storm, a fury, a rapture: the flames whip upward like fingers clawing at the sky, made dark with soot, and that darkness then made ragged with light. Every so often, a collapsing building echoes like thunder, and the fire rises in response, snarling and vengeful. Even from the distance of the water it feels as if the heat of it touches me. It is radiant, ravenous. It is the mouth of God, crushing London between its teeth.
