Read Chapter 13: The Red Cloak's Name

The lantern swung wide. Tom saw the gleam of the red cloak before he saw the face—a tall figure stepping out of the shadows of the bakery's ruined ovens, sword drawn, boots crunching over broken pottery. Miles was already gone, vanished through a crack in the back wall with the speed of a startled rat.

Tom had the box clutched to his chest and the key still warm in his palm. He turned to run, but the exit was blocked. Two more red cloaks filled the doorway, crossbows leveled.

"Tom the Flea," the tall man said, his voice smooth as poured cream. "Or should I say, Thomas Cutter, son of the fireman who died on Pudding Lane."

Tom's blood went cold. His father's name hadn't been spoken aloud in years.

The man stepped into the lantern light. He was older than Tom expected—fifty, perhaps, with silver threading his black hair and a face that had known power long enough to wear it like a second skin. His cloak was finer than the others', trimmed with dark fur, and a silver pendant hung at his throat: a phoenix rising from flame.

The same mark Miles had described.

"Lord Percy," Tom said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "The King's Spymaster. I'd heard you were dead."

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated." Percy smiled, showing teeth too white for a man who lived in smoke and shadow. "Though I confess, I've let the red cloaks take credit for my absence. It keeps my enemies confident."

He gestured, and the crossbows lowered a fraction. Tom didn't mistake it for mercy. It was the patience of a cat who had already cornered the mouse.

"The box," Percy said. "Set it down."

Tom's fingers tightened on the iron. It was warm—warmer than it should be, and he felt the heat pulse through his palms like a second heartbeat. The key in his other hand vibrated faintly, singing to its mate.

"I don't think I will," Tom said.

Percy laughed—a genuine sound, almost pleasant. "You have spirit. I'll grant you that. But spirit won't stop an arrow, boy. And I've had quite enough of chasing you through burning streets."

"You haven't been chasing me. You've been herding me."

The words came out before Tom could stop them, but as soon as they were spoken, he knew they were true. The woman with the phoenix burn. The key baked into bread. The archivist who conveniently knew the box's secrets and conveniently pointed him toward destruction. Someone had been moving him like a chess piece across a board.

Percy's smile widened. "You're quicker than you look. Yes, we've been guiding you. Testing you. Do you know why?"

"Enlighten me."

Percy stepped closer. Tom could smell him now—smoke and wine and something else. Something old, like the pages of a book that had been shut too long.

"The box holds a list," Percy said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Every Catholic conspirator in England. Their names. Their dens. Their plans. The King believes it was destroyed in the fire. But I know better."

Tom stared at him. The words sat wrong in his ears, like a shilling that rang hollow.

"You think I'm a fool," Percy continued, reading his face. "You think I want the fire-stone, the relic of legend. But fire is a crude weapon. It burns indiscriminately. What I want is precision. What I want is names."

He extended his hand, palm up, waiting.

"The Heart of the First Flame," Tom said slowly. "A man I trust told me it controls fire."

"A man you trust." Percy's voice dripped with amusement. "Chronos. The old archivist. Do you know why he lives in Woolwich, surrounded by crumbling books and dying candles?"

Tom didn't answer.

"Because he was caught selling relics to the highest bidder forty years ago. The Crown stripped his title and let him rot. He tells stories now to entertain thieves and dreamers—stories about magic hearts and cursed flames. But the truth is simpler." Percy's hand remained outstretched. "The box contains what I said it contains. Names. Treason. A weapon far more dangerous than fire, because fire burns bodies. Lists burn families."

The box was almost hot now. Tom could feel it throbbing, and beneath the heat, something else—a hunger, sharp and insistent. It wanted him to believe Percy. It wanted him to doubt Chronos. It wanted him to feel anger at being deceived.

Tom forced his breathing steady.

"Suppose I give it to you," he said. "What do I get in return?"

Percy's eyes glittered. "Your life. A purse of gold. Passage out of London before the whole city becomes ash. I'll even throw in a horse." He paused. "And I'll forget that you're the son of a traitor."

"Traitor?"

"Your father died fighting the fire—yes, yes, I know the story. But do you know what he was doing before the fire started? He was at the bakery on Pudding Lane. The one that belonged to the King's baker. And he was seen leaving with a bundle under his arm, a quarter hour before the flames began."

Tom's chest constricted. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Percy's smile was gentle, almost kind. "Your father was a good man. I've read his records. Honest. Loyal. But even good men can be turned. And the box you're clutching?" He nodded at the iron. "It was last seen in that same bakery. In your father's hands."

The world tilted. Tom felt the floor shift beneath his feet, and the box burned against his chest, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to hurl it at Percy's smug face.

*He's playing you*, Tom thought. *He's using your father to make you angry. The box feeds on anger.*

But knowing it didn't stop the rage from rising.

"Here's my offer," Tom said, and his voice came out rough. "I serve you. I carry the box wherever you want it carried. I guard it with my life." He let his shoulders slump, let defeat creep into his posture. "A thief like me doesn't survive long with the Crown hunting him. Better to join than to die."

Percy studied him for a long moment. Tom could feel the weight of that gaze, peeling back layers, searching for the lie.

"You're smarter than most," Percy finally said. "Acceptable."

Tom stepped forward, box extended in both hands. Percy reached for it, fingers inches from the iron—

And Tom's other hand swept up, catching the lantern hanging from the nearest beam and hurling it into the pile of flour sacks behind Percy.

The glass shattered. The flame caught. The flour exploded in a white cloud of burning dust.

Percy reared back, cloak catching sparks, and the red cloaks shouted and scrambled. Tom ran—not for the door, but for the crack in the wall where Miles had vanished. He dove through just as the flames caught the roof and the whole ruined bakery roared to life behind him.

The box was still warm in his hands.

It was warmer than it had been before.