Read Chapter 26: The Traitor's List

The red-cloaked man did not smile. He did not even blink. He stood in the crypt doorway with Percy's men fanning out behind him like a pack of hungry dogs, and the candlelight caught the silver embroidery on his cuffs—a pattern of flames, stitched in thread that seemed to glow.

"The boy," he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle. "Bring him."

Two men surged forward. Tom spun, looking for a gap, a shadow, anything—but the crypt was a dead end. Coffin niches lined the walls like empty mouths. Mortimer's crack was a hairline seam in the stone, impossible to squeeze through with a box in his arms.

He didn't have a choice.

"Wait!" Tom shouted, lifting the box high above his head. "Wait, and I'll give you something better than this."

The men halted. The red-cloaked man raised a single finger, and they stepped back.

"You have nothing I want," the man said. "You have a box you cannot open, and a head I am paid to bring back on a spike."

"It's open," Tom said. "I opened it."

The lie hung in the stale air. He could feel the weight of it, fragile as blown glass. The red-cloaked man's eyes narrowed.

"You're a poor liar," the man said. "You were screaming in terror when we arrived. I heard it through the door."

"I screamed because I was shocked," Tom said, forcing his voice steady. "Not because I was afraid. I read the letter. I know what's inside."

Lord Percy stepped forward then, his face pale and gleaming with sweat from the heat outside. Even here, in the crypt's cold belly, the smoke was seeping through the stones. "What did you see?" he demanded. "What name is on the parchment?"

Tom's mind raced. He had nothing. A glow from his blood, a seam that wouldn't budge, and a dead woman's letter promising truths he still didn't fully understand. But Percy was afraid. He could smell it on the man—sour and sharp, cutting through the grave dust.

"More than one name," Tom said slowly. "A list. Names of Catholic nobles who knew of the Gunpowder Plot before the fifth of November. Names of men who still walk free. Men who think they are safe because the fire is eating London alive."

Percy's face went the color of old bone. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Tom gestured with the box. "Why else would you burn half the city to find this? It's not the box you're burning for, it's the paper inside. The confession. The one your uncle sealed before he lost his nerve and betrayed the others."

The red-cloaked man turned to Percy, a question in his eyes. Percy shook his head violently. "He's guessing. He can't know—"

"Your uncle, Robert Catesby, gave it to a priest before he fled," Tom pressed on, dredging up fragments from the swordsmith's story, from his mother's letter, from the shattered pieces of inference. "A sealed confession. If the names get out, every Catholic noble who funded the plot is ruined. You'd be ruined. Your house would fall."

Percy's hand went to his sword. The red-cloaked man stayed motionless, watching Tom like a cat watches a wounded bird.

"Give me the box," Percy said, his voice cracking. "Give it to me now, boy, and I will let you die quickly. No pain. A mercy."

"Or I walk out those doors," Tom said, "and I shout the names to the mob."

The silence stretched. Outside, the fire roared—close now, a living beast devouring the street. Tom could hear the crack of timber and the screams of the living. It should have been terrifying. Instead, it felt like armor.

"You won't make it to the door," the red-cloaked man said.

"Maybe not. But you're a long way from the door yourself." Tom took one step back, toward the crypt's far wall. The men tensed, but the red-cloaked man held up his hand again. "And you," Tom said, pointing at the man in red. "You took my sister. You took her when she was a child, and you told her mother she was dead. But she isn't, is she? She bears the phoenix mark, like me. And she's alive somewhere. You know where."

The red-cloaked man's face did not change. But his fingers twitched at his side, a hairline crack in his composure. "Your mother was a thief and a murderer," he said. "Her death was justice."

"My mother was Anne Percy," Tom said, "and she was framed by the man standing beside you."

Percy made a strangled sound and drew his sword. The red-cloaked man's hand shot out, gripping Percy's wrist. "Not here," he said softly. "Not in front of witnesses."

"There are no witnesses!" Percy spat. "Only graves and mold!"

"Which is why we take him quietly." The red-cloaked man turned to Tom, and now, finally, something crept into his voice. Not warmth—never that—but something like respect. "You are cleverer than your mother. I will give you that. But cleverness does not open locks. It does not stop fire. And it does not save you from me."

He lunged.

Tom threw the box.

It sailed through the air—a dark iron blur—and the red-cloaked man hesitated, arms outstretched to catch it rather than tackle the thief. That half-second was all Tom needed. He spun, dove for the niche Mortimer had vanished through, and wedged his fingers into the crack. Stone scraped his knuckles, drawing blood, but the crack was too narrow. He couldn't fit.

Behind him, boots pounded. Percy was shouting, his voice ragged with fury. The red-cloaked man had caught the box and was tucking it under his arm, but Tom was already gone from his mind. He was a rat, cornered, and rats bite.

Tom twisted, snatched a candle from its sconce, and hurled it at the nearest coffin. Dried wood, ancient linens—they caught instantly, flames leaping up in a hiss of old death. The men recoiled, cursing, beating at the sparks with their cloaks.

Tom ran.

He burst through the crypt door and straight into hell.

The cathedral was burning. The great nave was a furnace of hot air and falling beams, the stained-glass windows shattering one by one like frozen screams. But Tom was a firefighter's son. He knew the way fire moved, the way it breathed, the way it killed. He kept low, one arm over his mouth, and raced down the side aisle toward the confessionals.

Behind him, Percy's men spilled out of the crypt, silhouetted against the inferno. The red-cloaked man was scanning, his head turning slowly from left to right.

Tom dove into the nearest confessional and pulled the door shut.

The box was gone. Percy had it. He had nothing but his breath, his fear, and a single key still hidden in his boot.

Outside, through the carved lattice, he watched the red-cloaked man's gaze sweep past.