Read Chapter 36: The Trial by Fire

The road to Hampton Court was a river of ash and broken carts. Tom kept Alice’s hand in his, the box heavy under his arm, its iron cold against the heat of the sky. They had found the baker’s boy half-swallowed by a collapsed awning, his face black with soot, his eyes wild with the kind of fear that either breaks a man or sharpens him. He had no name Tom cared to learn. He simply called him “Boy,” and Boy carried the phial wrapped in cloth, as if it were a sleeping serpent.

They moved against the tide of refugees streaming west, their faces hollow. The fire was behind them, but its breath still touched the back of Tom’s neck. Marschal law was to come at sunset, and the sun was sinking like a red coin into the smoke.

Hampton Court rose from the green fields like a question Tom did not want to answer. Guards at the gate crossed pikes when they saw the three of them—dirty, burned, reeking of the dead city. Tom held up the box.

“I have business with the King,” he said.

The guard laughed. Boy shifted the phial, and Tom felt the weight of every lie he had ever told gather behind his teeth.

It was not the King who met them in the antechamber. It was Percy.

Lord Percy stood by the window in clean velvet, a glass of wine in his hand, as though the city beyond were not a furnace. His smile was thin, practiced.

“The thief returns,” Percy said. “And brings—what? A trinket? A story?”

Tom set the box on the table between them. Percy’s eyes flicked to it, and for a moment, the mask slipped. He knew the box. He had haunted its existence for days, had sent men to kill for it, had burned Tom’s father to keep its secret.

“You know what it is,” Tom said.

Percy’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I know what it was. A relic. A misunderstanding. You have been chasing ghosts, boy. Your father chased them too, and look where it got him.”

Alice stepped forward. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade.

“Our mother’s seal opened it,” she said. “She left it to us for a reason. And she left a letter, Lord Percy. A letter that names you.”

The color drained from Percy’s face. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. Tom saw it. He had seen men try to hide guilt before—on rooftops, in alleys, at the end of a rope—and Percy wore it like a poorly fitted coat.

“Your mother was a traitor,” Percy said. “She consorted with fire and called it freedom. You inherit her folly.”

The door behind them opened. A gaunt man in a gray cloak stepped in, his hands folded before him. The King. James. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights and the smoke that reached even here. He looked at Percy, then at Tom, then at the iron box.

“You have the relic,” the King said. It was not a question.

Tom knelt. Alice followed. Boy dropped the phial and scrambled to his knees, knocking it over—the glass did not break, but the liquid inside sloshed against its walls, and Percy flinched.

“Your Grace,” Tom said. “This box was opened by my mother’s seal. Inside, I found a weapon. Greek Fire. A fire that no water can quench. And a map of the city.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, and Percy moved to block him.

“Your Grace,” Percy said smoothly, “this boy is a thief. He has stolen from the dead and now seeks to peddle lies for mercy. The fire that burns London is an accident of God—a punishment for the city’s sins, not the work of any man.”

Tom raised his head. “The fire that killed my father was blue, Your Grace. Blue and low, like oil. It burned under his skin and nothing could stop it. I saw it. I was a boy, and I saw it.”

The King looked at Tom for a long moment. Then he looked at Percy.

“Your father was a firefighter,” the King said. “One of the best. I remember the reports. He died in the line of duty.”

“He died in the line of Percy’s plot,” Tom said. “He was silenced because he learned too much.”

Percy laughed—a brittle sound. “This is absurd. I will not stand here and be slandered by a gutter rat.”

Tom reached into his coat. He pulled out his mother’s letter, creased and dirty, and laid it beside the box. The King picked it up, read it in silence. Tom watched his face change—saw the weariness harden into something colder.

“Where did you get this seal?” the King asked Percy quietly.

Percy went very still.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“The seal of Mary Stuart,” the King said. “Marked as yours, Percy. In a letter that describes the manufacture of Greek Fire and the destruction of London. Written in your hand.”

Percy’s face twisted. The courtier mask crumbled, and beneath it was something raw and desperate. He lunged for the box—

Tom was faster. He grabbed the phial from Boy’s hands, pulled the cork with his teeth, and dashed the contents across Percy’s chest.

Percy screamed.

The flame did not burst—it bloomed. A blue light, almost beautiful, ate through his velvet doublet, through his skin, through his bones. He staggered back, beating at his chest with his hands, and the fire only spread to his palms. The smell was sulfur and burning meat.

The King stepped back. Guards rushed in, but no water could help. Percy crumpled to the floor, a torch of a man, still screaming, until the sound gurgled and died.

The room fell silent.

The blue fire burned on, low and steady, eating what remained of Lord Percy. It did not spread. It seemed to contain itself, as though it had its own animal hunger.

Tom looked at the King. His hands were shaking. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Your Grace,” he said. “The fire in the city—it will not stop. Not until every house is ash. But I know men who can fight it. My father’s men. They taught me the way.”

The King looked at the burning corpse, then at Tom.

“Then teach them,” he said.