Read Chapter 9: The Lie About His Father

The South Bank stank of fish and desperation. Tom pressed his back against a warehouse wall, the iron box cold against his chest beneath his scorched coat, and watched the river slide past like a black serpent. The fire behind him had turned the sky to a bruised orange, and ash fell like grey snow on his shoulders.

He needed to move. Southwark was a maze of wharves, taverns, and narrow alleys, but it was also where the watermen hauled their cargo and the barges tied up for the night. The fire would not cross the Thames—not yet—but the red-cloaked man had eyes everywhere. Tom had seen the way Sir Robert Markham watched from impossible rooftops, had felt that gaze like a hot coal on the back of his neck.

A whistle cut the air. Tom flattened himself against the wall as a cluster of men in leather aprons hurried past, hauling ropes and crates. None of them looked his way. He waited until their footsteps faded, then slipped along the dock front, scanning the vessels.

Most were skiffs and wherries, too small, too open. But farther down, where the warehouses gave way to open mud and reeds, a barge sat low in the water, its deck stacked with barrels and coils of rope. A single lantern swung from the stern, and a man sat on a cask, smoking a clay pipe. He was broad-shouldered, grey-bearded, with the weathered face of someone who had spent fifty years on the water.

Tom made a decision before his fear could stop him. He walked up slowly, hands visible, the box a dead weight against his ribs.

"Evening," the man said without looking up. "You looking for passage, or trouble?"

"Passage," Tom said. "Downriver. Away from the smoke."

The man finally turned. His eyes were pale, river-rinsed, and they took Tom in pieces—the singed coat, the soot-streaked face, the too-careful way Tom held his arms close to his body. “Where's your coin, boy?"

Tom's stomach dropped. He had nothing. Not a farthing. He had traded his father's buckle for a row across the river. He had given away his knife in a burning street. He was a thief with empty pockets and a box he couldn't open.

"I don't have coin," he said, and the admission felt like swallowing glass.

The captain laughed, short and bitter. "Then you've got nothing I need."

He turned back to his pipe. Tom stood there, feeling the seconds burn. Behind him, above the rooftops, the glow of the fire was spreading, painting the undersides of the clouds a terrible orange.

"My father was a fireman," Tom said, the words coming out before he could stop them. "He died in the Great Fire. Three days ago. He went into a house to pull out a family, and the floor gave way under him. They found his helmet a street away. I watched them bring it back."

The captain went still. The pipe in his hand stopped moving. He didn't turn around, but Tom saw his shoulders tighten.

"Nicholas Cade," the captain said quietly.

Tom blinked. "What?"

"Your father. Was his name Nicholas Cade?"

The air left Tom's lungs. He had told the truth for the first time in years, but this was wrong. His father's name was Jacob. Jacob Cade. Hair like straw, hands cracked from hauling water buckets. He had died when Tom was twelve, not three days ago, and he had died of a cough, not under a burning floor.

But the lie was out. And the longer Tom stood there, the more he saw the way the captain's hands had stopped trembling around his pipe. The man had known someone. He had lost someone. And he was looking at Tom like he was looking at a ghost.

"Yes," Tom said, and the lie settled into his bones like a second skin.

The captain stood up slowly. He was taller than Tom had thought, with the bowed legs of a man who had lived on decks and the heavy shoulders of a man who had hauled cargo for a lifetime. He walked over, close enough that Tom could smell the tobacco and river mud on him.

"Nick Cade," the captain repeated, and his voice cracked on the second syllable. "He pulled my boy out of a burning cooperage in '58. My boy lived. Nick Cade went back in for another. He didn't come out."

Tom kept his face still. He didn't know what to say. The lie had grown fingers and was wrapping itself around this man's grief.

"Get on the barge," the captain said hoarsely. "You sleep in the cabin. I'll take you as far as Gravesend."

Tom didn't hesitate. He clambered over the gunwale, the box still pressed against his chest, and the captain watched him with an expression Tom couldn't read. There was grief there, and something else. Something hungry for connection.

The barge was broader than it looked from the dock. Barrels lined the deck, and a mountain of coiled rope sat near the mast. Tom moved toward it, looking for a place to hide the box, but the captain's voice stopped him.

"Put that under the rope. It'll be safe there."

Tom froze. He hadn't mentioned the box. He hadn't made a sound that would reveal its presence. But the captain was already pointing at the coil of rope with his pipe, his pale eyes fixed on Tom's chest.

"I know cargo when I see it," the captain said. "You carry it like it weighs more than you do. That—" he nodded at the rope, "—is the safest spot on this barge."

Tom's throat tightened. He wanted to run. But he climbed the deck and slid the box beneath the coil, feeling the rope’s rough coils close over the cold iron. When he pulled his hand back, his fingers were warm.

The captain had returned to his cask and was relighting his pipe, his back to Tom. The moment of shared grief had passed, but it had left a residue. Tom knew what a man looked like when he was holding on to a memory, and he knew how easy it was to slip a knife between the ribs of that memory.

He crossed the deck and sat on a barrel near the mast, keeping the captain in his sight. The fire still burned behind them, but the barge was casting off, the ropes already loosened, the hull shifting against the current.

"You'll owe me," the captain said, not looking at him. "I don't do favors, boy. But I do debts. When we get to Gravesend, I'll name mine."

Tom nodded, though he had no intention of footing any bill. He had escaped the north bank. He had a box that burned warm against the world, a dead man's name on his lips, and a barge captain who was one kindness away from being a threat.

The fire will not cross the Thames, Tom told himself. But he kept his eyes on the shore, where the red glow was already licking at the edge of the water, and he did not stop watching until the barge had rounded a bend and London was nothing but a bad memory on the horizon.