Matthew heard the noise of destruction as Brutus’ fury continued. Somewhere in that cacophony he heard a second timber break. Another support post, he realized, and as he watched the roof tremble again like an old man in a nightmare it dawned on him that one man’s ceiling was another man’s floor.
With another series of explosive crashes, silence fell. Some foolhardy soul tried to look through the hole at the innards of the place but was forced back by the dust.
The silence stretched. Little tinkles of falling glass sounded like sweet music notes, but the concert had been atrocious.
Then suddenly through the ragged aperture came Brutus, a ghostly gray. He pushed himself out like a dog as men shouted and women screamed and surged back to give the beast of the Broad Way room. Brutus stood on the street looking around as if wondering what all the fuss was about, while a few supremely brave or awesomely stupid men crept up on either side and were successful in seizing the nose-ring rope. Brutus gave them what might have been a shrug of his massive shoulders and small glittering pieces of pottery slid off his flanks.
Matthew breathed a sigh of relief. The Stokelys were safe, and that was the important thing.
“Thank God that’s over!” said Marmaduke Grigsby, at Matthew’s side.
There was a noise like a behemoth’s belch, followed by the ominous noise of a hundred boards breaking. The roof seemed to lift upward and hang there for a few seconds, and then as Matthew watched in horror the roof collapsed like a flattened cake. From within the building came the tumult of the gods and a wave of wind and dust that in a matter of seconds had sent a London fog rolling down the Broad Way and turned every man, woman, child, and animal in the throng into a gray-daubed scarecrow.
Matthew was half-blinded. People were staggering around, coughing and hacking. Matthew felt tears in his eyes and thought this would surely make the first story of the next Earwig. It wasn’t every day that an entire building was knocked to the ground by a rampaging bull. He made his way through the murk toward the hole where the window had been, and he was able to see all the way up to the crooked beams of the roof, for no longer was there a ceiling nor garret floor. Amid the wreckage spread before him he could make out a few items that made his throat clutch: here a broken bed, there the pieces of a clothes chest…and, yes, over there what remained of a bookcase that used to have burned underneath the bottom shelf the name and date of Rodrigo de Pallares, Octubre 1690.
He backed away from this sickening scene, and when he turned around he saw through the drifting pall the girl watching him.
She had either removed her hat or lost it, and the long curly tresses of red hair that had been caught up underneath now spilled in waves over her shoulders. Though she was as dusty as everyone else, still she seemed oblivious to this discomfort. She said nothing, but perhaps she saw the hurt in his eyes for she too had a wounded look as if sharing the pain he felt at the destruction of his home. She had a finely chiseled nose and a firm jaw that on a smaller girl with more delicate features might have been too wide or too strong, but she was neither small nor delicate. She simply looked at him, sadly, as the dust floated around and between them. Matthew took a step forward and felt terribly light-headed. He sat down-or rather, sank down-upon the street, and that was when he realized that he was the object of a second female’s attention.
Cecily was sitting on her haunches nearby, regarding him with a slightly tilted head. Her ears twitched. Was there a shine in those piggy little eyes? Could a pig smile, and in so smiling say I told you, didn’t I?
“Yes,” Matthew answered, recalling all those knee-bumps and snout-shoves. “You did.”
The disaster had at last arrived, as Cecily had predicted. He listened to the last few notes of falling glass and popping treenails, and then he drew his knees up to his chin and sat there staring at nothing until Hiram Stokely came to clasp his arm and help him to his feet.
Twenty-Eight
Two hours after the destruction of Stokely’s pottery, Matthew sat drinking his third glass of wine at a table in the Trot Then Gallop with a half-finished platter of whitefish before him. Sitting with him at the table were Marmaduke Grigsby and Berry, who had taken him to dine and joined both in his tribulations and his drinking. A pewter cup that had been set at mid-table, put there by Felix Sudbury to garner donations from the Trot’s regulars, held in total three shillings, six groats, and fourteen duits, which was not a bad haul. Sudbury had been kind enough to give Matthew his dinner and drink free this evening, and of course the consolation helped but did not lift Matthew’s mood from the basement.
He was shamed by his distress, for though he’d lost his living quarters the Stokelys had lost their livelihood. Going through all that wreckage, with Patience sobbing quietly at Hiram’s side, had been a torment of grief. Almost everything except the odd cup or plate had been shattered, and all of Matthew’s furniture broken to bits. He’d been able to salvage some clothes and he’d found his small leather pouch of savings which totaled about a pound and three shillings, all of which now sat on the floor beside him in a canvas bag Patience had brought him from the house. A few of his cherished books had survived, but he would gather those up later. It had heartened him to hear Hiram vow to take his own savings and rebuild the pottery as soon as was possible, and he had no doubt that within a month the building would start rising again from the shards.
But it had been a damnable thing. The whitefish didn’t go down very well and the wine wasn’t strong enough to put him to sleep. The problem being, where to sleep?
“It was my fault, you know.”
Matthew looked across the table into Berry’s face. She had scrubbed the dust off in a bucket of water, and by the glow of the table’s lamp Matthew could see the fine scattering of freckles across her sunburned cheeks and the bridge of her nose. The red hair shone with copper highlights and a curl hung down across her forehead over one unplucked eyebrow. She had clear, expressive eyes the exact shade of deep blue as her grandfather’s, and they did not melt from Matthew’s gaze. He had already judged her as more an earthy milkmaid than an erudite teacher. He could see her pitching hay in a barn, or plucking corn off the stalks. She was a pretty girl, yes, if you didn’t care for the dainty type. Out to make her way in the world, a little adventurous, a little wild, probably a lot foolish. And then there were those gap-spaced front teeth, which she hadn’t shown since that first quick smile from under the hat, but he knew they were there and he’d been waiting for them to pop out. What else about her resembled her grandfather? He would not like to think.
“Your fault?” he answered, and he took another drink of wine. “How?”
“My bad luck. Hasn’t he told you?” This was punctuated by a nod of her head toward Marmaduke.
“Oh, nonsense,” Grigsby replied with a scowl. “Accidents happen.”
“They do, but they happen to me all the time. Even to other people, if I’m anywhere nearby.” She reached for her own glass of wine and took down a swig that Matthew thought Greathouse would have approved of. “Like what happened to the preacher, on the Sarah Embry.”
“Don’t start that again,” Grigsby said, or rather pleaded. “I’ve told you what the other passengers have verified. It was an accident, and if anyone was to blame it was the captain himself.”
“That’s not true. I dropped the soap. If not for that, the preacher wouldn’t have gone over.”
“All right.” Matthew was weary and heartsick, but never let it be said that a good argument couldn’t revive the spirit. “Suppose you do have bad luck. Suppose you carry it around and spread it out like fairy dust. Suppose your just being on the spot caused that bull to go mad, but of course we’ll have to forget about the cat and the dogs. Also about the bull seeing his reflection in the glass window. I don’t know the particulars of any other incidents, but it seems to me that you would rather see happenstance as bad luck because…” He shrugged.
“Because what?” she challenged, and Matthew thought he may have gone a red hair too far.
“Because,” he said, rising to the bait, “happenstance is dull. It is the everyday order of things that sometimes explodes in unfortunate chaos or accidents, but to say that you have bad luck that causes these things elevates you above the crowd into the realm of…” Again, he felt he was treading near quicksand that had a bit of volcanic activity going on underneath it, so he shut his mouth.
“Let’s all have another drink,” Grigsby suggested, giddily.
“The realm of what?” came back the question.
Matthew leveled his gaze at her and let her have it. “The realm, miss, of rare air where resides those who require a special mixture of self-pity and magic powers, both of which are sure magnets of attention.”
Berry did not reply. Were her cheeks reddening, or was that the sunburn? Matthew thought he saw her eyes
