John settled the bill, Richard announced he was for the privy, and all the amber liquid John had just paid for would be deposited therein, a thought which amused Richard very much, and after the smoke and heat and muggy air of the tavern, they were outside once more, walking into the teeth of the biting wind, toward London Bridge.
The two brothers stepped down to the quay and awkwardly slid down a causeway to the frozen river. The Thames was black with people and tents; they could hear a fiddler playing an Irish air, and young girls shrieked with laughter on the swings. They could smell wood-smoke and roasting meat.
Richard hailed the sight of a temporary tavern made of two canopies stitched together. John ignored his invitation to go in for a drink and instead wandered slowly along the row of stalls that stretched almost across to the opposite bank.
The usual foul stench of the river was subdued by the cold, and the thick layer of ice beneath his feet. As to the thickness of the ice, he had no qualms about walking where so many others went, but he wished to know its precise thickness, merely as a knowable fact, because not knowing that fact was like an itch which he could not scratch. He supposed someone in authority had drilled a hole and had measured the ice, to ensure the safety of the populace, and he hoped the information might be supplied somewhere, or had been printed in the papers.
Out of habit, he also watched the people, training himself to spot pick-pockets. Everyone appeared to be in excellent spirits. Rationally, though, John could see no advantage to walking out on a frozen river to go shopping. The same articles were for sale on the ice that one might buy anywhere, on any day—honey in the comb, candles, gloves. And yet everyone treated the occasion like a festival day. Just the novelty of being able to walk on the Thames, and suddenly everyone was willing to pay a higher price for gingerbread. There was no understanding people sometimes.
He came across a small bundle of rags which someone had left upon a low wooden stool. The bundle moved and he saw it was a tiny, hunchbacked old woman. Two crutches lay on the ice in front of her. She extended a bony hand with long dirty fingernails. “Your fortune, young sir?”
“Pardon?” said John.
“I can trace your fortune, sir. Give me your palm.”
John’s hands were firmly tucked in his pockets, out of her grasp.
He looked at her. “You can see into the future?”
“Yes, sir. I have the sight.”
“Then why are you dressed in rags if you know which horse will win at Newmarket?”
The woman gave John a piercing look. “Sir, I do not see horses, I see destinies.”
“So can I. I can tell you what yours is, for I am about to report you to the river police. You will be brought up at the Old Bailey, and you will be placed in the stocks. I’m surprised you did not know that.”
The woman swore a colourful string of oaths at him, snatched up her stool and crutches, and scurried away with surprising rapidity.
John continued his exploration of the fair and came across a stall of books. Out of habit, he started glancing over the titles laid out on the wooden counter.
“Well, hello yourself, John Price,” said a female voice. He looked up and saw a small figure swaddled in blankets and scarves standing behind the counter, and recognized Prudence Imlay, whose father owned his favourite book shop.
“Oh, hello, Miss Imlay,” John answered. “How do you like being on the river?”
“I am slowly freezing to death,” answered Miss Imlay calmly. “And I might as well not have bothered to drag all these books down here. These, on the other hand, are extremely popular.” And she held out a poster with an engraving of London Bridge and a bit of doggerel:
The season cold
You now behold
A sight that’s very rare
All in a trice
Upon the ice
Just like a Russian fair.
“What a terrible verse,” said John.
“I know. I wrote it,” answered she. “The first time I have sold my writing to the public and it has to be this.”
John wanted to say something encouraging. “Maybe if you write something better, the public will like it as well.”
“Are you going to buy a book, John Price?”
“Not today. I spent all my money at the King’s Arms.”
“Oh!” she said, surprised. “That’s not like you, surely.”
“For my brother,” he amended.
“Ah, well, you seldom buy our books anyway. Father says you treat our shop like a lending library.”
“That is why I take care to visit when he is not there,” said John. “And anyway, I prefer it when you are there.”
Miss Imlay looked away.
“I think you are getting too cold,” said John. “Your cheeks are turning red. If they turn white, then it is frostbite. You should be careful.”
Richard appeared out of the throng, and saluted John with another hearty slap on the back.
“Ho, John, you artful bugger! Not so backward with the ladies after all!” And he turned to bestow a devastating smile on Miss Imlay. He looked at her, and his smile dissolved.
“Oh,” he said, taking in the red smallpox scars which covered her face.
The girl flushed again and turned away. “I think I shall start packing up. The sun is going down.” She bent down and disappeared behind the counter.
“Do you want any help,
