Losing the Plot (3 page)

It looked as if we were heading for a time and place where the forces of light and darkness were totally and utterly equal. It was deeply disturbing to look at. I hastily put on my shades.

“Aren’t fifty-fifty set-ups incredibly dangerous?” I asked, swallowing hard. “Aren’t they the ones which tip really easily like, either way?”

I never got my answer. With a final blinding burst of light, we were catapulted into Time. When I opened my eyes, the time-portal had vanished. So had my friends.

I was alone in Elizabethan London. It was raining heavily. And there was no light anywhere.

Chapter Three

E
ventually I twigged. This was not Cosmic Darkness with a capital D. It’s just that street-lights hadn’t been invented yet!

“Aargh! What is that?” I clapped my hands over my nose.

Think of your local rubbish dump on a sweltering summer’s day, add a spot of raw sewage and a dash of wood-smoke, and you’ll get an idea of the extreme niffiness of Elizabethan London.

My Agency watch flashed, informing me I’d been on this mission for exactly thirty, oops, thirty-one seconds.

We’re meant to run through this three-step procedure, as soon as we touch down. Luckily, I’d memorised this section of the manual.

“STEP ONE,” I recited. “Adjust angel senses, if necessary. Conditions may be primitive, causing distress to divine personnel.”

Tell
me about it! I hastily made the necessary adjustments, doing my best to avoid taking in any actual oxygen. To my relief, the pong immediately became more bearable.

I was becoming aware of low grumbling sounds. Suddenly my surroundings lit up with a lurid blue light. The lightning lasted long enough for me to see scruffy thatched roofs and timber house-fronts, all leaning every which way, and several rats scavenging in the garbage. Then I was back in darkness.

Since I became an angel, I kind of tolerate rats, but I’m not what you’d call a fan. I carried on bravely with my check-list.

“STEP TWO. Acclimatise to local thought levels…”

Elizabethan thought-levels turned out to be soothingly low-density. Plus, they had a bubbly feel good vibe, which I totally wasn’t expecting.

My watch let out a beep; time for Step Three. I should be homing in on my subject any minute now.

The rain was totally hammering down by this time, and the flashes of lightning were v. close together.

Two men in cloaks hurried past. One held up a burning torch to light their way. It gave off a strong, vaguely familiar smell, like creosote or tar.

Roars of laughter were coming from a house with a green bush over the door. Stale beer fumes and savoury cooking smells wafted out. The door opened and someone lurched into the street, singing at the top of his voice.

This is the place
, I thought. I can’t explain how I knew. It’s an angel thing. Like a tiny zing of angel electricity inside your heart.

I took a deep breath and went in.

Inside, yellowish candles gave out a spluttering light and a strong smell of fat.

I dutifully scanned my immediate environment, like Mr Allbright says we should, in case any other cosmic agents were passing through. They weren’t, which I found quite surprising. We usually spot loads of Earth angels knocking around.

The tavern was crowded with customers, all quaffing ale and tucking into platters of stew. It was a real mix. Well-off types wearing starched ruffs and gorgeous silks and velvets, mingling cheerfully with poorer people. Though I think there must have been some law which said the poor had to wear depressing clothes, because the majority of the customers were dressed in these like, dingy dung colours.

All this candlelight was highly atmospheric, but unfortunately it didn’t quite reach into the corners. I had to wander around, peering foolishly into shadows. Where oh where was my human?

One corner was filled by a huge snoring drunk. As I watched, he scratched furiously at his head. Still totally zonked, the drunk then began foraging in his armpit.
Hey, fleas and body lice, I thought. Groovy!

In another corner, a young man was scribbling on a piece of parchment, between mouthfuls of stew.
Homesick foreigner
, I decided, possibly French. Could this be my human? He was definitely WAY the most stylish dresser in the tavern. I listened hopefully to my heart.
Uh-uh
, I decided regretfully. No
zing
.

A plump woman was ferrying flagons of ale between the tables, looking hot and flustered. “Where’s that girl got to?” she complained to a man in an apron. “It’s all me and Nettie can do to keep up.”

Being an angel, I understood her perfectly, but her words had an almost American twang; nothing like English speech in my day.

“Don’t be hard on her, wife,” said the man calmly. “Tis my brother’s last night in port. He and Cat will be saying their farewells.”

ZING!

That’s her
, I thought.
That’s my human!

I made my way around the tavern, as if I was being pulled along by an invisible string, until I reached a dark winding staircase. By the time I reached the top, it wasn’t a pulling sensation. It was a shout.
She’s here!

A girl’s voice floated through an open door “Why won’t you take me?”

I slipped through the door into a little room. By modern standards it was empty. Bare floorboards, a bed, a wooden chest, a jug, and a small basin. Two stubs of candle gave a flickering light.

Cat had her back to me. She seemed to be in the middle of a big argument with a wild-haired man in sea-boots. He was big and burly with an impressive collection of scars. A pearl, the size of a pear-drop,. dangled from his ear.

“I told you before! It’s no life for a little maid at sea.”

“I’m not a little maid, I’m thirteen,” Cat snapped “I can do anything a man can do and more.”

She turned and I saw her properly for the first time.

She was beautiful. Even in this light, I could tell her eyes were green. But it was the colour of her skin which really took me by surprise. It was like Demerara sugar, at the exact moment it melts into caramel.

I am so dense. I had no
idea
there were any black Elizabethans.

Cat twiddled a wiry black curl which had escaped from her cap. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Living here, I feel like a freak at a fair.”

She put on a bumpkin voice. “What shall we do tonight, Ebenezer? Oh, let’s go to the Feathers and gawp at the blackamoor. ‘Tis said her father is the most fearsome pirate on the Spanish Main.”

Her voice shook with unhappiness. But I’m ashamed to say I was totally thrilled. A pirate’s daughter! This had to be my coolest assignment yet!

Her dad sounded upset. “Was I wrong to bring you to England?”

“No,” she admitted, in a softer voice. “I was happy when I was little.” She clutched his arm. “Take me with you. Please.”

Her father sighed. “Not this time, my honey.” He gave her an awkward pat. “Come, let us part as friends. It may be many months before we meet again.”

Cat fingered a string of cowrie shells around her neck. Her face had gone totally blank and her emotions were so guarded that even
I
couldn’t tell what she was feeling.

“You look just like her,” her father said huskily.

She dropped her shells. “I know who I look like!” she spat. “I see myself in the glass each morning, so if you mean to leave me behind again, go! And don’t bother coming back!”

The pirate’s face grew dark with anger. Moving surprisingly quietly for such a bulky man, he left without a word, closing the door behind him.

Cat instantly threw herself face-down on her bed. She cried so hard that I felt the bed shaking, yet she didn’t make a sound.

I sat beside her in agonized sympathy. “Please don’t,” I begged her. “He hates leaving you. Trust me, angels know these things.”

After bawling for five minutes max, Cat sat up and gave herself a fierce shake. “The world is full of orphans,” she said aloud. “They manage well enough.”

She splashed water on her face from the basin, tied an apron around her waist, blew out one candle and used the other to light her way downstairs.

“Catherine Darcy, you’ll be the death of me!” her aunt scolded through the uproar. “Me and Nettie’s rushed off our feet. You can start by serving these fine gentlemen by the window.”

I learned a lot about Cat as I watched her serving customers, demurely dodging the hands trying to pinch her bum or sneak down her bodice, and ignoring stupid remarks about her skin colour rubbing off. She totally didn’t let it touch her. Even though her life was deeply depressing, she had this queen-like dignity which I really envied.

Suddenly the door opened and two youths burst in. “Didn’t I tell you I’d make Rosalind love me?” the tallest boy was saying. He kissed his hand to the air. “Oh, fair Rosalind, soon you will be mine!”

“You just love the chase, Nick Ducket,” said his friend, laughing. “The moment she’s yours, you’ll moon over sweet Beatrice or lovely Helena!”

It was hard to believe they’d been out in the same rainstorm. Nick’s companion looked half-drowned, while Nick himself was just fetchingly rain-sprinkled.

As well as being good-looking (he had the most gorgeous blond hair!), Nick had bags of confidence. And his clothes were sublime.

I know it’s not a nice thing to say, but his mate wasn’t in the same league. His boots were so old and worn that water was actually leaking
out
of them. And his wet hair was plastered to his scalp, emphasising his large, rather vague eyes.

Suddenly I felt my skin prickle, which is generally a sign that other angels are in the vicinity.
Maybe Michael’s checking up on us
, I thought. I was completely astonished when my mates appeared. They rushed over and we had a quick hug.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

Reuben nodded at the boys. “Following them.”

Nick was waving frantically to Cat. She hastily shooed them into an empty corner.

“Have pity, sweet Cat,” he wheedled. “Chance and I haven’t eaten since yesterday noon.”

She glanced around nervously. “All right, but pay for your drinks, or my aunt will get suspicious.”

Nick threw down some coins. “Some spiced ale, Cat, if you please!”

She rubbed her thumb across her fingers. “And the rest, Master Ducket.”

“You do not love me,” he complained.

She gave a scornful laugh. “Rosalind may drop at your feet like a dead pigeon the instant you fire a poem at her! I have more sense.” Flouncing her skirts, she bustled off to fetch their ale.

Nick grinned. “I’ll have to tame that little wildcat in a year or so.”

His friend didn’t answer. He had an oddly misty expression. Actually, I started to wonder if maybe he wasn’t quite all there.

“It’s so weird that they’re friends,’ I said to the others. “Why didn’t the Agency say so in the first place?”

A grubby white puppy appeared from somewhere. It made an immediate beeline for Reuben, collapsing beside him in a sprawl of gangly paws, looking up adoringly. Animals love pure angels. In fact, hanging out with Reuben is sometimes a lot like hanging out with Doctor Dolittle.

Cat sneaked two huge helpings of stew to her mates while her aunt wasn’t looking. “Here’s some bread to mop up the gravy,” she whispered.

“Stay, Cat,” Nick coaxed her. “You’re looking so pretty today.”

Chance started eating ravenously. “Yes, stay, Cat,” he mumbled. “Nick’s got a proposition for you.”

Cat’s eyes narrowed. “Another one?”

Nick acted hurt. “This will make us rich.”

“Don’t tell me,” she scoffed. “With his dying breath, an old alchemist gave you the recipe for turning lead into gold. But you’re prepared to share it with me, in return for some more stew.”

Nick clutched his chest, as if she’d just stabbed him through the heart. “So young, yet so cruel!”

Cat grinned. “I’m young, but I didn’t just fall out of the nest,” she called, as she flew off to serve new customers.

I quickly gave my mates the lowdown on Cat’s unusual family history.

“Nick’s amazing too,” said Lola loyally. “He knows Greek and Latin, plus he plays the lute. And he writes poetry.”

“And what a dish,” I sighed.

Reuben was tickling the puppy’s tummy. To the customers, of course, it looked as if it was just rolling around on the ground in sheer puppy high spirits!

“What’s your boy called again?” I asked politely.

He gave a deep sigh. “Chance.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“No comment,” Reuben said darkly.

Chance had really perked up now he’d eaten. Only unfortunately, he’d gone to the other extreme. When Cat joined them, he started on some involved story about how his landlord just slung him out for no reason. I’ve got to admit, Chance had quite a knack for storytelling. He seemed to know how to make completely ordinary things sound incredibly dramatic. But it was like no-one could get a word in!

Cat was sweet, though. “Don’t worry. We won’t let you sleep on the street.”

His eyes lit up. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been homeless!” he said eagerly. “Did I tell you about when I came to London? It was the middle of winter. Snow was falling—”