PROLOGUE

Children, sickly skin covered by cloth passed down from corpse to urchin, gave their hollow stares unrestrainedly to the masked man passing by with cane and torchlight in hand. Even in their addled brains, they could taste the wheezing breaths of dying men, women, and children on him. The faint scent of herbs and flowers passed by, floating in the acrid air before dissolving into nothing.

The young boys stumbled along after him, slipping in the muck covering the cracked stone road. He could spell salvation for every family, every crawling worm, and they couldn’t resist the enigmatic man. The small kicks given by his assistant did little to deter them, clawing hands begging for comfort, until the Reaper stopped abruptly and turned to face the boys. The seemingly empty eyes gave the reflection of their emaciated figures and dulled expressions of alarm. Unable to handle the sight of themselves or of the inhuman shadow facing them, they could no longer stand in his presence and limped away to shared solitude, large eyes twitching and unfocused.

His solid black overcoat moved only with his lengthy strides, hat resting solidly over his hood, unafraid of any gust of wind. Only pure air made its way inside his lungs with each deep breath, straw and mint keeping noxious fumes out. Confidence kept his gait steady, while his assistant scrambled after him. He didn’t have a mask to protect him from miasmas in the air.

When they came to a split path, they bid each other farewell silently, the assistant moving off to the left. The crow-like being went straight ahead, cane swinging in his hand. The chirping of insects had already begun, prompted by the sinking sun behind desolate hills. Clouds obscured a colorful sky, amber and rust peeking out over a distant valley. The squeak of his boots was the only disruption among the rhythmic nighttime noises.

Upon reaching a well-sized house at the end of an empty street with the name “Crowley” scratched into a board, he stopped and admired the stately exterior. Compared to the smudged windows and torn up grass of the houses in town, his was a palace. A good thing, too; spending much time inside a vile residence would do a number on his sanity.

The empty halls had no light within, only illuminated by his single lantern. The dust was clearly visible when he peeled off his mask and hood, discarding them onto a wooden table. Leather coat dropped to the floor, and he undid his boots, laying them neatly at the end of his bed. Coins rattled in one of his pockets, but he left them inside. The possibility of bandits had not gone away from his days spent before becoming a doctor.

The written contract binding him to the town laid inside his dresser, along with various concoctions said to cure the disease riddling the population. He noted the need for rose hips to replenish his supply. Ten sovereigns per bottle gave him a steady flow of money on the side of what he received monthly from the town.

Slowly climbing into bed, night having already fallen, he sighed deeply and buried his head into the single pillow. When he awoke tomorrow, he would dress himself alone, eat alone, and then travel to his next patient with his curious assistant. Such was his everyday life.

CHAPTER 1

His body shuddered with every whooshing thud of his cane against Edmund Grove’s back, cries of agony and desperation worming themselves into his brain. Dr. Adrian Crowley uttered a prayer in sync with the man’s penitent voice, begging for salvation. The buboes clearly visible on his neck were far too close to his shoulders, so he made his strikes precise so as not to hit them.

When Edmund, hideous welts and bruises already almost green panting his back, had seemed to have had enough, Crowley threw down his cane and knelt next to the poor panting victim. Ignoring the thanks he received, the doctor lifted and guided his patient to a bed, his stiff muscles almost failing to comply.

After a few moments of rest for both parties, the doctor began placing his leeches on Grove’s neck and thighs, near where even larger buboes grew. Expelling the humors within normally came before any comforting if he wanted to survive. Adrian’s bottles of remedies rattled in his coat, and he offered them up as medicine from God himself.

“Repent enough and God shall forgive all sins,” he stated solemnly, voice coming out muffled through his mask. Mrs. Grove thanked him profusely, tears welling up at the possibility of the early death of her husband being erased. A bag of coin was held out to him, and he hesitated before taking it silently. There should be no qualms with extra money from those who can spare it.

The next house, marked with a red X on the door, was far smaller and shabbier than the last. He would receive no tip from this family, his assistant, Joseph Tindall, pointed out. A disappointment for sure, but it had no effect on his job. He would treat them all the same.

There was no answer when he gave a rapid knock on the wooden entrance, so he quietly pushed the door open and stepped onto the creaking floorboards. Joseph wrinkled his sizable nose, putrid waste and garbage affecting his senses. He had long since grown used to such disgusting conditions, but the bile still rose in his throat at the sudden stench. Crowley, of course, could only see the cause of it.

A man and wife sat in two chairs, her eyes closed, chest hardly moving with her shallow breaths. Scattered about around them were four children, tiny blackened toes and fingers peeking out from under tattered blankets. A rat nibbled at the hair of one little girl on the floor, and she watched it disinterestedly, not a single muscle moving.

A sharp jab of his cane sent the rat scurrying away, though its glowing eyes still peered out from a hole in the wall. Using the same cane so he didn’t have to touch the family members, he examined their bodies and where the ailments were in particular. All eyes were glassy with fever except for the husband, who had only a small rash spreading over his chest and shoulders. The oldest child, probably of age 15 or so, would cough up blood in sporadic attacks, and had pus mixed with blood draining from the buboes decorating her body. He gave less attention to her, simply asking that she pray and whispering his own prayer for her acceptance into Heaven.

When he drew near the father, the only relatively healthy person in the home, he poked and prodded at him with his cane, ensuring he had no symptoms other than the rash. Had he been healthier, he would have been quarantined and kept away from his sickly family. Alas, he still showed signs of the dreaded plague and could not be removed.

Giving a recommendation of drinking plenty of clean fluids, including rose hip juice, was all he could do for most of them. However, he suggested the father call on him again once his symptoms progressed, as making them burst could lead to his recovery. He would be the only one left of his family at that point. Crowley doubted he would take his advice, and ignored the clinking of bottles heard in his coat with every step.


CHAPTER 2

Joseph skipped around, one foot leaving the ground and then the next, curses hurtling out into empty air. Two rats had just run onto their path and seemed to enjoy zipping towards the skittish man, exciting his terror. Childish yelps could be heard all through the streets, but his embarrassment was not enough to stop it.

Once his jig was over, he cleared his throat and smoothed his clothing down, entirely composed again, nose held high in the air. One side of his lip was raised, utter disdain clouding his eyes. Filthy animals. Even the doctor reminded him of sickness, and so he kept his distance from the man he was instructed to watch over. If there were any wrongdoings or problems with the specially trained plague doctor, it was his job to report them to his employer, an ambassador. He made sure operations were kept clean, efficiently keeping the plague from spreading. While doing this, Adrian’s goal, other than healing people, was to get a number of the infected and dead.

The doctor was one Joseph could never get a read on. A subdued, melancholic disposition combined with a strong voice made him highly curious and confusing to the priggish custodian, who had once seen his face and been surprised by its relative normality. The ugly costume had prepared him for a ghastly countenance, but he had appeared young and healthy.

His background remained a significant mystery in Tindall’s mind, though he assumed he had had some lovely wife that had been taken by the plague, thus prompting Crowley to study as a doctor and help save those from the illness that stole his love. Such romanticised thoughts couldn’t possibly be wrong.

Though he envied Adrian’s protective costume that likely attributed to his good looks being kept after so much trauma in his life, he would not accept wearing it himself. The heavy waxed leather, long gloves and boots, and horrifying mask all kept his jealousy in check. He did wonder about the scent of spices that seemed to emanate from Crowley, however.

When Mr. Tindall returned to his home each night, servants greeting him in turn, he would sit by a fire and read any new book he had. No child or partner disturbed him; there was only peace and the occasional arrival of dinner and wine. Perhaps it was this lonely state that kept his mind wandering to his charge.

Curiosity about other people was not a common feeling for Joseph, though he was naturally inquisitive about other subjects. He questioned his own emotions, dissecting his thoughts about the man. A strange sense of familiarity vaguely came into his mind. If he had learned anything from his years of devouring every book he could get, it was that such senses should never be ignored.

He would keep a close eye on Dr. Crowley. No man was impossible to figure out in Joseph Tindall’s mind. Before that, however, he would have to give his account of the damage the plague had caused up to June 29, 1666. By the light of the hearth room fire, he began to write, making a careful effort not to be too detailed about his thoughts lest they seem strange.

Remembering the day he had met Adrian was difficult, as it had almost been a year since then and so much had gone on. He was told to give the details of the contract between his employer and the doctor, and see if they could settle on terms. They were desperate for a doctor specializing in treating the plague, so most terms would have been acceptable, in truth, especially for someone as cheap as the doctor was. The secluded house, a monthly wage, the ability to receive extra money from his patients were all he needed and they gladly offered it up, on the condition that he remain isolated when not helping the plague victims. He was also not allowed to treat any other illnesses, lest they become infected with something worse.

When he was officially contracted to the city, he had asked for a new staff, as his was poorly made and terribly worn down. The cane he received was put to good use immediately, when he began caring for his first patient. The quiet confidence he seemed to possess earned him the trust of many in a short amount of time.

His first quarantine was easy enough and simply meant he spent more time out of his mask and coat. The solitude did not bother him, of course. Did he sit surrounded by his own thoughts, Joseph wondered, or was his mind empty until there was a task directly in front of him? What torture did he endure to be able to stand what he does without batting an eye?

It was no concern of Crowley what others wondered or thought about. Why consider it when you’d never be able to know for sure? The only thoughts he considered were those of his patients, and they were easily read. Perhaps this made him simplistic, but it was no matter to him.

The mixture of certain substances was an easy trade. The idolization from others kept his reputation up, despite the fact only a few had been healed and only two of those had taken the remedy. The two were rich folk, willing to spend anything to preserve their lives. He simply provided for himself using those that had something to spare.

CHAPTER 3

An elderly woman, skin spotted from the sun, was expressing her concern over her neighbors having contracted the illness. She was desperate for any preventative measures she could take, paranoia working its way into her mind. Joseph was found to be at odds with himself, strangely compassionate and worried over the poor woman named Ann Roper.

Dr. Crowley instructed her to stay away from any diseased bodies and remain somewhere a ways from the city to get some much needed seclusion. Easier said than done, especially for such a worn and weary old lady. Offering a group of men to help her find her way to a home on the outskirts of the city did nothing to change her mind, and she stubbornly refused to budge. All that was left to do was sell her rose hip juice and suggest drinking a fair amount of fresh water before they went on their way.

Unable to stand leaving her as she was, Joseph continued to visit her individually in his free time, bringing her herbs and treatments from the doctor. He expressed feelings of unease, stating that he knew something far more awful would be coming to the city. She laughed in his face, all too tickled that he sounded more paranoid than she did.

In the meantime, Adrian Crowley continued bleeding and beating those who wished for God’s forgiveness for their transgressions. He acted as in a confessional at times, hearing of crimes and sins nigh unforgivable.

One man’s admittance of thievery from a merchant friend brought back memories of a crowded market, booths lined up, yelling sellers overpowering Crowley’s own voice. A flimsy walking stick, a bag laden with sovereigns, and a pulse of anger. Unwanted recollections. It was a different story for him now.

Even when a woman admitted to letting her child run off and, after having found her floating on the river, pretended not to know what happened, he kept his mouth closed. The sinners would soon be with their father in Heaven. There was no need to make them suffer more on earth, besides the communication of their remorse to God.

One day, after having withdrawn blood from the side a bubo was on, both Joseph and Crowley witnessed a man named Tobias faint due to such a high loss of blood. Because there was some panic afterwards, primarily on the part of Joseph, his wounds were not properly addressed, despite Crowley’s apparent qualifications. Those that knew Tobias blamed his careless and impulsive actions for the infection he later contracted. His death was perhaps the worst they had seen. It went into the doctor’s recordings, and he acted as witness to the reading of Tobias’s will.

The days always went this way for the pair of men. Neither spoke much, except to acknowledge each other’s presence. Adrian watched Joseph’s manic and dramatic movements and actions, his reluctance to ever have his clothes or hands soiled, without any hint of a second thought to his behavior. He was used to boisterous men and women.

On their usual walk away from the grime of the city, Tindall communicated his growing unease with the impending danger he felt they would face. The lack of visible response made him grow agitated, and so he kept on, pushing the subject until he was prophesying the end of humankind. His dramatics continued for some time, until Crowley interrupted, agreeing that he felt it as well.

For the first time in the year they had known each other, the doctor and assistant spoke beyond formalities. Of course, Joseph did the majority of the talking, but there was a fair amount from the man with the mask. The conversation gradually wandered from their anxieties to Mr. Tindall’s wish to move out of the city and then to him questioning the doctor’s past. What had he been before becoming a doctor?

“A merchant,” he claimed. “A spice merchant.”

And then he had decided to get schooling in health practices, correct?

Hesitation. “Incorrect.”

The confusion that followed was quickly replaced by horror. The beloved Doctor Adrian Crowley had never been truly educated with medicine, nor did he have experience before coming to London. However, he was officially qualified as a physician, despite his lack of proper education! That was all that mattered, as no one else would risk treating plague victims.

The remedies? There had been no evidence that they didn’t work.


CHAPTER 4

Joseph, despite the fact he had only just begun talking with the man, felt betrayed. All the money accepted for homemade potions anyone could find the ingredients for in their backyard, though he had never felt concern over his receiving tips before, now made his blood boil. All the suggestions he had made, no matter how truthful or helpful they ended up being, had not been his own.

Why did he even become a plague “doctor” in the first place?

There was no other option for someone who had to flee his home city and beg God for deliverance from his past mistakes. It was a coward’s choice, yes. But what else did he have? He was still doing good, despite his dubious motives.

No matter. A report would be filed, Joseph promised, though it would end up doing no good. They parted ways with high emotions, a mixture of anger, disbelief, and remorse. The anxiety was pushed to the back of their minds.

Taking a detour on the way to the ambassador’s residence, Joseph stopped by a bakery, picking up a treat for Ann as he had once a week for the past month. His rage had not yet simmered down, but his care for her combated it. Fury slowly gave way to a calmer flame, until he explained the situation to Mrs. Roper. The batty woman gave to shouting louder than it seemed her body could handle, firing him up further.

Crowley had already sunk into his bed at this point, resignation having washed over him. The fact he knew no consequences would come out of the ambassador finding out made him largely unworried, but his very reaction disgusted him. He was still the same man as he was when he had stolen from and beaten a fellow merchant. No care for anything that didn’t spell trouble for him.

He slept oddly well that Saturday night, though his dreams of an amber and rust sky melting the clouds caused confusion when he awoke to the city below being burnt much the same way. He stared dumbfounded for a moment, unable to comprehend the difference between the London that existed when he fell asleep and the London crumbling to the ground before him.

Miasmas greeted him as he raced down, having forgotten his mask, soon followed by a writhing hoard of families escaping the chaos- or rather, contributing to it. His unusually fast heartbeat made him feel as though he would collapse right then and there, cold fever sweats breaking out on his brow.

It had been so long since he had seen and felt such excitement. The people pushing past him, roughly bumping shoulders, the smell of the sweat and smoke. His senses went into overdrive, every feeling heightened by terror.

The area around Ann’s house had already been consumed. He hadn’t paid enough attention to the escaping population to see if she had been one of them. Unlikely, considering her physique and reluctance to leave. He wondered if Joseph had come for her, but pushed the thought from his mind- he wasn’t that good of a man.

All these thoughts came in a split second, unable to be separated from each other. Buildings were crashing down, and he stood in the middle of it all, wandering eyes wide with shock. He was jerked out of his fascination by a man pulling at his arm, telling him to move away. Compliance was easy, especially since he had little choice between dying and going with the stranger. The smoke had already penetrated his lungs, causing him to wheeze and have difficulty taking a breath.

Many of the families had taken what little belongings they could and were attempting to pack them all on a boat sailing down the river Crowley was led to. Objects were dropped into the water, and some people even threatened to topple over into its depths. Others were still flooding in from inside the city walls, clambering and trying escape the wreckage behind them.

There were still no signs of Joseph and Ann. He had no time to look for them before he was being shoved on a boat with a bunch of strangers, nearly toppling head over heels into it. He tried to consider whether he would have searched for the others, given the chance, but refused to waste time on hypotheticals when it seemed his answer would not be the desirable one he wanted.

His eyes became unfocused the longer he stared at the burning image of London receding from view. The brief life he had there was over.

EPILOGUE

The reconstruction of London had been going well for Joseph. He oversaw several building projects, primarily new roads and houses, since many of them had been knocked down to stop the fire. Some had simply burned, like Mrs. Roper’s.

The secluded house overlooking the city had been vacant for some time. The great plague doctor, Adrian Crowley, seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving everything but his coat and boots behind. There was little need for him, anyway. The plague had mostly subsided, even without the mystical little bottles the good doctor offered.

Joseph never did tell the ambassador about Crowley. Had he come back, things might have changed that. But Joseph never saw hide nor hair of the young man again. The only new information that was known was a small bump had become visible on Adrian’s armpit.Whether this signified anything was up for debate. The only fact was that something made Crowley leave with nothing.

Children, clad in newer church outfits, ran past Mr. Tindall excitedly. One girl held a handmade dolly, cradling it ever so gently in her arms. Their joyful voices could be heard all throughout the streets.

Shrieks from the girls set Joseph off running towards a nearby alley they had gone down. Cheerful laughter escaped from the boys, delighting in the irrational fear of their counterparts. He peered around their circle of friends, craning to see what had caused the excitement.

In one hand, a curly-headed boy held a dead crow.