The soft, rain soaked earth gave under William’s knees as he lowered Lillian into the ground. The faint outline of her face was visible through the thin sheet he’d used as a shroud. He shut his eyes against the image, wishing to purge it from his memory.

Gently, he filled the grave with earth, then stared at the twin mounds before him. He’d buried Lillian next to Catherine, in secret unmarked graves behind some bushes near the river. The cemeteries were full and the thought of them in a mass grave, collectively rotting with the rest of the fallen chilled him more than the icy, pelting rain. The end result was no different, but he needed to keep them separate.

Reflections on the past two days left him hollow. He’d tried every herb, salve and tincture that he’d stolen from the apothecary. He’d begged to Lillian drink every foul-tasting concoction he prepared in the senseless hope that she would survive, even though he’d known the truth all along. There was no cure. There was only prolonging the inevitable. But he had to fight, even though he knew he’d lose. Not fighting was never an option.

“Love, I’m in pain,” Lillian had whispered. “You cannot win this fight.”

William held her close and breathed in her scent. The smell of her skin, once so comforting, was surrendering to decay.

“I love you,” was all he had left to offer. Lillian returned the words and held his gaze for a fleeting instant, before the light left her eyes.

Rage boiled up from William’s soul. He screamed at the heavens until his throat burned, and demanded that the very angels themselves feel his anguish.

And now, as he stared down at the sodden mound of Lillian’s grave, he hoped she could forgive him for fighting so foolishly. He knew he couldn’t save her, but he’d had to try.

The cold rain fell in heavy drops, beat his hair onto his forehead; masked the warm tears that streamed down his face as he walked home. He heard the familiar squeak of the death cart, and soon the squeak was replaced by the dull thud of bodies heaved into the cart. He looked to the sky, which matched the corpses, cold and gray.

Was there no end to this nightmare?

When he returned home, he hadn’t the will to burn Lillian’s things as was ordered. His worn and filthy clothes hung loose on his body as he sat by the window and stared at the street below.

Thoughts of his lost family were too much to bear, but he knew of no escape. Maybe he’d lost himself too. He wasn’t sure how long it’d been since he moved from his spot by the window. Hours certainly; maybe even a day.

There was no work to be had, even though it seemed that most of his fellow chandler guild members had already died or fled the city. There was no wife to tend to, no child to watch play, nothing.

A sudden chill rippled through him. Less from the cracked, drafty window board, and more from the feeling of utter hopelessness that consumed him. He started to drown in a flood of guilt and sadness. The two people he’d loved most - “love” seemed like such a weak word now - were gone. As he gazed around their home, there wasn’t a thing he could see that he wouldn’t trade twice over to have them back. They’d never been wealthy, but William felt as rich as any nobleman or king with his family. Their absence drained the life out of everything he once enjoyed.

The kitchen knife rested upon the counter. He heard Father Nicholas’ voice condemning suicide, for any reason. To take his life would mean to lose his soul. He picked up the knife, the blade flashed as it caught the light. Hell couldn’t possibly compare to what he’d already endured. The heavenly laws that governed his world had lost their value after their supposed author stole his family.        

        He held the knife to his neck and dug in, just enough to feel the pain of his skin breaking, when someone rapped on the door. He ignored it. Bracing himself, he pressed the edge of the knife to his neck once more. The blade bit into his flesh.

        “William?”

        The muffled voice belonged to a woman…Lillian’s voice. His stomach tightened and his breath caught.

        “William? Are you in there?”

        He tossed the knife on the counter and rubbed a hand over the side of his neck to wipe away the blood that had seeped out. He paused when there was none.

“William?”

He ran to the door, heart racing, tears spilling down his cheeks.

He flung open the door, but to his great dismay, the woman standing there was not Lillian, but his landlord’s wife, Sarah.

        “Oh, William! Thank God you’re alive!” Her voice betrayed unpleasant surprise as she clutched at the black shawl around her bony shoulders. She cut her gaze around him and into the room as if searching for something. Most likely, the greedy cur was taking inventory should William finally succumb.

“Such a shame about Lily and Catherine. But you should consider yourself right lucky, you know.” Her tinny voice grated on him. He chided himself for ever thinking that she had been Lillian. He never should have opened the door at all – and wouldn’t ever again. Not for her or anyone.        

“Lucky? Good day, Sarah.” He closed the door but she blocked it with her booted foot, and winced. Her frail hand waved through the crack. William relented and opened the door.

        “No, deary, lucky you’re still alive, is what I meant! You’re one of the few. Usually when one person in a family gets it, it spreads and spreads until--”

        William struggled to keep control of his tone. “I’m well aware. What do you want?”

        She peered up at him with bloodshot eyes, the corners of her mouth turned down over her quivering chin.  

        “I know times are hard, William, but I’ll be needing whatever rent you can scratch up. You’re one of the few tenants me husband has left.”

        This woman had never been late in collecting rent for her husband. William almost admired her for not letting a visit to a death house stop her either.

Almost.

He retrieved the tin moneybox and opened it. There was a dent in the side where Catherine had dropped it once. Tears welled in his eyes as he ran his thumb over it and scooped out a handful of coins.

        “It’s not everything, but hopefully it will do for now,” he said, releasing the coins into her waiting hands.

        Sarah’s face lit up. “Oh, bless you, William! Me husband hasn’t eaten in days--”

        William closed the door and went back to the kitchen. Sarah’s interruption had drained him of momentum. He tugged at his collar.  

        “Bless me, indeed.”

He expected Sarah to be back in the following days, but a week passed and she never returned. Maybe she’d passed too, he wondered, but wasn’t interested enough to find out for sure.

One morning, William sat in the kitchen and held Lillian’s wedding band. When he held it, he felt as though she and Catherine were still near. Anything seemed possible to his sleep deprived mind. He had tried to sleep, not for the rest, but for that moment before deep sleep when dreams and reality blend like purple and orange hues in the evening sky. He had a fancy that he might see them in that moment. He hadn’t dreamt since his daughter died, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

Lillian’s ring held tightly in his hand, he closed his eyes and tried to bring himself to that twilight time.

Nothing. No sleep, no dreams; just the firm knowledge that Lillian was gone forever, which dragged to the surface the torrent of pain that flowed through him. Again, he saw the haunting image of her lifeless face through the sheet. His grief spilled over and he wept. What he wouldn’t give to see her, to feel her warmth just one more time.

He lifted his head and wiped his eyes with frayed sleeves. His vision focused a he saw a shadow move in the doorway.

He scrambled to standing and backed against the wall, grabbed the kitchen knife with one hand while still clutching Lillian’s ring in the other. The shadow grew and transformed into a mist. Tendrils of vapor reached upward and gradually took form. William squinted and tried to focus on the image as the fog grew denser, like white smoke collecting in a glass bottle. As the vision solidified, the knife fell from his hand and William dropped to his knees.

“Lillian?”

The apparition flowed and swelled like a river, the mist that comprised it in constant motion, but he knew it was her.

She said nothing, just gave that same bright smile she’d given him when they’d first met. Her serene expression evoked a feeling of peace through him, but it was quickly replaced by a sense of urgency. She was trying to communicate with him, but without speaking. He felt her messages rather than heard them. There was something about a visitor who was to be trusted, and another impression, a warning, somebody was after William.  

“But why would somebody be after me?” he whispered. A new wave of feelings crashed on him, but they were mixed and rushed. The misty image began to dissolve and he moved toward it carefully, fearful she would leave if he moved too fast. He didn’t care about warnings; he just wanted to look upon her face once more.  

Still holding her ring, William reached out to touch her cheek. To his surprise, he felt flesh and hair rather than the cool mist he had expected. The image of Lillian burst apart and standing before him, as real and firm as stone, was Father Nicholas.

“William?”

William dropped his hand and retreated, searching the room for any sign that what had just happened was real.

“My son, are you all right?” The old priest stood where he was, his wrinkled face creased with worry. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer, and then I heard crying. I apologize for letting myself in, but . . . I say, you look as if you’ve seen a spirit.”

William glanced at the priest and then at the floor. He knew there was no way he could tell a man of the cloth what he’d just seen, but Lillian’s message ran through his mind. First, he’d have a visitor, who was to be trusted.

“I’m fine, Father. I’m just. . . consumed with grief.” It sounded better than admitting he might be going mad.

“My boy, of course you are,” Nicholas began gingerly. William gestured toward a chair and stoked the hearth coals. The priest continued. “I haven’t seen you at church since Catherine passed. I’m glad to see you are well.”

William shrugged his indifference and sat across from the priest.  

“Father, I know you mean well, but I’m afraid I’m just not very good company at the moment.”

“I understand, my son. Strangely enough, I’m here to bring you some business. We’ve been having services all day and night, and we’re using up our candles rather quickly. If you are up for it, we’ll need as many as you can produce.” He paused. “You’re lucky to have somebody asking business of you. Merchants from most trades are suffering, but chandlery, well, you might actually thrive in the midst of this chaos.”

“I’d hardly call it thriving, Father. I’ve just lost everything I ever cared for or will care for. And if one more person tells me how bloody lucky I am because I’m still alive, or that it was God’s will that my family be taken away…”

Nicholas held up a hand to silence William. “Let’s be careful with our words, William. You have endured a great loss, yes. There are those who have suffered more and would be only too happy to trade with you, possibly even look for ways to bring you harm and take what you do have. I want to help you, but even I won’t be able to help you if it were to be said that you in any way blasphemed against the church.” The priest’s words hung in the air, the edge of warning in them snaked around the room like a frigid draft.

 “My apologies, Father.”

Nicholas put a hand on William’s shoulder and focused intently on his face. “Today is the first day of spring and soon it will be the celebration of the resurrection of our Lord. Let’s have faith that He will see us through this.” The priest stood back, his expression hopeful. “Why don’t you take today as an opportunity to start over, William, to be reborn. As you know too well, life should not be taken for granted and I’d hate to see you wasting yours.” His face cracked into a pensive smile. “So would Lillian.”

Her name echoed in his head and her ring, still clutched in his hand felt warm, almost alive.

#

William descended the staircase to his workshop, grateful to find his it untouched as he remembered his own thievery at the apothecary. He opened the wooden shutter, trying to maximize the light it let in, but they gray clouds and thick mist concealed the light and warmth of the sun.

William hefted several pieces of beeswax into the vat of his candle making apparatus. When he was an apprentice, his master had helped him plan and build it and promised it to William when his apprenticeship was complete. When the plague arrived in London, his master fled the city, and left everything to William. At the time it seemed like a blessing, but now his only blessings came in the fact that he had a trade at all and that it was the Church who was his customer.

The Church required their candles to be made purely from beeswax, as opposed to tallow which smoked and damaged the interior of the building. Not only did beeswax make a better candle, but William found it much more enjoyable to work with.

When there was an ample amount of wax in the raised metal vat he tucked some tinder and logs underneath. One strike of flint sparked the dry wood and soon there was a hearty fire burning.

As the wax gradually began to liquefy around the edges, he secured several wicks to the dipping rod above the vat. As he tied the last one, there was a knock at the door.

He was reluctant to answer. It was most likely a beggar or somebody asking for help to dig more graves. Maybe they’d go away. William waited, but the knock came again. He sighed and pulled open the door.

The finely dressed man that stood before him was no beggar. Nor did he look like he’d recently dug any graves. He didn’t look like he belonged in London at all. The vivid amber, almost orange eyes that looked back at William projected a sense of defiance against the rest of the man’s dark, foreign features.  

The hair on the back of William’s neck rose. He’d seen this man before, but he couldn’t place where.

“William Bennett,” said the man.

“Yes,” William replied, trembling. “Who are you?”

“I am Gabriel.”