Infinite 01 - Infinite Sacrifice

mother comes to see what the shouting is about.
    “I was paying ours twice the going rate, and they still stopped coming!”
    Mother senses an opportunity. “Well, we still have most of our staff at Windsor. This only tells us that we must leave today.”
    He’s searching the shelves for something. “I agree. We leave today.” Still searching, he fumes, “As soon as we find some bloody breakfast!” He throws down a stone-hard loaf of bread and sounds as if he cracked the slate floor.
    “Elizabeth, go into town for your husband and fetch him his breakfast.”
    I can’t believe she would send me out. “I cannot drive the cart myself!”
    “There is no need to bring the cart; few people are out. It is safe to walk into Cheapside now.” She opens her eyes wide in demand. “Go now and fetch him his breakfast!”
    As I throw my coat on, she presses coins into my palm. “Hurry back. I will pack up everything we need.”
    “Why can’t he go?” I say under my breath as she crams my veiled headdress on.
    “He is not in a state to go right now. I want to make sure he packs up and leaves before he can change his mind. Godspeed!”
    She shoves me out and closes the heavy oak door behind me. I hear her slide the iron bolt so I won’t be able to go back inside. I pry my apple out and venture carefully into the muck.

Chapter 4
    If I hadn’t been prepared for the desolation, I would’ve thought I was in the wrong place. Cheapside is empty except for the occasional person covering their mouths and dashing through the streets. Hadrian talked about farmers boycotting the capital because they feared exposure. There is a deep silence. The nearest bakery is closed.
    I peer into the store. The shelves are bare, and no one is to be found. Searching all the boarded-up stores, I worry breakfast can’t be found. Down the lane, a large cart is being pushed toward me. To my horror, I see two half-naked bodies, strewn like sacks of flour, in the cart. I hold my apple up, suck in my breath, and start running the other way in search of an open shop.
    Someone opens a window above and calls, “Sexton! We have a body here!” They wave a black plague flag out the window to signal a plague victim lies within. I run even faster.
    Finally, I watch another hunched-over person run straight to a shop around the corner, and I follow. It is an open bakery! I never was so excited to see such a sparse assortment of simple wheat and rye loaves. The person in front of me gets as far away from me as he can and eyes me suspiciously. He snatches his loaf and runs out of the store. I ask for six wheat loaves, and the baker turns his back to wrap up the package quickly. One lane down, I feel the parcel and wonder how there could be six inside, and upon peering in, count that the baker gave me only five. I turn around, reenter the store, and put the parcel on the counter.
    “Baker, there has been some mistake. I paid for six loaves but have only received five.”
    “This parcel’s open. How do I know you didn’t eat the loaf and come back to cheat me?”
    He throws the package on the counter and turns his back. He cheats me and will get away with it. I have to get out of London. Grabbing my inadequate package, I set my mind to hurrying back to the house. A cruck house door slams up ahead on the row. A tall lean young man walks out and starts up the lane. The door reopens, and a boy of about eight runs out after him.
    “Father! Where are you going?” he screams frantically.
    The man picks up his pace, and the boy grabs on to his arm. He throws him off, sending him into the putrid gutters, and yells, “I can’t do this! I’m done! We’re all done!”
    He keeps walking and turns the corner without looking back. The boy sits in the filth and starts to cry, rubbing the dirt all over his face as he wipes his tears. Uncomfortable with witnessing what occurred, I plan on turning down the lane, trying to avoid the boy. But as I pass the decrepit house the boy ran from, I see a small face peering out.
    My feet stop as I see a beautiful little boy with ringlets of brown curls around a perfectly shaped porcelain face. He has large, honey-brown eyes and a faint scar in the middle of his forehead. His face streams with tears, and he searches worriedly to the whereabouts of his father and brother. I’m compelled to look in on this distressed child. I open the squeaky, slight door and catch the little cherub’s attention. He seems even more