The Blackthorn Key (10 page)

He was about to speak when the front door creaked open. He turned. So did the guards.

I did it without thinking. My fingers clenched around the page and pulled just before I snapped the ledger shut. With the commotion at the door, and the noise from the street, no one appeared to notice I'd ripped it out.

I STUCK MY HANDS BEHIND
my back and folded the paper. Then I lifted my shirt and slipped the crumpled page under my waistband.

An ancient man limped through the door, leaning on a gnarled wooden cane. One of the soldiers put a hand on his chest, stopping him. The man waited calmly.

The paper from the ledger slipped a little down my back.

“Let him in,” Lord Ashcombe said.

I recognized him, and the two that followed, though I hadn't seen any of them in three years. They were the members of the Apothecaries' Guild Council.

The limping man, dressed from waistcoat to breeches
in emerald silk, was Sir Edward Thorpe, Grand Master of Apothecaries. He'd been the head of our Guild since before I was born. There were whispers that he'd kept himself alive by discovering the elixir of youth. If he had, then he must have walked the Earth with Moses, because Sir Edward looked a few thousand years old. Even his wig was gray.

The men with him were the Guild Wardens, Valentine Grey and Oswyn Colthurst. I barely knew Valentine, more by rumor than anything. He was the Guild Secretary, and was said to be the wealthiest apothecary in the city. Certainly, the gold chain around his neck was thick enough to see all the way from heaven. He was also said to be a bit of a scold, and there was a sourness in the downturn of his lips that made me suspect the rumors were true.

Oswyn, I remembered well. He was the one who'd encouraged the headmaster at the orphanage to send me to the Guild. He'd also given me the Apothecaries' Guild entrance test. Since he'd wanted me to join, I'd figured he'd go easy on me. Instead, I'd ended up trembling in front of him as he grilled me with a stern voice and sharp eyes on science, mathematics, history, theology, and especially Latin. He'd thought to trip me up there, but I'd earned enough beatings at the orphanage to speak Latin like
Julius Caesar. At the time, sweating through the exam, I'd thought the man was a tyrant. But after I'd passed the test, while Sir Edward and Valentine had merely nodded their congratulations, it was Oswyn who'd smiled and welcomed me warmly to the Guild.

No smiles today. He nodded to me sadly before joining the rest of the Council over my master's body. Valentine breathed, “God preserve us,” and made the sign of the cross. Oswyn folded his arms and turned away.

Sir Edward shook his head gravely and spoke to Lord Ashcombe in a voice fuller than I'd imagined his ancient body could hold. “Our Guild is under attack, Richard. We beg His Majesty's aid.”

“And I'm here, Edward,” Lord Ashcombe said.

“Doing what, precisely?” Oswyn said, his voice filled with scorn.

Lord Ashcombe's retort was just as hostile. “My job, Puritan.”

I'd seen Lord Ashcombe darken at the sight of Oswyn. Now I knew why.

I hadn't realized Oswyn was a Puritan. His dress was simple compared to the other two Council members', certainly, just an ordinary brown wool coat over plain clean
linen, and his shaved head, wigless, set him distinctly apart from the other men. There was also a definite severity to him: His stinging rebukes when I failed a question on the Apothecaries' Guild entrance test landed as harshly as Reverend Talbot's quick fists ever had. But when I'd spoken to him afterward, I'd realized he hadn't come at me so strongly just to be mean. He'd needed to make sure I was ready to be an apprentice. “There are many here who won't be happy to count an orphan among them,” he'd said, waving at the other boys and masters milling around the hall. “They'll be waiting for you to fail. But don't doubt yourself, Christopher. The measure of a man has nothing to do with where he comes from.” After that, I'd felt a lot better about growing up at Cripplegate than I ever had before. So, Puritan or not, he didn't seem so awful to me.

Still, I supposed Lord Ashcombe, who'd been exiled for nine years with King Charles in France and the Netherlands, had plenty of reasons to feel differently. When our king returned, Lord Ashcombe had spearheaded the purge of Puritans from the ranks of power. Those who were proven traitors—and some who weren't—were executed. The way he glared at Oswyn now made me think the King's Warden wanted to add another head to the pikes on London Bridge.

Sir Edward placed a soothing hand on Oswyn's arm. “Forgive my colleague's abruptness, Richard. But his point has purpose. Benedict Blackthorn is the fourth of our Guild to fall.”

“Then maybe one of you could tell me about the Cult of the Archangel,” Lord Ashcombe said.

Sir Edward frowned. “You think the killer is an apothecary?”

“Our Guild members are honest men,” Valentine said, managing to look even more sour. “And loyal to the Crown.”

“Some of you,” Lord Ashcombe said.

Oswyn stiffened. Before he could respond, the door slammed open, and in stepped Nathaniel Stubb.

Rage boiled inside me. My blood was on fire. To have this rat in my home twisted the knife already stuck in my heart.

The King's Men grabbed him. “Unhand me!” he said.

“Who is this?” Lord Ashcombe said.

Stubb tried to pull away. “I'm here to register a claim against the assets of this shop.”

“Not now, Nathaniel,” Oswyn said, looking irritated.

“I have a right,” he said.

I knew I shouldn't say anything, especially in front of
the Guild Council. An apprentice wasn't allowed to speak without permission. But something broke inside me. Or maybe it was already broken. “You have no rights here,” I spat.

The Council stared at me, shocked. Even Lord Ashcombe raised an eyebrow.

“How dare you!” Stubb said. He turned to the King's Warden. “Arrest him, sir! This boy assaulted me.”

“What are you talking about?” Oswyn said.

“Yesterday. He and some hooligan children attacked me in the street.”

Everyone looked at me questioningly. It appeared Stubb had seen me with the eggs after all. “He wasn't wearing the oak,” I muttered, and once it dawned on the Guild Council what I meant, they actually looked embarrassed. Under normal circumstances, there would have been trouble. Standing over my master's body, no one cared.

Especially Lord Ashcombe. “This is Stubb, then.” He turned to the apothecary. “You had an argument with Benedict Blackthorn on Thursday.”

“What are you saying? Let me go!” Stubb finally managed to pull away from the footmen. I could tell by their crinkled noses they didn't really mind not touching him anymore.

Valentine seemed to be losing patience with Stubb, too. “What's the basis for your claim against this shop?” he said, frowning.

“My dispute with Benedict is well known, sir. He was stealing my secrets. By the laws of our Guild, I'm entitled to fair compensation.”

“You're a liar,” I said.

Valentine's jaw dropped. “Watch your mouth, boy.”

“Everyone be
silent
.” Sir Edward spoke softly, but even Stubb, his face beet red, went quiet. “We are perfectly aware of our own laws, Master Stubb. As
you
should be aware, any claims against a member's assets are for the
Council
to decide.” He glared at Stubb, who shrank under the old man's gaze. “First, we will need to determine who now owns this property.”

“Benedict's will should be in our records,” Oswyn said. “I'll have the clerks pull it.”

“Is this acceptable to the Crown?” Sir Edward said.

Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “Your business isn't my interest.”

Sir Edward turned to me. “You. Er . . .”

“Christopher Rowe,” Oswyn said.

“Present yourself to the Guild Hall on Monday, Rowe. We'll address your situation if time permits.”

I wanted to rage, at all of them. But I still had enough sense left to know yelling at the Grand Master would be very, very bad. So I just ground my teeth and said, “May I speak, Grand Master?”

“You'll have leave to speak on Monday,” he said. “And when you do, apprentice, it would serve you to remember your place.” He looked around the shop. “For now, you'll need to find somewhere to live.”

My stomach twisted. As I'd sat beside my master on the floor, a question, dirty and shameful, had wormed its way into the back of my mind.
What's going to happen to me?
I guess I had my answer. “
Blackthorn
is my home,” I said.

“You can't stay here, boy,” Valentine said. He waved at my master's body. “Not with this . . . evil.”

“But . . .” I struggled to find a reason. “I . . . have to feed the pigeons,” is the best I could come up with.

“Someone from the Guild will care for them,” Oswyn said. “This shop is no longer your responsibility.”

His eyes flicked from me to the Grand Master, a warning.
Hold your tongue.
I could only do that by biting it. Silently, I went behind the counter and grabbed my puzzle cube.

“What's he doing?” Stubb said. “Stop him!”

Lord Ashcombe did. “What's that?”

I showed it to him. “Master Benedict gave it to me for my birthday.”

“He's stealing it,” Stubb said.

“He
gave
it to me!” I shouted. “It's
mine
!”

Valentine held out his hand. “Let me see it.” The Guild Secretary inspected it, then handed it to Oswyn, who turned it over curiously.

“Is it silver?” Sir Edward asked Valentine.

“Tin, I think.”

Oswyn shook his head. “Antimony.”

If Stubb touched it, I'd scream. “It's mine,” I said again.

Sir Edward regarded me sternly. “An apprentice has no possessions.” He took my cube from Oswyn and placed it on the counter. “It stays here. Ownership shall be decided by the will.”

He was right. According to law, everything, even my bloodstained clothes, belonged to my master. I wondered bitterly if they were going to dump me naked in the street.

Clearly, Stubb had considered it. “Search him. He might have something else.”

I froze. In my rage, I'd forgotten. I
did
have something else. Suddenly, the paper slipping down the back of my
waistband felt like a blade against my skin. If they found it, there'd be questions I couldn't answer. And Lord Ashcombe would try to make me. In the Tower dungeon. With hot coals.

But the Guild Council looked disgusted that Stubb had even suggested it. “Oh, do shut up, Nathaniel,” Oswyn said, and I could breathe again. I wasn't going to the Tower.

But the Cult of the Archangel had taken my master. And now the Council had taken my home.

TOM'S FATHER STOOD IN THE
doorway and folded his doughy arms. “Absolutely not.”

“But, Father—” Tom began.

William Bailey jerked a sausagelike thumb at the five small girls peeking from behind him. It made his whole body jiggle. “I have enough mouths to feed. Can he pay for his lodging? Will he work?”

“He works harder than anyone,” Tom said.

“Well, I don't need more hands.”

My heart sank. It was no accident that Tom and I rarely spent time at his place. His father was just plain mean.

Tom's younger sisters tugged at their father's flour-crusted
apron. “Please, Father, let him stay, please.” They were kind girls, like Tom, taking after their mother. They also knew that if I stayed, I'd read them stories for bed.

In fact, it was Tom's mother who settled it. Mary Bailey, half as tall as her husband but just as round, leaned out the window on the third floor and hollered. “Let him in, Bill. We can afford this charity. It's the Christian thing to do.”

Tom's father pointed down the street. “The church is right over there.”

A soggy towel landed on his shoulder with a splat. “William Bailey! Shame on you.” Tom's mother snapped her fingers at me. “You come up here this instant, Christopher.”

William Bailey glared at me, but he let me pass. Tom got a slap across the head.

•  •  •

Trailed by a gaggle of Baileys, I went up to Tom's parents' bedroom. Mrs. Bailey shooed her giggling daughters back down the steps and sat me at the table by the window.

An old wooden bed, its mattress squashed with the weight of years, was pressed against the wall. There was a worn velvet settee in one corner, and a set of drawers, faded yellow paint flaking off, in the other. The table in front of me was the only concession to wealth, with
intricately carved cherry legs that curved upward to a thick slab of white stone. On top was a tin basin; beside it, a rough, mottled towel. A silver mirror was set into the back.

“I was just about to wash,” Tom's mother said. “You can have my water.” She sized me up. “I haven't thrown away Tom's old things yet. I'm sure some of them will fit you.” She left, and I was alone.

I pulled off my apprentice's apron. It cracked with dried blood. My shirt, equally ruined, joined the apron on the floor. The folded page I'd torn from the ledger came loose from my waistband and tumbled down to land beside my clothes.

I looked in the mirror. My reflection stared back. It seemed so still, so calm.

Everything's fine
, it said.

But it, too, was painted with blood, streaked across my cheek. I remembered the softness of my master's chest, where I'd pressed my face against him.

I dipped a finger in the basin, sending ripples across the surface. I brought my hand up and drew a line through the blood. A drop of crimson water trickled down my palm and fell from my wrist. It splattered on the marble, an ugly pink blot.