The Blackthorn Key

? ? ?

I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure I did. I mean, someone was murdering these poor people. And it had sounded like Hugh felt the same.

Three of the six were right, he’d said. We can no longer tell ourselves this is a coincidence. What did that mean? Nothing good, I was sure. Whatever it was, they clearly weren’t going to tell me. If I wanted to find out, I’d have to do some more eavesdropping.

Either way, I couldn’t do anything about it tonight. Hungry, I sliced a hunk of cheese from the wheel in the larder for my supper and downed it with a mug of beer. Then I did my punishment. I wrote out the cannon recipe in English and Latin until my hand cramped, then scoured the floors and the steps, all the way up to the roof. When I finally finished, three hours past nightfall, I barred the front door, shuttered the windows, then crawled under the shop counter to my palliasse and fell fast asleep.

A noise woke me. At first, I thought it came from the street. Then I heard it again, from the other side of the counter. A ceramic jar clinked against the shelf.

I’d sealed up the shop before I’d gone to sleep. I hadn’t barred the back door to the workshop so Master Benedict could return, but it was locked, and only my master and I knew where the key was hidden. And Master Benedict always entered the house through the workshop and went straight upstairs. He never came to the front.

But there it was again. A footfall, the gentle creak of the floorboards.

Someone was here.





CHAPTER


4


I REACHED UNDER THE STRAW, groping for my knife. My heart hammered at my ribs. A plan. I needed a plan.

I thought of several. I could jump out and surprise them. I could run and call for help. Or I could stay where I was and wet myself.

I gave option number three serious consideration. But if this was a burglar, he’d come around the counter. The most valuable remedies we had were here, on the shelves a few feet above my head. And if it was an assassin . . . I gripped my knife as if it were Excalibur. In reality, it was a two-inch blade, loose in the handle and dull as a millstone. The thing had a hard time slicing apples.

I pushed myself to my knees and peeked over the counter. The coals in the fireplace still glowed softly. I couldn’t see the intruder, but the dull red light cast a shadow of him on the wall.

A huge shadow.

He was a giant. Incredibly, impossibly tall.

All right, then. Fighting was right out. And wetting myself was not a plan. So: option number two. Sneak to the front, unbolt the door, run outside, scream like a girl.

But—Master Benedict! I thought. What if he’s come home? I couldn’t just leave him.

The giant moved away from the shelves. He was carrying a ceramic jar, and not doing a good job of it. He struggled, grunting, and lowered it with a thunk on the table near the fireplace. Now that he was closer to the auburn glow of the coals, I could see the intruder better. He wasn’t a giant at all. The man was tall, yes, but still human size. And while the shadow made him look broad, he was actually quite skinny. In fact, he looked exactly the same shape as my—

“Master?” I said.

Master Benedict leaned against the table. “Yes. Go to sleep.”

Not likely. My heart still whumped like His Majesty’s cannons. What was he doing with that jar in the middle of the night?

“Are you all right?” I said.

“Yes, Christopher. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

I went to the fireplace, using the coals to light the wick on the lamp. When the lantern flared, I nearly dropped it.

Master Benedict looked like he’d just come back from a war. His wig was gone, his short gray hair revealed, spiked and dirty. His clothes were so caked with mud, the blue underneath was only a memory. There was something black smeared all over the right side of his face. It looked like soot.