The Blackthorn Key

For a moment, I wasn’t sure what he meant. Then I realized he was talking about the cube. “It opens?”


I held it close to the lantern. A quarter of an inch below the top, a line traced around it, almost too fine to see. I tried to pry it off, but the top wouldn’t budge. “How do I . . . ?”

He smiled. “I told you. You get the rest . . . if you can open it.”

I shook the cube. Inside, something rattled. “What is it?”

“That would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it? But I do think you might need a little help on this one.” He was nearly asleep now, his voice beginning to slur. “I’ll tell you this. The key is downstairs, somewhere in the shop. And that”—he pointed to the book the cube had been resting on—“will help you find it.”





FRIDAY, MAY 29, 1665


Oak Apple Day





CHAPTER


5


THE POUNDING ON THE FRONT door made me jump. For a moment, I thought my master’s attackers had come to finish the job. Though I doubted they’d be the type to knock.

I twisted in my chair, my fingers on the pages of the book my master had given me. The shutters were still barred, the door was still bolted. I waited.

More thumping. Then: “Christopher! Are you there? Let me in.”

I opened the door. Tom stood on the doorstep, hunched over in his coat, trying to shield a package wrapped in wool from the rain. I’d been so caught up in reading that I’d lost all sense of time. The sky was heavily overcast, the clouds a dusky gray, but it was clearly no longer night.

Tom edged past me into the warmth of the shop. “Finally.”

“What time is it?” I said.

“I don’t know. Eight? Nine, maybe? The cry of six was ages ago.” He shivered. “Ugh. I hate the cold.” He shook his coat, and ice pellets skittered across the floor.

“Is that hail?” I said. “It’s almost June.”

“It’s an omen.” Tom went to the fireplace, where a solitary log burned low. He placed the package he was carrying on the table and stuck his hands near the flame to warm them. “There was another murder yesterday.”

“I know.” I told Tom about the visit from Stubb and my wounded master’s return in the night.

Tom’s eyes went wide. “Who attacked him?”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” I said. “But I don’t think it was ordinary robbers. They burned him.”

“It could have been the killers,” Tom said. “My mother says they’re part of a cult.”

I stared at him. “A cult? Where did she hear that?”

“Mistress Mullens. Her husband’s a clerk, and she says he says there are whisperings about it at court. She says the murders might be human sacrifices.” Tom shuddered and crossed his fingers. “There are reports of plague in the western parishes now, too. I’m telling you, this weather’s an omen. The city’s turning bad.”

Maybe Tom was right. Hail in almost-June did sound like an omen. Although I wished God’s warnings would be a little clearer. You wouldn’t think it would be so hard for the Almighty to write STOP STEALING STICKY BUNS in the clouds or something.

I poked at the package Tom had brought. “What’s in here?”

He smiled, ill winds forgotten. “Open it.”

I unwrapped the wool. The folds fell away, and I was enveloped by the smell of warm apple and cinnamon. Inside was a freshly baked pie, its crust crimped and lightly browned, steam still rising from the flower-petal holes in the center.

“Happy birthday,” Tom said.

This day was getting better and better. I hugged him. I think I got drool on his shirt. Then I had a thought. “Did you steal this pie from your father’s bakery?”

Tom managed to look offended. “Of course not.”

“Really?”

“Well . . . I might have borrowed it.”

“Borrowed it? Are we going to return it?”

He thought about it. “In a sense.”

“What if your father finds out? He’ll hit you.”

Tom shrugged. “He hits me anyway. May as well get pie out of it.”

“Tom!”