The Blackthorn Key

He grinned. “I’m kidding. My mother let me make it for you. Come on, let’s eat.”


We did, shoveling the sweetness into our mouths by the fistful. I saved a piece for my master, who liked a good pie almost as much as I did; the rest we devoured. I think it was the best I’d ever tasted, and not just because Tom had made it specially for me. He really had the magic touch. When Tom took over his family’s bakery, he’d outshine even his father.

As I licked the last of the goop from my fingers, Tom let out an earthshaking belch. I tried to match him, and failed badly.

“A shameful effort,” he said. He spotted the book I’d left open on the chair beside the fire, and his expression grew even more disapproving. “Satan’s woolly socks. Were you studying? On your own birthday?”

“It’s not for work,” I said. “It goes with Master Benedict’s present.” Proudly, I showed him the antimony cube.

Tom was impressed. “He gave you this? It must be worth a fortune.” He shook it, listening to the rattle. “What’s inside?”

“That’s what I was working on. Look.” I turned the cube so the top was facing us.



“What is it?” he said.

“Our universe. The Sun, and the Earth, and the other five planets. Each big circle represents an orbit.”

“Oh. Oh, I see, they go around.” He traced a finger over the figure in the center. “Why does the Earth have these peaks? Are they mountains?”

“That’s not the Earth,” I said. “That’s the Sun.”

“Why is the Sun in the center?”

“Because that’s where the Sun is.”

“It is?” Tom frowned. “Says who?”

“This man.” I handed him the book.

He squinted at the cover. “Sys . . . System . . . What is this?”

“Systema cosmicum,” I said. “It’s Latin. It means ‘cosmic system.’ It says the Sun is at the center of the universe and all the planets go around it.”

Tom flipped through it, a skeptical expression on his face, until he got to the title page. “By Galileo Galilei. Sounds Catholic to me,” he said disapprovingly.

“Just . . . that’s what the figure is, all right? The Sun is at the center, and the six planets go around it. Mercury’s the closest, then Venus, then Earth—see, this circle on the third ring is us—then Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. That’s all of them.”

He turned the cube over. “So what are the rest of these symbols?”

“They’re the planets.” I pulled out a sheet of parchment that had been slipped inside the back cover of the book, inked with Master Benedict’s smooth, familiar handwriting.


Planetary Symbols



Earth





Mars





Mercury





Jupiter





Venus





Saturn



Tom looked from the parchment to the cube.



“But there’s only five symbols here,” he said. “There’s Jupiter, and Venus, Saturn, Earth . . . Mars. Mercury’s missing.”

“Right,” I said. “Now look at the top again. The first circle, closest to the Sun. The black dot on it, where Mercury’s supposed to be.”

He peered at it. “Oh! It’s a hole.”

“I think that’s where the key goes. And the missing symbol is the clue.” I pointed at the shelf behind us. On it was a ceramic jar, smaller than its neighbors. “Can you bring that down?”

Tom rose obligingly and grabbed the jar one handed. He looked surprised. “It’s heavy.”

I took an empty cup from the rack behind the counter, then unstoppered the jar. “This,” I said, “is quicksilver.”

I tipped the jar over the cup, draining it carefully. A shiny silver liquid poured out.

Tom was amazed. “How did you melt that?”

“It’s already melted. It’s not hot.” I dipped my finger in it. “Look, you can touch it.”