The Blackthorn Key

“You are useless,” he said.

I stayed there, hunched against the wood. My cheek burned. It hurt worse inside. I felt all the customers’ eyes on me, Lady Brent watching curiously, the boy by the door freshly entertained by the show behind the counter.

“Do something right,” Master Benedict said. “For once.” He snatched a handful of pennies and a few worn shillings from the strongbox. “Go to the Exchange and purchase all the natron they carry. And don’t return until you have.”

“But—” His narrowing eyes stopped me. I bowed my head. “Yes, Master.”

“And get Lady Brent her electuary. And the lemon juice.”

I brought him the jars. He huffed. “I apologize for my apprentice, Lady Brent,” he said.

“Not necessary, Mr. Blackthorn,” she said. “Servants need firm correction. My husband purchased a bamboo whip from the Orient for just this purpose.”

“Did he buy an elephant as well? It would take a kick from one to fix this boy.”

She laughed. So did he.

I fled.

? ? ?

I barely saw where I was going. I was so blind, I almost walked straight into an older boy twice Tom’s size throwing dice with a long-haired friend in the alley behind our house. I mumbled an apology and went around them, each step echoing the pounding in my head.

He’d hit me.

My cheek still stung. My hand hurt, too. It wasn’t until I looked down that I realized it was because I was clenching the coins he’d given me so tightly, they’d cut into my skin.

I didn’t understand. I’d swear on my life he hadn’t asked me to collect Baron Cobley’s account. And sending me for natron . . . natron came to market on Wednesdays. They’d be out of stock by now.

Something had to be wrong. I’d seen Master Benedict angry before, made him angry before, but never like this. I wanted to go back, talk to him, plead with him to tell me what I’d done. But he’d ordered me not to return.

And he’d hit me.

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

? ? ?

The Royal Exchange was packed. Traders, jammed shoulder to shoulder, hawked their wares, shouting, haggling, arguing. I went to every stall and each time got the same answer.

“Nothing today, lad. Try next Wednesday.”

I hunted for hours. I even considered going to another apothecary, but they’d mark the cost high, and Master Benedict wouldn’t be pleased. In the end, I gave up and went home while it was still light. I was afraid of what my master would say. But I needed to know what was wrong. And I wanted to speak to him, say I was sorry, go back to the way things were.

? ? ?

I came in through the workshop, too scared to show up in the store empty handed. Strangely, the back door wasn’t locked, and the shutters on the back windows were closed. In the furnace, dying embers gave off just enough light to see. I frowned when I saw the tongs left in the ashes. I moved to pull them out, then jerked my hand away with a curse.

I sucked my fingers. The tongs burned. They must have been sitting in the fire for ages.

A small glass jar sat open next to the oven, its lid on the floor. Scattered nearby were a handful of tiny, black, kidney-shaped seeds. I picked one up, rolled it between my fingers. It smelled faintly of rotten tomatoes.

Madapple. The first remedy Master Benedict had ever taught me. In small doses, it helped asthma patients breathe. Any more than that, it became a deadly poison. What was the jar doing left open?

I couldn’t hear any conversation from the shop. The light in the open doorway was as dim as in here. I frowned again. Sunset was still a few hours away. The shop shouldn’t be quiet.