The Blackthorn Key

I moved toward the door. My shoes squelched. I lifted a foot and saw a pool of liquid underneath. Streaks led away from it, long dark tracks, as if something heavy had been dragged, leaking.

I followed them. The shop’s shutters were closed, the fire dead in here, too. The front door was locked, the bolt thrown. The sodden trail smeared across the floorboards, turning crimson. A smell, hot, metallic, filled the room. And there, in the middle of it all, was my master.

They’d left him slumped against the front of the counter, his wrists and ankles bound with rope. His shirt was ripped apart. His stomach, too. His eyes were open, and he stared back at me, but he couldn’t see me, and he wouldn’t, never, ever again.





CHAPTER


9


THEY ALL CAME. SINCLAIR THE confectioner, and Grobham the tailor, and Francis the publican and his servers. Others came too, neighbors and strangers. Crammed in. Gawking.

By the time they’d arrived, I’d already cut the ropes that had bound my master and laid him out on the floor. The scraps of rope lay beside him, next to the woolen blanket I’d used to cover his body, now stained red. I was stained, too, from when I’d held him.

Now I sat beside him, my hand over the blanket, resting on top of his chest. Everyone else stood around, useless. Just like me.

Sinclair leaned over. “Come, lad,” he said gently. “Let’s get you out of here.”

I swatted him away. I didn’t want them here. This was our home.

So many, staring. I wanted to lie down, to sink into the floorboards, to go to sleep. To never wake up.

Someone else cleared the room for me. Bad news travels on wings.

It was the King’s Men, the two soldiers I saw yesterday. They pushed through the crowd, the same man following them. Everyone went silent.

Lord Ashcombe stepped forward, stood beside me. Up close, his scarred cheek twisted like a map of hell.

He tilted his head toward the mob. “Get out,” he said.

For a moment, no one moved. Lord Ashcombe turned, barely a glance over his shoulder. He didn’t have to ask again.

I stayed with my master while the others shuffled out. One of the King’s Men put a hand on my collar. I smelled oiled leather and sweat.

“Leave him,” Lord Ashcombe said.

The soldier took his place beside his partner, guarding the door. Lord Ashcombe crouched and pulled the woolen blanket away. His eyes flicked over my master’s body, his face, his blood. I traced a thumbnail in the grain of the wood.

“You found him?” Lord Ashcombe said.

I nodded.

“You are?”

“Christopher Rowe,” I said. “He was my master.”

The King’s Warden looked at the ropes I’d sliced from Master Benedict’s body. The ends, frayed and feathery, had already begun to soak up his blood. “Why did you cut these away?”

I looked up at Lord Ashcombe. “What was I supposed to do?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then: “Say what you know.”

I told him. Most of it, anyway. Opening the shop. Master Benedict’s return. Being sent for natron. Coming back. I didn’t say he’d hit me. I didn’t tell him the last words he’d said.

Kneeling next to me, Lord Ashcombe scanned the room. I could feel his heat. “Did your master often stay out all night?”

“Never,” I said. “He went out most evenings, but he always came back around midnight.”

“Why not yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he in a dispute with anyone?”

“Nathaniel Stubb,” I said. “The apothecary. He wants our shop. He threatened my master.” I told him about Stubb’s visit on Thursday night. “And someone attacked him that evening.” I pulled the dressing from my master’s shoulder to show the burn underneath. His flesh was so cold.

“Was your master especially devout?” Lord Ashcombe said.

The question threw me. “I . . . yes. He took me to services on Sunday, and he honored the festivals.”

“Church of England?”

“Of course.”

“And how did he feel about His Majesty?”

That made me angry. “He was loyal. Always. Like every true Englishman.”