The Blackthorn Key

Lord Ashcombe stood. He stepped over to the shelves. Slowly, he traced a finger across the spines of the books. Then he stopped.

“I thought you said your master was Church of England.”

“He was.”

Lord Ashcombe pulled a tome from the shelves. It was large, and bound in light brown leather. He held it out so I could see the cover: The Saints of Roman Catholic Virtue.

Master Benedict had given me that to read, three months earlier. “It’s just a book,” I said. “Part of my studies. We’re Church of England. Ask Reverend Wright.”

Lord Ashcombe flipped through the pages, studying the illustrations. “Do you have any more works on religion?” he said. “Or the worlds beyond? On heaven, or hell?”

“Master Benedict has books on everything.” Had, I thought. Not has. Not anymore.

“Did he talk to you about what he was reading?”

“Every day.”

Lord Ashcombe looked up from the book. “And did he ever talk about the Cult of the Archangel?”

The words of the madman echoed in my skull. The Cult of the Archangel hunts. I wrapped my arms around myself. My bloodstained shirt stuck wetly to my chest.

Bitterness swelled inside. Lord Ashcombe was His Majesty’s protector. Where was our protector? Where was the King’s Warden when we needed him? Why had they come after us? Why did they have to hurt my master?

And where had I been, while he was dying? When Master Benedict needed me?

I bowed my head.

“Well?” Lord Ashcombe said.

“Master Benedict didn’t believe there was a cult,” I said.

Lord Ashcombe grunted, as if I’d just said something incredibly stupid. Sitting beside the Cult’s obvious handiwork, I guess I had.

“So,” he said. “Lady Brent was the last customer he saw before he sent you out?”

“No,” I said. “William Fitz was here, and Samuel Waltham. There were two more. I don’t know who they were.”

“Describe them.”

I tried to picture them. “There was an apprentice, about sixteen years old. A little taller than me. Big. Muscles, not fat. Reddish hair. The other was a man, maybe thirty or so. I didn’t really look at him. He was wealthy, I think. His coat was nice. He had a long black wig, the kind with the curls over the ears. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken.”

“Anyone else waiting around outside? Casing the shop?”

I didn’t remember seeing anyone casing the shop. Then again, I hadn’t been paying attention to anything when I’d left. I’d been too busy feeling sorry for myself. Now I felt so ashamed.

“You were gone for the afternoon,” Lord Ashcombe said, and I nodded. “So others could have come in.”

Suddenly, I stiffened. “The ledger.” Lord Ashcombe looked blank. “We keep track of everything we sell,” I said. “If there were other customers—” I broke off.

“What’s wrong?”

“The ledger,” I said. “It’s gone.”

It wasn’t on the counter anymore. The inkwell was still there, unstoppered. There was blood, too, already drying a crusty brown, smeared on the side of the wood. Otherwise, the counter was empty. I walked around it to see if the ledger had fallen behind it, but the book wasn’t there, either. Just my straw mattress and pillow, my puzzle cube and knife resting on top, and the empty strongbox. I turned it over.

“They took our money,” I said.

Lord Ashcombe pointed. “What’s that?”

There it was. The ledger was on a shelf, under the jar of lemon juice, the one Master Benedict had ordered me to bring him before I left. The quill was on top of the leather cover, or at least the pieces of it were. Someone had snapped it in two.

Lord Ashcombe got there first. He tugged the ledger from under the jar, leaving the ceramic rattling on the wood. He laid the book on the counter and opened it, flipping pages until he got to the end. I could still smell the citrus tang of the lemon.