The Blackthorn Key

? ? ?

I stomped on the cobbles as we walked back to Tom’s house. Tom wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Master Hugh didn’t do it,” I said.

Tom held his hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I can read your mind.”

“All right,” Tom said. “I believe you. But then where is he?”

Maybe it was as Dr. Lange said. Hugh’s wife couldn’t stand the noise—or the smell—of the city. She often spent months away with their two daughters at Hugh’s country house. Maybe he’d gone to be with his family. I remembered the conversation I’d overheard Thursday night.

Hugh, worried: Simon’s already fled the city.

Master Benedict, resigned: Do you want to leave, too?

And then my master was attacked.

Maybe that pushed Hugh over the edge. So he ran away. But then wouldn’t he convince Master Benedict to leave with him?

Well, no. Master Benedict had wanted to stay. And of all my master’s qualities, “easily persuaded” was not one of them. I shook my head. If Hugh had already left London, then I had no way of finding out what my master’s message meant.

We got to Tom’s street, but instead of going down it, Tom took us through the narrow alley that led behind his house. His mother was waiting at the back door, a burlap sack in her hand. “Did you break the news to Master Coggshall?” she said.

“He wasn’t home,” I said.

“That’s a shame. It’s always better to hear this sort of thing from friends.” She handed the sack to Tom. “Dinner in five minutes.”

Tom stopped me from following her into the house. “We have to wait.”

“For what?” Inside the sack was half a loaf of crusty bread, a hard rye, and a few sweet buns. “Is this what we’re eating?”

“No.” He nodded toward the end of the path.

A man turned into view. From a distance, he looked as if he was well off, which was odd, because while this wasn’t a bad street, it also wasn’t the kind of place you’d find wealthy men strolling through alleys. But when he got closer, I saw he wasn’t what I’d thought at all.

His clothes had once been fine, but not anymore. His wig was a bird’s nest. His thin wool jacket was ragged and frayed at the edges. His shirt had become so stained, its original color was long forgotten. And his soft doe-leather breeches had worn so thin, you could see his knees.

This was Dr. Parrett. He used to come to our shop. Then, last summer, his house burned down. He hadn’t repaired it. He hadn’t moved out, either. He still lived there, alone, among the charred timbers and ashes of his former life.

“Pleasant evening, Dr. Parrett,” Tom said.

“Pleasant evening, Tom. And to you . . .” He cocked his head, as if he were listening to something. “. . . Christopher.”

He came closer. He hadn’t washed his body any more than he’d washed his clothes. “Good to see you again, sir,” I said.

He looked at me sadly. “I’m so sorry about your master, lad. If you need anything, my home is yours, for as long as you need to stay. And James would love the company.”

I felt my spine freeze. James—Dr. Parrett’s twelve-year-old son—had died in the fire.

“That’s very kind,” I stammered.

Tom held out the sack. “Here you go, sir. Bread and sweet buns.”

“That’ll please James,” Dr. Parrett said. “He adores your sweet buns. It’s a task to get him to eat anything else.” He tapped at his torn pockets. “I . . . I’m afraid I forgot to bring my coin purse again. I could go and—”

“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “I’ll put it on your account, like usual.”

Dr. Parrett took the sack with a trembling hand. He held it to his chest like a baby. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“See you Monday.”

We watched him go. On our way inside, Tom put a hand on my arm.

“Don’t tell my father,” he said.