The Blackthorn Key

ACTUALLY, TWO.

Head peeked out the door, I watched Oswyn go. He stopped at the steps in the courtyard to speak to the clerk who’d let me in. The man nodded, then went upstairs. Oswyn left through the main entrance. I waited as long as I could stand it—which was somewhere less than a minute—then ran after him into the street.

Forget what I’d promised Oswyn. The streets might not be safe, but the Hall sounded even worse. I couldn’t believe I’d come here without realizing Stubb might show up, even on a Sunday. He’s an apothecary, too. I cursed myself. He has more right to be here than you.

Besides, it was midmorning. It would be at least six hours before I had to meet Sir Edward. And I still had a job to do.

? ? ?

The Baileys returned home from service to find me sitting on their stoop. The girls were happy to see me, the younger ones twirling to show off their Sunday dresses, but Tom’s mother wasn’t pleased. “I don’t know what your master got up to, Christopher, but if you’re staying in this house, you’re going to church like a proper Christian.”

“Sorry, Mistress Bailey,” I said. “I had to report to the masters at the Guild Hall. I’m going to the twelve o’clock service at Saint Peter’s. May Tom have permission to come with me?”

She seemed satisfied by that. “Of course. A second helping of the Lord’s wisdom would do him good.”

Tom frowned. When we were alone, he said, “I don’t want a second helping. Reverend Stills is so boring.”

“We’re not going to church.” I prayed a silent apology, hoping the Lord would understand. “We’re going back to Master Hugh’s.”

? ? ?

Hugh’s home was locked and shuttered, same as yesterday. I’d hoped he’d returned, but I hadn’t really expected it.

“Then why are we here?” Tom said.

“We need to search his place,” I said.

“But nobody’s—” He folded his arms. “Christopher. We are not breaking in there.”

“Is it really breaking in if we have a key?”

“Yes!” He frowned. “Wait. When did we get a key?”

We hadn’t. But we were about to. I took him around the back corner of the house, where the brick from the chimney ran up the side. I peered at it, running my fingers over the pattern until I found it.



Just like my master’s shop. I took the key from behind the brick and held it up to Tom, triumphant.

He wasn’t nearly as pleased. “What if Master Hugh comes home?” he said.

“I think he left the city.”

“You think. What if he’s—” Tom’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no. No, no. No, no, no.”

“Calm down,” I said. “He’s not in there. I’m sure of it.”

Well, almost sure. It was possible that Hugh had been murdered. Yet I didn’t think he had. The Cult’s murders were . . . showy, I guess. As if they wanted everyone to see what they’d done. If they’d killed Hugh, they would have left a grisly sign of it, as with all the others.

Or so I believed. As much as I tried to hide it from Tom, I was just as scared. I didn’t want to find another body. I . . . couldn’t. But I didn’t have any choice.

I dragged Tom to the back door. I had to drag myself, too.

? ? ?

The house was dark. Slivers of sun slipped through cracks in the shutters, letting in just enough light to see. There was no front or back room on the ground floor, like there was in our home. Just one long, cluttered space for Hugh’s workshop.

It hadn’t been ransacked. And, praise the Blessed Baby Jesus, there was no butchered body to find. Otherwise, the workshop was laid out exactly the same as Master Benedict’s, right down to the onion-shaped oven in the corner. I thought about the future I’d dreamed of, owning my own shop. Of course I’d set it up the same way. If I still have a future, I reminded myself.

No one had worked in here for a while. Both fireplace and oven were stone cold.