The Blackthorn Key

“What are we looking for?” Tom said.

“Hugh’s fourth.” I pulled the ledger page from under my master’s sash. “Like it says in the message.”

“His fourth what?”

I didn’t know. Master Benedict had clearly expected me to figure out the answer, but he was a genius at this sort of thing. Sometimes he forgot that others—namely, me—weren’t quite as good at deciphering puzzles as he was. Worse, his brain worked in odd ways. I was hoping that once we’d got inside, the solution would come to me. But other than the somewhat jarring feeling that I’d been here before, all I could see was a plain old workshop.

With nothing leaping out at me, we went upstairs. The second floor held Hugh’s wife’s parlor. There was also a kitchen, a half-stocked pantry, and a dining room. On the dining table, a single bowl rested, crusty streaks of brown stew congealed with the spoon at the bottom. The stub of a candle remained; its purple wax bled over the polished walnut below.

The third floor had three bedrooms and a sewing room. Two of the bedrooms were stuffed with dolls and frilly things: his daughters’. The other bedroom was plain and cramped; for Mistress Coggshall’s maid, I guessed. I couldn’t imagine whatever my master wanted me to see was in here.

There were two more bedrooms on the top floor. One wasn’t quite as girlish as the chambers below, but was just as frilly, with a four-poster bed draped in aquamarine velvet. The other was clearly Hugh’s.

Like the workshop, the bedroom was laid out nearly identical to Master Benedict’s. Simple bed, side table, desk by the window, covered in paper. Even the furniture looked like it was made by the same carpenter. And here, too, stacks of books grew like trees from the floorboards, though nowhere near as many.

The bedsheets were crumpled. On the floor, next to a teetering pillar of tomes, were the last few bites of a loaf of bread. I tapped it with a fingernail. It ticked back, hard as a rock.

“No one’s been here for days,” Tom said. He looked at the papers on the desk. “Are we going to have to go through all that?”

It did seem like the best place to start. I sat at the desk and began to shuffle through Hugh’s papers. Tom searched the clothes in the closet, turning out pockets.

There were lots of notes, recipes, and thoughts on herbs and mixtures in general. Looking for “Hugh’s fourth,” I scanned the fourth page, the fourth line on each page, the fourth word. Nothing looked promising. It was getting harder to concentrate, too. The puzzle cube in my pocket was poking my leg, and while I liked wearing my master’s sash, its seams were starting to chafe my waist. The thing was designed to be worn on the outside, not hidden next to the skin. I untied it and flopped it on the bed.

After last night, Tom had as much reason to like the sash as I did. “This is really something,” he said. He sat on the floor, legs splayed like he was still a little boy, and began poking the vials one by one out of their straps. His stomach growled like a taunted tiger. “I don’t suppose any of this is food,” he said hopefully.

“That’s food,” I said, nodding at the vial he was holding. “Sort of. It’s castor oil.”

Tom made a face. “Gives me the trots.”

“It’s supposed to.” I put aside Hugh’s papers and stared at the page from the ledger. “There’s ipecac next to it, if you prefer. That makes things come out the other end.”

“If you’re trying to ruin my appetite,” Tom said, “it’s not working.”