The Blackthorn Key

The Lord is my light.

Three of the walls held an alcove. Inside each was a statue, eighteen inches high, made of the same marble as the sarcophagus. On the left, a man with a round face and downturned lips held a tower in one hand and a book in the other. Facing him on the right was a bald man with a long beard, holding the paw of a lion lying peacefully at his feet. I was surprised to realize that I recognized them both. I’d seen their images in that book my master had given me to read three months ago, the book Lord Ashcombe had questioned me about in the shop. They were Catholic saints: Thomas Aquinas on the left, Jerome on the right. The patron saints of knowledge and learning.

The statue opposite the door was an angel. His sharp cheekbones and blank eyes were framed by long flowing hair. His wings were spread, every feather carved in such detail that they looked almost real. In his right hand he held a sword turned downward, its tip hovering just above the stone. His other hand was open, palm forward, fingers pointed toward the ground.

Bridget poked her head in the mausoleum’s entrance, one foot stepping cautiously into the dark. Tom leaned over and peered at Saint Jerome’s lion. I couldn’t take my eyes off the angel.

End swords.

I went around the sarcophagus. My fingers traced the angel’s blade to its tip.

Sword’s end?

I pulled on the stone, gently, so as not to break the statue. I prodded the tip, and looked at the hilt. The angel stared back, unmoving.

Tom came over to join me. He touched the angel’s open palm. “It’s like he’s trying to show you something.”

Below the statue was nothing but rough stone. I looked behind us, at the sarcophagus. In the dim light, at the bottom of the casket, a shape caught my eye.

“Tom,” I said.

He turned, and stared at the same place.

To anyone else, it would have looked like just another water stain on the marble. But we’d seen this shape before.



I knelt, searching. I didn’t see any seams around it, any brick to move. I ran my fingers along the symbol, tracing the ripples of lightly corroded stone all the way around. The groove fit the circle perfectly.

I pressed it. The loop of stone slid in.

There was a low click.

A hollow grinding echoed in the chamber. I fell back, Tom pulling me by the collar. Bridget flapped her wings and flew for the light.

The sarcophagus shifted three inches toward Saint Jerome. Then it stopped.

Below the casket, dug in the floor, was a hole.





CHAPTER


20


I PEERED INTO THE DARKNESS. It smelled musty.

“This is bad,” Tom said.

“This is good,” I said.

Tom shook his head. “I’m pretty sure this is bad.”

I couldn’t see anything, but the way the hole swallowed my voice made it clear that whatever was down there, there was a lot of it. There had to be a way to fit inside.

Bridget came back and peeked into the hole. I nudged her aside and pushed the casket toward Saint Jerome. It slid another inch. “Help me.”

Reluctantly, Tom came over and gave the sarcophagus a shove. It ground against the floor until it stopped with a jolt. The hole underneath was square, three feet wide. On the side nearest the angel, a notched wooden ladder descended into the dark.

“We need light,” I said.

“We’re not going down there,” Tom said.

“But this is what we came here for.”

Tom threw his hands up. “I didn’t know there’d be a pit under a coffin.”

An unlit torch hung in the corner by the door. I used the flint and tinder from my master’s sash to ignite its oil-soaked end.

The torch flared brightly in the cramped chamber. I held it over the hole and was barely able to see the bottom.

“About twenty feet,” I said. “Come on.”

I swung onto the ladder. Bridget marched around the hole, poking her head in and ruffling her feathers. She trilled, alarmed.