The Blackthorn Key

Immediately, the iron began to fizz. The invisible vapor that rose from the bubbles dried my throat, making me choke. I had to step back, coughing, while the oil of vitriol worked on the latch. I let the few drops I’d poured eat away at the iron for a minute, then dripped a little more.

The latch corroded slowly—too slowly—but I was scared to go any faster. The lock wasn’t very thick, but there wasn’t a huge amount of vitriol, and I couldn’t afford to waste any. I’d already lost some to my parchment funnel, which was dissolving even faster than the iron. I’d hoped the vellum, being resistant to liquids, might last long enough to finish the job, but before I could pour the third batch, it crumbled into flakes of blackened calfskin.

I went for another page from Oswyn’s wall. Then a better idea struck me. I pulled the silver spoon from my master’s sash and rammed it between the door and the jamb, using its handle as a guide to drip the oil down. I wished I’d thought of that before I’d ruined Oswyn’s work. Though breaking his door wouldn’t exactly endear me to him, either. If I didn’t get the chance to explain what had happened, I’d lose the only ally I had left.

Still, the latch disintegrated. I’d worn the iron down to a narrow strip of pitted metal when the vial ran out. There was nothing more I could do about it. I grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled.

The latch still wouldn’t budge.

Come on, I thought. I put one foot against the wall and tried again, straining. My fingers throbbed, grew numb with pain.

The iron bent.

Once more. I pulled with all my strength. I prayed just as hard, sending a silent plea up to heaven. Please, God. Please, Master. Please help me.

It broke.

The latch snapped with a metallic twang. Its pitted end flew from the jamb and bounced dully on the floor, trailing little yellow drops behind it. I fell backward, landing hard on my side, setting my scraped shoulder to stinging again. I didn’t care. I was free.

Or not.

Martin stared at me, wide eyed, from the other side of the open doorway. “How did you . . . ,” he began.

I scrambled to my feet. I grabbed the chair closest to me. Before I could swing it at him, Martin was there.

He gripped my arms, shoved me backward into the desk. The corner drove into my spine, just below my ribs.

Pain. Incredible, unbearable pain. It felt like the wood had stabbed me, piercing my back like a spear. I howled and fell to the ground. Martin toppled with me. His weight crushed the wind from my chest.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. I just lay there, groaning in agony. I opened my eyes in time to see Martin’s fist flying toward my mouth. His knuckles cracked into my teeth. My head slammed against the floor. I tasted blood, sour and metallic.

“You little rat,” he said.

His punch dazed me, but he wasn’t finished. Martin drew back to hit me again. I reached into the sash at my waist, more by instinct than anything else. I grabbed a vial, any vial, and drove it into his cheek.

The glass shattered in my hands, its jagged edge slicing open Martin’s flesh. He screamed as I dragged the broken vial down to his chin, umber powder spilling out all over me. I twisted my hand as I pulled, sending a sharp stab of pain into my own finger. Martin shoved me away and rolled to the side, holding his face.

I rolled the other way. Martin turned toward me, fingers to his bloody cheek, unbridled rage in his eyes. There was still some powder in the vial. I threw it right in his face.

“Ahhh!” he cried. He fell back, his arm shielding his stinging eyes. I flung the remaining glass at him. It bounced harmlessly off his blue apron. Crimson drops from my cut finger trailed after it, dripping blood all over the wood.