The Blackthorn Key

I took stock of what was left of me. My cheek was tender and swollen where Martin had hit me. The skin on my shoulder, where my shirt had torn on the cobbles of the street, was scabbed and stinging. My finger, cut by the vial I broke in Oswyn’s office, throbbed mercilessly, though the bleeding had stopped, at least.

The cut on my finger wasn’t the most painful of my wounds—my back won that prize easily—but it was the most dangerous. Already the joint grew red and puffy, tender to the touch. If untreated, it could turn the humors of my body sour and poisonous. Fortunately, I still had my master’s sash. I tried to lift my shirt to get at it. My back didn’t like that.

“What can I do?” Cecily said.

I tugged at my shirt. “Help me pull this off.”

She did, sliding it over my head gently as I gritted my teeth. I packed the wound on my finger with spiderweb from one of the vials from the sash, and smeared aloe from another one as well. A strip torn from the bottom of my shirt made a bandage, which Cecily tied on tight. She did the same for the scrape on my shoulder. Then she sat behind me on the straw and examined my back, where the corner of the desk had rammed into me.

“It’s really red,” she said.

“Can you press on it? I need to check if anything’s broken.”

“Won’t that hurt?”

“Yes.” I sighed. “Yes, it will.”

It did. But apart from an angry red triangle the width of a melon over my spine, it didn’t appear that I’d broken anything. I was definitely in for an unpleasant few days, though. I wanted desperately to drink a bucket of poppy tea, but with the Cult of the Archangel and Lord Ashcombe both hunting me now, I was afraid to dull my mind. I pulled out the vial of willow bark and swallowed half of it instead. The bitter powder made me grimace. Beyond that, all I could do was lie down on the straw and take the pain.

? ? ?

Tom came at sunset, carrying a small burlap sack and a leather pouch in the same hand. He had a purple splotch on his face, the bruise already forming where his father had hit him. Molly leaped from the floor, still clutching the knight doll, and ran to her brother. “I found him!” she said proudly, pointing at me as I sat up.

“You did very well,” Tom said. He pushed his sister’s curls away from her eyes and patted her cheek.

Cecily sat next to me on the straw, her arms wrapped around her knees. “Any problems?” Tom asked her.

She shook her head. “Dr. Parrett’s very nice.”

“Can you take Molly home?”

She stood. “Of course.”

Molly handed me the knight, then threw her arms around me. It set my back to moaning again. I didn’t mind.

“Thanks for helping me,” I said to her. I waved my bandaged finger at Cecily. “And thank you, too.”

She gave me a shy smile, then put her arm around her sister and left. When they were gone, I turned to Tom. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?”

Tom shrugged. “Father’s given me worse.”

I was more worried about Lord Ashcombe. “Will he come back for you? I saw he found my puzzle cube—”

“Lord Ashcombe doesn’t care about your puzzle cube. Here.”

Tom handed me the sack he was carrying. Inside were a pair of sticky buns. Just seeing them made me feel human again.

Tom watched me wince as I leaned against the ruined headboard. “What happened to you?” he said.

Mumbling over mouthfuls of sticky bun, I told him about the Hall, about being trapped by Martin and Wat and the Elephant while they lured Sir Edward and Oswyn away. I thought he’d be shocked, but my story barely seemed to register. I also told him about my discovery.

“Isaac has the key to the mural in the crypt,” I said.

“Oh?” Tom didn’t seem interested. He waved his hand at James’s charred bedroom. “Sorry about this. It’s the only place I could think of. I didn’t figure anyone would look for you here.”

I sat James’s woolen knight next to me on the bed. “I’m grateful to have it. Thank you.”