The Blackthorn Key

“Then go get him,” Stubb said.

Stubb’s command put me in a bind. Officially, I was only required to follow my master’s orders. On the other hand, showing anything but the utmost respect to another master could get you in big trouble with the Apothecaries’ Guild, and Stubb wasn’t the kind of man you wanted to cross. Still, something in Hugh’s manner made me think it would be better if Stubb didn’t speak to Master Benedict tonight. So I made a second mistake that evening: I hesitated.

Stubb hit me.

He thwacked me on the side of my head with the end of his cane. I felt a sharp spike of pain as the snake’s silver fangs bit into the top of my earlobe. I fell against the curio cabinet and clasped my hand to my ear, crying out in surprise as much as hurt.

Stubb brushed his cane on the sleeve of his doublet, as if touching me had fouled it. “Go get him, I said.”

Hugh’s expression darkened. “I told you, Benedict is busy. And the boy isn’t yours. So keep your hands to yourself.”

Stubb just looked bored. “The boy isn’t yours, either, Coggshall. So keep your words to yourself.”

Master Benedict appeared in the doorway behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag. He took in the scene, frowning. “What do you want, Nathaniel?” he said.

“Did you hear?” Stubb said. “There’s been another murder.” He smiled. “But perhaps you already knew that.”





CHAPTER


3


HUGH CLOSED THE BOOK HE’D been reading, his fingers still between the pages. Master Benedict laid the rag carefully on the counter and slowly straightened its corners.

“Who was it?” he said.

Another apothecary, I thought, and my heart began to thump. But it was someone else this time.

“A lecturer, from Cambridge.” Stubb poked each word at Master Benedict like a needle. “Rented a house in Riverdale for the summer. Pembroke, his name was.”

Hugh’s eyes flicked to my master.

“The laundry girl found him,” Stubb said. “Guts sliced open, just like the others. You knew the man, didn’t you?”

Stubb looked like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. I thought he might start purring.

Master Benedict regarded him calmly. “Christopher.”

Me?

“Go clean the pigeon coop,” he said.

Of course. Why would I want to stay? It’s not as if I cared that a man who knew my master had just been murdered. But an apprentice wasn’t allowed to argue. So I just left, grumbling under my breath.

? ? ?

The ground floor of our house had two rooms, both set aside for my master’s business. The store was in the front. The back held our workshop. It was here, three years ago, that I’d first learned what it meant to be an apprentice.

I hadn’t known what to expect that day. In Cripplegate, the older boys loved to taunt the younger ones with stories of the cruelties masters inflicted on their apprentices. It’s like being a prisoner in the Tower dungeon. They only let you sleep two hours a night. All you get to eat is half a slice of moldy bread. They beat you if you dare to look them in the eye.

Seeing Master Benedict for the first time didn’t ease my mind in the slightest. When he plucked me from the huddle of boys in the back of the Apothecaries’ Guild Great Hall, I wondered if I’d drawn the worst master of all. His face didn’t seem unkind, but he was so absurdly tall. The way he towered over eleven-year-old me made me feel like I’d just met a talking birch tree.