The Blackthorn Key

I thought the news would hit me harder. I just felt numb. Maybe it was because I couldn’t imagine anything more crushing than to be blamed for my master’s murder. Or maybe it was because deep down, some part of me already knew Hugh hadn’t left the city. That, like me, he couldn’t leave Master Benedict behind. “Then . . . the Cult did attack them Thursday night.”


“Actually,” Tom said, puzzled, “Lord Ashcombe isn’t sure it was the Cult. Hugh wasn’t cut open like the others. Also, it was a Christian grave. He was buried on hallowed ground.”

I frowned. Why would Hugh’s killers give him a Christian burial? None of this was making any sense. “I suppose he blames me for Hugh’s death, too,” I said bitterly.

“He didn’t say. He does blame you for Stubb, though.”

“What does that mean?”

Tom looked surprised. “You haven’t heard? Stubb is dead, too.”

My jaw dropped. “What?” I blinked. “He . . . he can’t be.”

“They found him in his home this afternoon. He and his apprentices were murdered, just like the rest of the Cult’s victims. The news is all over the streets. I thought you knew.”

My mind whirled.

Stubb . . . was dead?

I didn’t understand. Master Benedict. Hugh. Now Stubb?

Why would the Cult of the Archangel kill Stubb? He was in the Cult.

I thought of Wat. Martin and the Elephant had been waiting at Apothecaries’ Hall this afternoon. Wat had come from outside.

Did Wat kill Stubb? Was that where he’d been?

The murders certainly sounded like Wat’s handiwork, and the boy clearly hated the man. Was he out of control, then? Did he kill Stubb out of malice?

Or was he acting on higher orders?

I didn’t understand.

“Christopher.”

I looked up. I hadn’t even realized Tom was still speaking.

“You must see now, don’t you?” Tom said. “You have to leave London. The Cult is getting rid of everyone. The one man who can stop them thinks you’re part of it. You can’t fight them, and you can’t go to Lord Ashcombe for protection.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” I said.

“I don’t know. Find a new city. Get a new job. Any master would be lucky to have you as an apprentice.”

“A new apprenticeship would cost pounds,” I said. “And there’s no work for someone like me. You know what happens to children on the streets.” I shuddered, thinking of what would happen to Sally if she didn’t find a job, remembering the older children who’d aged out of Cripplegate. The lucky ones were still out there, begging, or cutting purses—or doing things even worse. Most just disappeared, never to be seen again.

The truth was, I had nowhere to go. Tom was just wishing. For a moment, so did I. I closed my eyes and ran away, somewhere safe, where Master Benedict was still alive. No more pain, no more death.

But that was just a wish.

“What are you going to do?” Tom said quietly.

What else could I do? “Go see Isaac. Get the key to the mural.” And trust that Master Benedict would help me find a way out.

“But . . . you can’t even walk the streets anymore. Lord Ashcombe is putting out a reward for your capture. A big one, too, five or ten pounds. Everyone in London will be looking for you.”

I ran my fingers over the vials in the sash. “I have an idea about that. You just go return these coins before your father puts you in a grave.” I handed him the purse. “And don’t come here again.”

“I’m going with you,” Tom said, surprised.

“No, you’re not,” I said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Now he looked annoyed. “You’re not my master. Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You have to work tomorrow,” I reminded him.

“My father sends me to buy flour from the market on Monday. I’m away for hours. I’ll come by after the cry of six.”

“Tom—”

He threw his arms to the heavens. “Oh, would you just stop talking for once.”

I did.

“They’re not going to take you,” Tom said. “The Cult, Lord Ashcombe . . . whoever. They’re not going to take you, too.”

Tom turned to go. He stopped at the door. “Good night, Christopher,” he said. Then he left.





MONDAY, JUNE 1, 1665


The Feast of Saint Justin, Martyr





CHAPTER


28