The Blackthorn Key

I BARELY SLEPT. THOUGH I was exhausted, my back ached with every shift and shiver, jerking me awake if I moved so much as an inch. The jolt that pulled me out of bed for good came at six. It was the crier, calling my name.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez! Be on watch, good citizens! Christopher Rowe, murderer of Benedict Blackthorn, is at large! Grown rebellious against his master’s cruelty, young Rowe has thrown his lot in with the Cult of the Archangel! His Majesty offers a reward of twenty pounds for the boy’s capture.”

The crier’s voice carried easily through Dr. Parrett’s ruined house. I still wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. Twenty pounds?

“Good morning,” Dr. Parrett said.

I nearly fell out of bed. Dr. Parrett stood in the doorway, holding a bucket.

“My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I brought you some water.” He placed the bucket at the foot of the bed, water sloshing up the side. “Are you not feeling well? James says your sleep was troubled.”

I stared at Dr. Parrett, saw his worn and tattered clothes, his body underneath, emaciated from begging for scraps. He had to have heard the crier. Twenty pounds.

I pulled the blanket to my chest. “Dr. Parrett . . . what they’re saying . . . I didn’t—”

“Don’t listen to them,” Dr. Parrett said fiercely. “They’re liars! They—” He choked on his words. For a moment, reality seemed to punch through his madness, to the sorrow living behind his eyes. Then the knowledge was gone, and the man stood there, blinking away the truth. “You have a home here, with us, for as long as you need it. I have some bread for breakfast, when you’re ready. Can I get you anything else?”

I asked for one more thing. He nodded and left. I downed the last of the willow bark, for whatever little good it would do. Then I dragged the bucket over and got to work.

? ? ?

When Tom saw me, he nearly bolted. His eyes darted around James’s room, as if someone else could be hiding in this burnt-out tomb. Then his jaw dropped. “Christopher?”

I turned, arms spread. “What do you think?”

For a moment, only his mouth worked. “What happened to you?”

My hair was now jet black, stained with squid ink from my master’s sash. I’d discarded Tom’s old clothes, too, borrowing new ones from Dr. Parrett. I wore a pair of the man’s tattered breeches, too big, and one of his son’s linen shirts, too small. For that additional touch of street urchin, I’d used vermilion from crushed snail shells mixed with the remaining squid ink to mark angry maroon dots on my face. The swelling on my cheek where Martin had punched me added to the costume, though it was hardly worth the pain.

“It looks like you just got over the pox.” Tom crinkled his nose. “And you smell like you didn’t.”

For the first time in days, I felt a bit of hope. If my disguise could confuse Tom, even for a second, it just might do its job. “You were wrong about the reward,” I said. “I’m worth twenty pounds.”

He made a face. “Keep that in mind, before you make my life any harder.”

? ? ?

The disguise worked almost too well. On the streets, more than one shopkeeper raised a club and cursed at me if I got too close, protecting his goods from being easy pickings for a nimble-fingered thief. All the while, Tom trundled along with the traffic some distance back, dragging his empty flour cart behind.