The Blackthorn Key

The King’s Men were out in force. Three times I passed a pair of footmen close enough to touch them, their hands on their broadswords and pistols, scanning the Monday morning crowd. Their eyes passed over me without recognition, but each time I had to turn the corner before I could breathe again. At least their presence made it unlikely Wat and the others would attack me in open daylight, even if they spotted me. Still, I hurried. The longer I stayed anywhere, the more attention I’d attract.

Isaac’s bookshop was tucked away on Saint Bennet’s Hill, a narrow street near the river, uncomfortably close to Apothecaries’ Hall. It had no storefront, and no windows. The entrance was set in the center of an old stone building with shipping warehouses on either side. The door was thick, heavy oak, banded with iron. Nailed to it was a wooden plate.

RARE TOMES

PROPRIETOR, ISAAC CHANDLER

ALL WHO SEEK KNOWLEDGE ARE WELCOME

Another phrase, in Latin, was carved into the stone above the door.

FIAT LUX

Let there be light.

? ? ?

Inside, Isaac’s looked more like a library than a shop. The room was small, no more than fifteen feet square. Shelves covered the walls, except where a fire burned in the stone hearth, filling the room with warmth to fight the morning’s chill. Books weighed down the shelves, so heavy in places that the cedar planks sagged in the middle. In one corner, more books lay stacked in tall columns that reached nearly to the ceiling, a maze of paper and leather blocking a narrow staircase that led to the upper floors. It made me think so much of my master that my eyes stung.

Tom and I were not alone. Directly opposite the door was a short wooden counter. Behind it, an old man with wispy white hair and a sharp chin sat peacefully on a stool, eyes closed. Proprietor, Isaac Chandler.

His voice was soft, like a whisper. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for some information,” I said.

He waved his bone-thin hands over the hundreds of tomes. I guess I needed to be more specific.

“I need to know what some symbols mean,” I said.

He opened his eyes. “Come closer, please. My sight is failing.”

I went to the counter, Tom trailing behind. As we got close, I saw what he meant. Isaac’s eyes were starting to cloud over, like the morning’s fog had slipped inside them. “A curse, for a lover of books,” he said. “I’d rather lose my heart. But God never seems to ask.” He sighed. “Who are you?”

Tom tensed. The question caught me off guard, too. The crier had made my real name unusable. “I’m . . . James Parrett,” I said, feeling my face grow hot. “I’m apprenticed to . . . Andrew Church, at Apothecaries’ Hall. My master sent me to inquire about some symbols he’s uncovered in an old text.”

“You’ve forgotten your apron.”

I looked down at my street urchin’s kit, no blue apron to be found. “I . . . uh . . . destroyed it in the lab. I . . . got oil of vitriol on it.”

“A dangerous substance,” Isaac said. “But useful, in the right circumstances.” He nodded. “Very well. What are these symbols?”

I’d kind of hoped that I’d just say, I’m looking for a book on symbols, and he’d point and say, Of course, here’s exactly the thing you need. Master Benedict had sent me to Isaac for the key, but he’d also said to tell no one. I couldn’t be sure if he’d meant to include the bookseller in that warning. I decided to give Isaac the partial truth.

“There are a number of glyphs,” I said. “A sword, pointed down. A triangle, pointed up. Another triangle, with a line across it, like a snowcapped mountain. Things like that.”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he was thinking or if he hadn’t heard me. Then he said, “Symbols can mean almost anything. The context is important.” He seemed to be waiting for something.

“These symbols are for ingredients,” I said.

“Ingredients.”

“Yes.” I waited. When he didn’t respond, I said, “A key.”

He said nothing for a moment. Then he shifted in his chair. “I don’t think I can help you.”

My heart sank. “But . . . my master said you were the only one who could.”

“You’re training as an apothecary,” he said.

“I am.”

“So you can read Latin.”

“Yes.”

He pointed upward. “What does that say?”

Behind him, on the top beam of the bookshelf, an inscription was burned into the wood. I read it. “Et cognoscetis veritatem, et veritas liberabit vos.”