The Blackthorn Key

“What does it mean?”


“It’s a quote from the Bible. The Gospel of John. ‘And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.’?”

He nodded. “And there is your answer, young . . . I’m sorry, my ears aren’t what they used to be, either. What did you say your name was?”

I stared at him. “I said it was James Parrett.” He waited. “But that wasn’t true,” I said.

Tom grabbed my arm. “Don’t.”

I shook him off. “My real name is Christopher Rowe.”

Isaac’s clouded eyes held mine. “I knew your master.”

“Yes.”

“Benedict was my friend. He often mentioned his apprentice. Even if he hadn’t, I would still know your name, from this morning’s cry. Christopher Rowe, murderer, rebel against his master’s cruelty.”

“I never hurt Master Benedict,” I said. “I couldn’t.”

“And how would I know that? You come here, with a strange name, not yours, and, I think, a strange face, also not yours. You tell me stories, then you ask me to take your word. Why should I believe you, Christopher Rowe?”

I thought of reasons, more stories to tell. Excuses. Lies. I was desperate. I needed something to convince him, or the trail ended here.

I looked inside my heart. All I could see was my master’s face. In that, I found my answer.

“I was an orphan,” I said. “The masters who took me in fed me, taught me, gave me shelter. I’ll always be grateful to them for that. But the orphanage was not a kind place. The masters were strict, and they had quick hands, always ready to punish. And the other boys, well, some of them were even meaner. We may have all lived together, but the truth is, every one of us grew up alone.

“When Master Benedict took me in, he changed my world. He cared about me.” My voice faltered. “He showed me something different, something I never knew existed. He was strange. He was human. But he was never anything but kind. He was my father, my true father, in the only ways that mattered. And I loved him.”

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Smudges of violet smeared away. “You have no reason to trust me,” I said. “You don’t have to. If you really were Benedict Blackthorn’s friend, then you know I could never, ever have killed him. Because he could never, ever, not for a single moment, be cruel.”

Isaac blinked slowly, regarding me. Tom stayed as still as a statue.

Then Isaac stood, pushing himself up from his creaking stool. From under his robe, on a string around his neck, he drew a silver key. He handed it to Tom. “Lock the front door.”

Tom glanced nervously at me, but he obeyed. Isaac turned to the bookshelf behind him with the inscription on the top and pulled three books on three different shelves forward. When he pulled the last one, the bookshelf gave a resounding clack. Then it swung open. Chilled air blew from the darkness behind.

Isaac took his key from Tom and grabbed a lantern from the counter. He lit it, then stepped through the secret door. In the dim light of the flame, I could see the top of a staircase, going down.

Isaac turned. “Well?” he said. “Are you coming or not?”





CHAPTER


29


I COUNTED A HUNDRED STEPS before I gave up. The stairs spiraled downward, with nothing to mark our place. The curved stone walls had no images and no brackets for torches, only countless cracks in the mortar. The only thing that changed—other than the ache in my back—was the air, which grew cooler with every step.

We finally reached the bottom. The stairs ended in a small chamber that widened to fit a set of double doors so big, they made the doors to Apothecaries’ Hall look like toothpicks. Carved into the oak in each panel was a cross, four arms of equal length, with flared ends. Flecks of paint still remained, white on the surface, red in the cross, gold all the way around.