The Blackthorn Key

“It’s sweet,” I said, surprised. It made my tongue tingle, like a syrup of hot pepper. I’d never tasted anything quite like it before.

I put the cork stopper back in and gave the beaker to Tom, who studied the liquid more closely. I returned to the workbench. Papers were scattered everywhere, covered in my master’s handwriting. Beside them was a long loop of cannon fuse. Below the bench, two more coils of fuse were stacked, more than I’d ever seen in our shop. I looked at the chamber we’d taken the beaker out of, at the charring that covered the walls.

Had Master Benedict been burning gunpowder?

On the opposite side of the bench rested a short cylinder, maybe three inches high, and one inch in diameter. It was wrapped around with a thin skin of greased parchment. A wick of cannon fuse nearly two feet long was stuck into the top. It looked like some kind of strange, oiled candle. Beside it, on the floor, was a bucket of sawdust.

I remembered Oak Apple Day. Tom and I, returning home, after Lord Ashcombe had found Hugh’s body. I’d used sawdust to soak up the boar’s blood. Master Benedict had stared at it, fascinated.

And now here it was.

The parchment around the cylinder was pinched in at the top. I pulled it open. The tube was filled with sawdust, wet and sticky. It was soaked with the same oily goop as in the beaker.

I searched through the papers on the desk. That’s where I found it, written in Master Benedict’s smooth hand. There were scratches and corrections, all across the pages. But when you put the uncrossed-out lines together, it was a recipe.

The Archangel’s Fire

Fill beaker with fuming aqua fortis. Immerse beaker in ice bath. Add fuming oil of vitriol with the greatest caution. Add more ice to bath until near freezing. Add, in small drops only, the sweet syrup of olive oil and litharge. Stir with the utmost care for one quarter hour. Transfer to water, and mixture will settle at the bottom. Take mixture and, in small drops only, add to natron. Repeat three times. The final liquid will have the look and feel of olive oil.

He’d done it. Master Benedict had discovered the raw essence of the Prima Materia.

I looked over at Tom. He still had the beaker in his hand. My heart was pounding.

Tom took a step back. “What’s the matter?”

“That’s it.” I pointed at the beaker. “That’s the Archangel’s Fire.”

He stared at it. “How . . . how does it work? Do you drink it?”

“I’m not sure.” I’d tasted it. My tongue still burned. And now I was starting to get a headache, a low pounding, throbbing in my temples. Did I do something to myself? Was this feeling because of the Fire?

I opened my hand, like I’d seen the Archangel Michael do in the image Isaac had shown us. No beams of light came out.

“Maybe you’d better put it back,” I said.

As relieved as Tom was to get rid of it, he looked disappointed, too. I understood. It wasn’t every day that you held the power of God in your hand.

I rifled through more of the papers. They were mostly raw notes from my master’s experiments. I did find a separate recipe for how to make the “sweet syrup of olive oil and litharge.” Hugh had made a note on the page, suggesting the syrup might be good for medicinal candies.

I spotted something more when I turned the papers over. On the back of one of them were more notes from my master. One familiar word dragged my eye to the last note at the bottom.

Sawdust is the key. Once it is blended into the Archangel’s Fire, the volatility of the mixture is tempered by the sawdust’s soft nature, and the Archangel’s Fire becomes stable. Thence, only fire releases it. Take care, for only in this way may man safely touch the power of God.

I frowned, confused. Master Benedict was saying the Archangel’s Fire needed sawdust to be handled safely. But sawdust wasn’t part of the original recipe. It wasn’t mixed with the liquid in the beaker, either. Puzzled, I started from the top and read what came above it.