The Blackthorn Key

Sir Edward cleared his throat. “The members felt, given the circumstances, it would be best if you were no longer to train to be an apothecary.”


My stomach churned. I’d feared the worst. It appeared that I was getting it. “Please . . . Grand Master . . . being an apothecary is all I want. Please let me stay.”

“Your commitment reflects well upon you,” he said, “but we cannot have the recent . . . incidents . . . attached any further to our Guild.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” I said. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Nonetheless, we believe this action is best for everyone. And, frankly, Mr. Rowe, we have nowhere to place you. No master is currently in need of a new apprentice. You understand.”

I looked around the room. A few of the apothecaries at the sides were watching me curiously. Most avoided my eyes.

The churning in my guts sank like a pit. I did understand. They were afraid. Anyone who took me in would look like they wanted whatever I knew about the Archangel’s Fire. Oswyn’s plot—and Lord Ashcombe’s purge—had made me untouchable.

“Then . . . what’s going to happen to Blackthorn?” I said.

“The shop will revert to Guild ownership,” Sir Edward said.

“What about Master Benedict’s will?”

“We can’t find his will.”

“That’s because Oswyn stole it,” I said, my voice rising.

“We have no evidence of that,” Valentine said. “The compensation we’re giving you is more than enough to—”

“I don’t want your money!” I shouted. “I want my life back!”

Valentine turned red. He was about to say something more when the heavy door behind me creaked open. He looked past me in annoyance. “What?”

“Forgive me, Masters,” the clerk at the door said, wiping his brow. “There are two petitioners who wish to address the Council.” He glanced behind him anxiously. “One of them is Lord Ashcombe.”

Sir Edward glanced over at Valentine, who sat up in his chair, still bright red. “Very well.”

In strode the King’s Warden. His bandages were gone. Over his missing eye, he wore a plain black patch. His cheek was still stitched together, loops of thread tracking an angry red line from underneath the patch to the corner of his mouth, twisting it sideways. His ruined hand was covered by a glove.

Behind him came an even bigger surprise. Isaac the bookseller walked carefully to stand before the Council, his wispy white hair waving as he moved. In his hand he carried a scroll of parchment. His cloudy eyes barely glanced at me as he took his place beside the King’s Warden.

Sir Edward nodded. “Richard. And . . . Isaac, isn’t it? Welcome. What can we do for you?”

“For me?” Lord Ashcombe said. “Nothing.” The slash on his cheek seemed to make his voice grate even more roughly than before. “I’m here on behalf of His Majesty, Charles the Second, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith.”

The room had been quiet before. Now I couldn’t hear even a whisper of breath.

“I see,” Sir Edward said. “How may we be of service to His Majesty?”

“The king wants it known that Christopher Rowe, apprentice to the Apothecaries’ Guild, is a true friend to the Crown. Further, His Majesty understands that Oswyn Colthurst’s actions were not sanctioned by the Guild, and he reaffirms his close bond with you, who loyally supported him against Puritan traitors when he returned from France.”

Sir Edward nodded slowly. “We’re grateful for His Majesty’s trust.”

“The king also hopes that Christopher’s new master will be as kind and as skilled in managing Christopher’s property as the honorable Benedict Blackthorn.”

Valentine blinked. “Property?”