CHAPTER
21
TOM INCHED AWAY FROM THE mural. “A door?”
I pointed to the symbols above the holes. “I think this is what the ingredients on the tables are for. The liquids and powders, the beaker, the spoon. It’s like my present.” I held out the antimony box. “You pour the right thing in and it opens.”
“What’s the right thing?”
“Well, this symbol here is for Mercury, so I’m guessing it’s quicksilver.”
There was plenty of mercury in one of the jars on the table, more than I’d ever seen in one place before. I took one of the notched beakers and poured some of the quicksilver into it. The glass grew heavy as I filled it to the mark.
At the door, the beaker’s nozzle fit cleanly into the hole in the dragon’s mouth. I tilted it, letting the metal run out. With the last few drops, a faint thunk came from behind the mural.
“It worked,” Tom said.
But nothing else seemed to happen. I pushed on the wall. Tom joined me, putting his shoulder to it. It didn’t budge. We heard another thunk, as if something clicked back into place.
I stepped away from the mural. “There are two more holes,” I said. “We must have to put something in all of them to open the door.” And from the sound of it, we didn’t have much more than a minute to make it happen.
The symbols, with the right ingredients, were the key. I was amazed at how clever this was. It was much better than an actual key of iron or brass, which could be lost or stolen. With this door, if you were allowed in, you’d already know how to enter. Which we didn’t.
“What about the rest of the message?” Tom said. “Those letters, from the code in lemon juice. Maybe they tell you what the ingredients are.”
I pulled the parchment with the code from my pocket.
JSYYAALYUFMIYZFT
“Look,” Tom said. “Say the M is for ‘mercury.’ Then J is for . . . uh . . . ‘jam.’ Or something.”
If you ignored the part about jam, Tom’s idea was a good one. But there were two more holes, four more symbols, and my master’s message had enough letters to start a new alphabet. Even if Tom was right, I couldn’t count how many different combinations we’d have to try. We were lost.
Again.
• • •
We returned to the surface and pushed the sarcophagus back into place. Bridget had already gone. Though I wanted desperately to remain below a little longer, I couldn’t stay either. The afternoon was passing quickly, and I needed to get back to Apothecaries’ Hall.
We stopped at Tom’s house on the way. Reluctantly, I left the puzzle cube in his room. My master’s sash could be more or less hidden under my shirt, but the cube was too bulky to carry well concealed, and the last thing I needed was Grand Master Thorpe asking what was in my pocket. I did keep the ledger page and the scrap with the translation, which I tucked safely underneath the sash.
As we left Tom’s bedroom, Cecily appeared in the doorway to hers. Her eyes were wide with fear.
“Run!” she whispered.
Little Molly slipped past her sister, her mop of curls bouncing as she ran. She threw her arms around me, buried her face in my stomach, and sobbed.
I looked at Tom, puzzled. He knelt beside his sister. “Molly? Cecily? What’s wrong?”
A meaty fist grabbed the back of Molly’s dress and pulled her away. She landed on her backside, wailing.
Tom looked shocked. “Father!”
William Bailey grabbed me, next. I’d never been dragged by my hair before, much less while bumping down a flight of steps. Catherine and Isabel, playing in the front hall, dropped their dolls and scrambled behind their mother, who watched her husband pull me away.
“Father!” Tom ran after us. “Father, please! Stop!”
William Bailey kicked the front door open and tossed me into the street. I skidded across the cobblestones. My shirt—Tom’s shirt—ripped at the shoulder. My skin ripped with it.
I lay in the gutter, too hurt to move. My hand pressed against my wounded arm. The piercing pain in my scalp made me wonder if Tom’s father had torn out enough hair to leave me as bald as Oswyn.
Tom moved to help me. His father punched him across the cheek before he could even get out the door. Tom crashed against the wall and held his hand to his face, stricken.
William Bailey loomed over me. “You abused my trust, boy.”
It was true that Tom’s father had allowed me to stay at his house, but I was pretty sure trust had nothing to do with it. “What did I do?” I croaked.
“The constable came looking for you.”
The constable? My mind whirled with possibilities, none of them good. Had someone seen us break into Hugh’s house? Did he know I took the puzzle cube? The sash?
Neighbors in the street watched curiously as Tom’s father stabbed a pudgy finger at me. “The constable said Lord Ashcombe wants you. Said he heard you were staying here. I told him we didn’t let strangers in the house. We don’t know you. We don’t want to know you. Don’t come near my son again.”
He stormed toward the house. Tom ran back inside in front of him. I heard scuffling, then the thumping of Tom’s feet bolting up the stairs.
Tom’s mother filled the doorway. She looked less angry than sad. “I’m sorry, Christopher. But my husband is right. I have to protect my family. Please don’t come here anymore.”
She closed the door.