CHAPTER
28
I BARELY SLEPT. THOUGH I was exhausted, my back ached with every shift and shiver, jerking me awake if I moved so much as an inch. The jolt that pulled me out of bed for good came at six. It was the crier, calling my name.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez! Be on watch, good citizens! Christopher Rowe, murderer of Benedict Blackthorn, is at large! Grown rebellious against his master’s cruelty, young Rowe has thrown his lot in with the Cult of the Archangel! His Majesty offers a reward of twenty pounds for the boy’s capture.”
The crier’s voice carried easily through Dr. Parrett’s ruined house. I still wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. Twenty pounds?
“Good morning,” Dr. Parrett said.
I nearly fell out of bed. Dr. Parrett stood in the doorway, holding a bucket.
“My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I brought you some water.” He placed the bucket at the foot of the bed, water sloshing up the side. “Are you not feeling well? James says your sleep was troubled.”
I stared at Dr. Parrett, saw his worn and tattered clothes, his body underneath, emaciated from begging for scraps. He had to have heard the crier. Twenty pounds.
I pulled the blanket to my chest. “Dr. Parrett . . . what they’re saying . . . I didn’t—”
“Don’t listen to them,” Dr. Parrett said fiercely. “They’re liars! They—” He choked on his words. For a moment, reality seemed to punch through his madness, to the sorrow living behind his eyes. Then the knowledge was gone, and the man stood there, blinking away the truth. “You have a home here, with us, for as long as you need it. I have some bread for breakfast, when you’re ready. Can I get you anything else?”
I asked for one more thing. He nodded and left. I downed the last of the willow bark, for whatever little good it would do. Then I dragged the bucket over and got to work.
• • •
When Tom saw me, he nearly bolted. His eyes darted around James’s room, as if someone else could be hiding in this burnt-out tomb. Then his jaw dropped. “Christopher?”
I turned, arms spread. “What do you think?”
For a moment, only his mouth worked. “What happened to you?”
My hair was now jet black, stained with squid ink from my master’s sash. I’d discarded Tom’s old clothes, too, borrowing new ones from Dr. Parrett. I wore a pair of the man’s tattered breeches, too big, and one of his son’s linen shirts, too small. For that additional touch of street urchin, I’d used vermilion from crushed snail shells mixed with the remaining squid ink to mark angry maroon dots on my face. The swelling on my cheek where Martin had punched me added to the costume, though it was hardly worth the pain.
“It looks like you just got over the pox.” Tom crinkled his nose. “And you smell like you didn’t.”
For the first time in days, I felt a bit of hope. If my disguise could confuse Tom, even for a second, it just might do its job. “You were wrong about the reward,” I said. “I’m worth twenty pounds.”
He made a face. “Keep that in mind, before you make my life any harder.”
• • •
The disguise worked almost too well. On the streets, more than one shopkeeper raised a club and cursed at me if I got too close, protecting his goods from being easy pickings for a nimble-fingered thief. All the while, Tom trundled along with the traffic some distance back, dragging his empty flour cart behind.
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.”
“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?”