CHAPTER
36
A BAD DREAM.
My eyelids fluttered.
That’s all, I thought. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.
No, a familiar voice said. Wake up, Christopher.
Master? I said. My head was killing me. Is that you?
Yes, he said. I need you to wake up now.
Please, Master. Just a few more minutes. I’ll get the shop ready soon.
No, Christopher. He poked me in the back. Pain. You have to get up. Now. Hurry.
I groaned.
My head was killing me.
I opened my eyes. At least, I think I did. It was dark.
Was I awake?
Was I alive?
It hurt everywhere. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen when you were dead. My ears rang like I’d spent the night in the belfry at Saint Paul’s. Every bone in my body felt like an elephant had stomped on it. A real one.
I rolled over. I half crawled, half fell from the mouth of the oven to the stone below. My body whumped against the floor, sending new bolts of agony everywhere. I lay there for a moment, unable to move.
My eyes stung. My nose was stuffed with smoke and copper. Something jabbed into my back like a dagger where my master had poked me. I twisted my arm behind me, fingers grasping. It was a piece of stone, stuck in my flesh like an arrow.
I pulled it out. My howl was the first sound I made.
There was light now, if that’s what you’d call it. The air was thick with a dust cloud of stone. Everything was a haze of gray. I looked around what was left of the lab.
The ceiling had collapsed, crushing the broken workbenches below. Paper was everywhere, floating, flaming, dotted with shattered glass fragments that glinted like diamond powder. In one corner, a pile of parchment burned lazily.
I looked at the oven, our sanctuary against the five sticks of Archangel’s Fire that I’d glued to the ceiling. Lord Ashcombe lay inside, his chest slowly rising and falling. The iron furnace was gray with ash. One side was bent inward, as if shot by a giant cannon.
That was where my head had been. I touched my hair. It sent a wave of pain over my skull. I curled up on the floor, gasping, until the throbbing subsided.
I tried to stand. My legs wouldn’t obey. Drops of red splattered on the stone beneath my face. It was a minute before I realized they were coming from me. My ears were bleeding.
The blood made me remember we weren’t alone. Or maybe we were, now. The dust thinned slightly, but I couldn’t see the others. Where Oswyn and the Elephant had stood, there was nothing but rubble.
There was something else, I thought. Someone else. Some reason my master had woken me.
Wat.
Wat, who’d crawled into the corner before the explosion, had escaped the collapse of the ceiling, though not unscathed. He lay slumped against a heap of stone. His left arm hung lifeless from his shoulder. The left side of his face was blackened and warped. A lick of flame still quivered on the charred linen of his sleeve. His right eye—the only one that remained—stared straight back at me. Then it blinked.
All right, Christopher, I told myself. Get up.
But Wat was the one who moved. He pushed his bulk from the wreckage. He wobbled, then fell to his knees. He huffed, and spat on the stone. All the while, he stared.
Christopher. Get up.
Wat staggered to his feet. He took a step. Then another. His blackened fingers gripped his knife. How did he still have his knife?
My mind screamed. I couldn’t move. Lord Ashcombe stirred, dragging himself from the mouth of the oven, but he was in no shape to stop the boy, either. I clawed at cracked stone, trying to get away.
Useless. A foot pressed against my hip, turned me on my back. Wat straddled me. His head bobbed, like he couldn’t focus.
He could see enough. He raised the blade.
Then it came. From the side of my eye swooped a rolling pin.
I am dreaming, I thought.
The rolling pin, a rich cherry red, was as long as an arm and as thick as a tree. It bonked Wat on the blind side of his skull. His good eye glassed over.
A second blow came, a deep, solid thwock on the top of his head. Wat crumpled to the ground. I stared dumbly at his unconscious body.
Tom leaned over. He put his hand on my chest, his face lined with worry.
“Rrrr ooo aaa iii?” he said.
He sounded like he was underwater. I shook my head to clear the bells inside. Bad idea. I turned over and retched. Bile, sour, mixed with stone ash, bitter. I retched again.
Tom held me. This time, through the ringing in my ears, I understood.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“You came back,” I croaked.
“Of course I did. The promise you made me make was stupid.”
“Sorry.” I slumped against him. “Was that really a rolling pin?” I said.
Tom looked embarrassed. “It’s the only weapon I know how to use.”
• • •
Tom told me later that I crawled up the ladder on my own. I don’t remember doing that. I do remember that he carried Lord Ashcombe over his shoulder, and got us to the street, where we were nearly run over by a four-horse carriage.
The driver hauled on the reins, skidding the carriage to a stop. An irritated horse bumped his nose against my head, blowing spit in my ear.
The driver cursed us up and down. The sweating noble inside leaned out of the window to let us have it, too. Then he saw the blood, and the man Tom carried.
Lord Ashcombe opened his remaining eye. “The Tower,” he growled.
The noble blanched. Drips of sweat turned to buckets. He scrambled out of the carriage and tripped on the footstep, sprawling on the cobbles.
Tom loaded us inside. The driver took us where Lord Ashcombe had commanded, whipping the horses at reckless speed through the streets.
The guard at the Tower gate watched curiously as Tom pulled the King’s Warden out. When he saw whom the boy was carrying, he dropped his spear. A dozen of the King’s Men rushed out to help him.
Half-conscious, Lord Ashcombe pointed at me. “Bring that one,” he said, just before he passed out.
Rough arms grabbed me from every direction. I didn’t resist. I couldn’t, either way.
• • •
The King’s Men hauled me into an empty parlor. Two of the soldiers pressed me into a hard-backed chair and stood beside me while I waited. I wasn’t sure how long it was—it felt like more than an hour—before an official came. Dressed in fine white linen, he looked me up and down from beneath his wig. “Come with me,” he said.
I tried to stand. The guards had to help me up the stairs. It was so far, my legs so weak, that by the time we reached the top, the King’s Men were carrying me. The linen man led us through a banded wooden door to one of the Tower’s bedrooms, where the king’s soldiers put me down.
The sun streamed through the window, giving off a warm glow. Two chairs rested in front of the empty fireplace, plumped with plush blue cushions that matched the silks on the four-poster bed. Splayed on the bedsheets was an emerald-green shirt, also silk, and dark blue cotton breeches, with soft doeskin boots beneath. A sturdy oak table held a crystal bowl. It overflowed with fruit: apples, oranges, pomegranates, grapes.
“Lord Ashcombe has ordered that you remain in the Tower, to keep you safe,” the linen man said. “I hope these quarters will be adequate.” He pointed to the door on the left. “There’s a bath in the parlor, already prepared.”
The scent of rose water wafted from behind the door. It mixed with the coppery smell of blood on my skin.
“The king’s physicians will tend to your wounds as soon as they’re finished with Lord Ashcombe,” the linen man said. “In the meantime, is there anything else you require?”
My voice came out like sand. “Where’s Tom?”
“Who?”
“My friend. Is he here? Is he all right?”
The linen man shrugged. “You were the only person Lord Ashcombe requested.”
The rug was warm, the weave soft against my feet. I looked down. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost my boots.
I stared at the bowl of fruit. “May I please have one of those?”
“Of course,” he said. “You must be starving. I’ll bring a proper meal at once.”
True to his word, twenty minutes later he returned with four servants. They placed a set of silver dishes on the table. There was roasted goose, braised beef and gravy, seasoned fish, spiced vegetables in white sauce, and half a strawberry cake. I smelled the sweet oil on the goose, still steaming.
It wasn’t until they left that I started to cry.