CHAPTER
34
“I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING,” I stammered. “I just said I did to get you to come here.”
Oswyn looked disappointed. “I won’t insult you by pretending you’re stupid. Please extend me the same courtesy. Give me the recipe for the Archangel’s Fire.”
“Master Benedict never told me anything about it.”
“That, I believe. He wouldn’t have put you in danger unless it was absolutely necessary.”
“There was never any recipe in the puzzle cube.” I tried to stop my voice from shaking. “I just said that to get you to confess.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“Then you know I don’t really have—”
Oswyn interrupted me. “You left the Hall. On Sunday, after I’d warned you not to speak to anyone, after I’d warned you Stubb might come, after I’d ordered you to wait for me, still you left. If you weren’t running from me, only one other thing could have made you go. Benedict must have given you something before he died. If not the recipe for the Fire itself, then some trail to follow to find it. A letter. A message. A map.
“Now you bring me to Mortimer House. When we captured Henry Mortimer three months ago, he claimed he didn’t know anything. After he died, my men searched this place from attic to basement. We looked for days. We found nothing. Yet here you are. You expect me to believe this is a coincidence?”
I had no good answer for that. “What do you want the Fire for, anyway?” I said.
“I tried to tell you, back at the Hall. I want to make the world a better place.”
I stared at him. I would have laughed if I wasn’t scared enough to wet my breeches.
Oswyn frowned. “You’re still young, Christopher, so you think King Charles is charming. The ‘Merry Monarch,’ you call him, you and the rest of his dogs, slurping your master’s scraps. Why do you bow before these rats? What do you owe them—you, of all people, who grew up with nothing? Do you not see them for the parasites they really are? They are corrupt, wicked to the core. Yet they presume to place themselves above decent, honest men, all the while as our king”—he spat the word like poison—“drowns himself in decadence. And where that wretch goes, the people follow.”
Lord Ashcombe shifted, propping himself against the wall of the manor. He’d been bleeding so badly, I hadn’t even been sure he was still alive.
“I knew you were with Cromwell’s traitors,” Lord Ashcombe said, his words slurred through his wound. “I should never have listened to your Grand Master. I should have had you hanged the day His Majesty returned.”
“A mistake you will never fix.” Oswyn turned back to me. “These vermin may have their titles, Christopher, but they have no right to rule. That belongs to proper Englishmen, men like you and me. Cromwell started the revolution, but he never had the chance to see it through. We will. We’ll create something better, and it will be the Archangel’s gift that saves us all. England shall transform according to our will. Or the Fire will burn them from their homes.”
“You’re mad,” I said.
“Christopher.”
“No,” I spat. “You think you’re so noble. You pretend to care about the people while you murder everyone who gets in your way. My master taught me better. For all your talk about decent, honest men, all you really care about is power. You’re just another tyrant.”
Oswyn shook his head. “You’re angry with me. I understand. I regret Benedict’s death; truly, I do. But I had no choice. He would never have given me the Fire. Don’t make the same mistake, Christopher. There’s still a place for you in our future.”
“I told you. I don’t know anything.” My voice trembled.
Wat’s fingernail traced the edge of his knife. “Let me get it from him, Master.”
Oswyn whirled, angry. “Be silent. If it wasn’t for your incompetence, we’d already have what we need.” He pointed to Lord Ashcombe, propped against the wall. “Bind him. I’ll deal with the boy.”
“I don’t know anything,” I said again.
Oswyn examined my master’s sash. “Remove your shirt.”
I still wore the ridiculous clothes Dr. Parrett had given me. I clung to them more tightly than anything I’d ever had.
Wat and the Elephant stripped the dead men-at-arms of their belts and used them to tie up Lord Ashcombe. When they’d finished, Oswyn motioned them toward me.
I tried to scramble away. The Elephant held me down. Wat drew his knife, the one that had murdered my master. He sliced through my shirt and pulled it apart.
Oswyn searched the sash until he found the vial he wanted. The stopper was newer than the others, resealed. I’d refilled it in the lab, underground.
“I know you’re familiar with this,” he said.
He popped the cork, breaking the red wax seal, pulling away the twine.
“Please,” I said.
Oswyn held the open vial over my chest. I could smell its sour stink.
“Please,” I said.
“Tell me where the recipe is, Christopher.”
I didn’t.
The vial tipped, and one, two, three drops fell onto my chest, spattering just above my heart.
At first, it was nothing. It felt like water, cool drops on my skin in the springtime sun.
Then I burned.
• • •
Forever. It felt like forever before the oil of vitriol finally stopped tearing apart my flesh.
I didn’t look down. I didn’t want to know.
“End this, Christopher,” Oswyn said. “Tell me where you hid the recipe.”
“No,” I said.
Oswyn shook his head. “You cannot see.”
He brought the vial up. His hand blocked out the sun.
“And if you will not see,” he said, “then what good are your eyes?”
He tilted the vial again, slowly, directly above my face. The oil of vitriol slid toward the edge of the glass.
I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
I told him.