The Blackthorn Key

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lady Lucy said. She turned away from me, holding the silk to her chest as her maid pulled open her bodice in the back. The skin all along her spine was red and raw. It looked unbearably itchy.

I glanced over at Master Benedict again, unsure of what I was supposed to do. This time, he motioned toward the satchel I carried. I looked inside to find a thick ceramic jar, its wide mouth stopped with cork. I pulled out the stopper, then recoiled in horror. Inside was a chunky, dark brown cream that looked like the back of a baby’s diaper. It smelled like it, too.

“Spread a layer over the rash,” Master Benedict said quietly. “Thick enough to cover it, but no thicker.”

I shuddered as I slid my fingers into the slime, praying it wasn’t what it felt like. Then I smeared a handful of it over Lady Lucy’s back. To my surprise, not only did she not complain about the smell, she sagged visibly in relief as the goo slid over her skin.

“Much better,” she sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Blackthorn.”

“We shall return tomorrow, madam,” he shouted, and the chambermaid showed us out.

I put the apothecary jar back in the satchel. As I did, I saw a woollen rag inside, folded at the bottom. I pulled it out on the street, trying to wipe away as much of the foul brown gunk from my fingers as I could.

“So?” Master Benedict said. “What did you learn from that?”

I answered without thinking. “Always bring cotton to stuff your nose.”

Suddenly, I realized how that sounded. I cringed, expecting Master Benedict to beat me for insolence, like the masters at Cripplegate would have.

Instead, he blinked at me. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a warm, rich sound. It was the first time I remembered thinking I’d be all right.

“Indeed,” Master Benedict had said. “Well, if you think that was bad, wait until you see what I’ll teach you tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Come then, Christopher. Let’s go home.”

? ? ?

He did teach me more that next day, and every day after that. When I’d imagined what being an apothecary would be like, I’d thought working in the store was where I’d end up. But the workshop in the back became my true home. Here, Master Benedict showed me how to mix an electuary of marshmallow root and honey to soothe the throat; how to grind willow bark and infuse it into a tea that lessened pain; how to combine sixty-four ingredients over four months to make the Venice treacle, an antidote for snake venom. He taught me his own secret recipes as well, and the codes to decipher them. In this room I found my future, making miracles that came from God’s own creation.

Some days, anyway. Today all I got was some grain, a bucket, and a poop scraper.

With my master and Stubb talking in the next room, I grabbed what I needed and left. The door opposite the giant oven led to the upper floors, with steep stairs so old, the lightest step made them squeal like a frightened donkey. On the second floor was the kitchen, small but functional, and the pantry, which kept the occasional loaf of bread or wheel of cheese, some smoked fish, and a cask or two of ale. The rest of the rooms were stuffed with supplies for the workshop.

Part of the third floor was kept for storage, too, but for Master Benedict’s other passion: books. The only thing that compared with my master’s obsession with discovering new recipes was his obsession with discovering new books. He passed that on to me, too. Besides our daily lessons, Master Benedict expected me to study on my own, not just recipes and how raw materials reacted, but from his endlessly growing collection of tomes. From these, I learned philosophy, history, theology, languages, the natural sciences, and whatever else sparked my master’s imagination during his weekly trips to see his friend Isaac the bookseller.