The Blackthorn Key

“Did I miss a war while I was out?”


“No, Master.”

“An argument, then? A discussion of court politics?” His words dripped with sarcasm. “Have the Puritans once again seized Parliament and overthrown our returned king?”

My face was burning. “No, Master.”

“Then perhaps,” he said through grinding teeth, “you could explain why in God’s holy name you shot my bear.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said. Tom, beside me, nodded vigorously. “It was an accident.”

This seemed to make him even angrier. “You were aiming for the beaver and missed?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I pointed at the cauldron, still tipped on its side on the display table near the fire. For a moment Master Benedict was silent. Then he said, “You fired lead slugs . . . at an iron cauldron . . . from six feet away?”

I glanced at Tom. “I . . . we . . . yes?”

My master closed his eyes and held his hand to his forehead. Then he leaned in close. “Thomas,” he said.

Tom trembled. I thought he might faint. “Yes, sir?”

“Go home.”

“Yes, sir.” Tom sidled away, bowing awkwardly over and over again. He grabbed his shirt from the display table and fled into the street, the door slamming behind him.

“Master—” I began.

“Be silent,” he snapped.

I was.

This would normally be when the apprentice—in this case, me—would receive a solid, heartfelt beating. But in the three years I’d lived with Master Benedict, he’d never struck me, not once. This was so unusual that I’d passed a whole year under his care before I realized he really was never going to hit me. Tom, who felt the sting of his father’s hand every day, thought this was unfair. I felt it was more than fair, considering I’d spent my first eleven years in the Cripplegate orphanage, where the masters doled out beatings like sweeties at an egg hunt.

Sometimes, though, I kind of wished Master Benedict would hit me. Instead, he had this way of looking at me when I’d done something wrong. His disappointment burrowed into me, sinking to my heart and staying there.

Like now.

“I put my trust in you, Christopher,” he said. “Every day. Our shop. Our home. This is how you treat it?”

I bowed my head. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

“A cannon.” Master Benedict fumed. “You could have burned your eyes out. The pipe could have exploded. And if you’d actually hit the cauldron—and the Lord must love a fool, because I can’t see how you missed the thing—I’d be scraping pieces of you off the walls from now until Christmas. Have you no sense at all?”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“And you shot my bloody bear.”

Hugh snorted.

“Don’t you encourage him,” Master Benedict said. “You’ve already given me a lifetime of grief.” Hugh raised his hands in appeasement. Master Benedict turned back to me. “Where did you even get the gunpowder?” he said.

“I made it,” I said.

“You made it?” He finally seemed to notice the jars on the table. Then he saw the parchment with the code Tom and I had left beside them. My master peered at it, turned it over. I couldn’t read his expression.

“You deciphered this?” he said.

I nodded.

Hugh took the page from my master’s hands and examined it. He glanced up at Master Benedict. Something seemed to pass between them, but I couldn’t tell what they were thinking. I felt a sudden swell of hope. My master was always pleased when I surprised him with something new. Maybe he’d appreciate that I’d solved this puzzle on my own.