“You think so?” He stared off down the road, considering it. “I would have said seven.”
“My lord… I… It was an accident.”
Lord Ashcombe climbed into his saddle. “I understand. So if you’d rather not walk”—he jerked a thumb at the flaming heap behind me—“feel free to take the carriage.”
CHAPTER
2
WELL, THERE’S ANOTHER THING TO regret.
On decent roads, it would have only taken a couple of hours to reach the city. But under the warming sun, the heavy snows of a violent winter had melted, leaving the roads nothing but long strips of muck. So it took nearly twice that time—and my poor, cramped, aching legs—to slog northward and catch sight of London Bridge.
I sighed. Originally, we’d planned to dismount on the south bank of the Thames and have a boat ferry us west to the Palace of Whitehall, where King Charles II waited for our return. But as I approached the bridge, I realized I’d forgotten something important.
I couldn’t pay the boatman. When Tom, Sally, and I had left London in November, on a mission to spy for the king, Lord Ashcombe had given me a full coin purse to use as needed. It had come in awfully handy, first in Paris, and then while stranded on the coast of Devonshire. But since Lord Ashcombe had come to our rescue with the King’s Men in December, he’d paid for everything we needed. I’d given the money back, leaving me broke.
Great. Now I’d have to walk all the way through the city, too. Still, tired as I was, there was one thing I welcomed.
Though I’d only been away four months, it felt like I’d been gone forever. All my life, I’d never left London: first, as a boy in the Cripplegate orphanage, and then, living with Master Benedict at the Blackthorn apothecary. My recent travels had been incredible—and terrifying—but as I crossed London Bridge, tired and muddy, I still felt an overwhelming relief.
Life had returned.
Last year, London had been under the grip of a terrible plague. When I’d left, the roads had been empty; nothing but fear and cries for the dead. Now the city was back.
Streets weren’t packed like before the sickness, true. But there were people again: travelers, farmers leading sheep to market, carriage drivers screaming curses to get out of the road. It was jostling, deafening—and, in its way, beautiful.
Yet some darkness remained. Several of the stores I passed were damaged—windows smashed, doors cracked. In the wake of those who’d fled London came the desperate—or just plain criminal. Some houses had been looted.
My stomach churned to see it. I’d been away for so long. What about my shop? Had it been looted, too?
I was supposed to go straight to the palace. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Blackthorn. My shop was north, not on the way to Whitehall. Yet I had to see it.
Legs aching, I quickened my pace.
I ran till I spotted the sign.
BLACKTHORN
it said, in big red letters. Underneath, in smaller printing,
RELIEFS FOR ALL MANNER OF MALIGNANT HUMORS
The words were surrounded by leaves of ivy, painted green, and a golden unicorn horn. The paint, once bright, was dull with neglect, the chains that held the sign dotted with rust. The windows were dirty, the doorstep covered with mud. It would take some care to bring it back to the way it should be.
But it was still here. No smashed glass, no splintered doorjamb. I nearly cried with relief. London might be my city, but this shop, this gift Master Benedict had given me, was my home.
And someone was waiting. A pigeon fluttered down from the flat-topped roof high above, flapping salt-and-pepper-speckled wings to land at my feet. She ran over my muddy boots, trilling a hello.
“Bridget!”
I picked her up. As we’d pulled onto the road this morning, I’d let her out of her cage to stretch her wings. She’d flown off into the blue, disappearing from sight almost immediately.
“Where have you been?” I complained. “I had to walk back here all alone.”
She cooed and nestled into my hands. I suppose I couldn’t blame her for being excited. Pigeons have an incredible sense of direction, and Bridget was keener than any bird I’d known. After we’d left Brighton with Lord Ashcombe three days ago, she’d grown increasingly restless. I think she’d understood we were going home.
At least she was all right. I cradled her in the crook of my arm and pulled out my key. I’d just clacked open the lock when I heard the call.
“Christopher?”
I turned. From the door of the Missing Finger, the tavern across the street, a tall girl of seventeen hurried across the road. It was Dorothy, the innkeeper’s daughter, wearing her serving smock and apron. She hadn’t bothered to put on a coat.
“It is you!” she said, and she hugged me, welcoming me home. If there was any doubt the plague was behind us, that put it to rest. The day I’d left, she wouldn’t have touched me for all the wealth of kings.
She laughed and let me go. “What happened? You’d told me you’d be gone awhile; I didn’t know you meant for months. I was worried the sickness— Are those pistols?”
Dorothy stared at my waist. Sure enough, two flintlocks hung from my belt, grips forward, in clear imitation of Lord Ashcombe. Though mine weren’t nearly as nice as the King’s Warden’s. No fine walnut, no handles of pearl, no engraved barrel or trigger guard. Just simple, functional guns.
After our travels in Paris and Devonshire—and with my enemy, the Raven, still at large—Lord Ashcombe had ordered me to start carrying a weapon. Tom wanted me to learn the sword, like him; he’d been training with one since we’d left for France. In the two months we’d spent stuck on the southern coast of England, held there by terrible storms and fear of the spreading plague, the King’s Men had really taken Tom under their
