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Chapter 1

‘This is a bad idea,’ Tom said.

He stared sidelong at the device at the end of the workbench, as though, if he looked at it directly, it might poke out his eyes.

‘You don’t even know what it does yet,’ I said.

He bit his lip. ‘I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.’

The contraption did look rather … well, odd. It was five inches tall, with a bulging top balanced over a narrow upright cylinder, wrapped tightly in folded paper. The upper part of the device balanced on three wooden prongs sticking out of the bottom. A wick of cannon fuse trailed from its end.

‘It’s like a mushroom,’ Tom said. ‘With a tail.’ He edged away from the workbench. ‘A flammable tail.’

I couldn’t help feeling slightly wounded. Odd or not, this device was the most important thing I’d ever made. All of the other equipment in the apothecary workshop – the ceramic jars, the moulded glassware, the spoons and cups and pots and cauldrons – lay crammed on the side benches, cold and quiet. Only the faint scent of ingredients and concoctions lingered in the room. Even the giant onion-shaped oven in the corner was still. Because this was the creation that would save my shop.

I held it up with pride. ‘Blackthorn’s Smoke-Your-Home! Guaranteed to … uh … smoke your home. Well, that advertisement needs work.’

‘Your brain needs work,’ Tom muttered.

Now that was going too far. ‘My inventions do exactly what they’re supposed to.’

‘I know,’ Tom said. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘But look.’ I put my Smoke-Your-Home back down – gently – and showed him my design, sketched on an unrolled sheet of vellum.

‘It’s like a firework,’ I said, which in retrospect was probably not the best way to start. ‘You light the fuse at the bottom. The gunpowder in the lower part pops the top into the air. Then the second fuse makes that burst.’ I swept my arm over it like I was hawking silks at the Royal Exchange. ‘Fills any room with smoke to keep your family safe! Designed to help drive off the plague!’

‘Uh-huh,’ Tom said. I think my theatrics made him less impressed. ‘Why is it full of flour?’

‘That’s the best part. Watch.’

I went to the side of the workshop, where I’d stored the two sacks of flour I had left. I grabbed a handful of it and picked up the taper burning on the workbench. When I puffed the flour into it, it burst with a bright flash of flame.

‘See?’ I said. ‘It explodes. That’s what blew up Campden’s mill last summer. There was too much flour in the air.’

Tom pressed his fingers to his forehead. ‘You based an invention on an exploding mill?’

‘Well … it’s less dangerous than gunpowder, right?’ Tom didn’t seem to think that was a selling point. ‘Anyway, when the flour explodes, it incinerates the sawdust and herbs, filling the room with smoke. And that smoke is the best thing we know of that will prevent you getting the plague. We can even make them to order; put whatever wood inside the customer wants.’

‘Why couldn’t they just make a fire?’ Tom said.

‘You can’t just light random fires around your house,’ I said.

‘Yes, this seems much safer.’

‘It is,’ I insisted. ‘You just have to keep it away from curtains. And oil lamps. And pets. And – look, I’ll show you.’

Tom backed away. ‘Wait. You’re not really going to set that off?’

‘What else would I do with it?’

‘I thought you were just playing a joke on me.’

From high up on the ingredient shelves, a plump salt-and-pepper-speckled pigeon fluttered down to where I stood. She cooed.

‘That’s right, Bridget,’ Tom said. ‘Talk some sense into him.’

Bridget pecked at the cannon fuse. She recoiled with a grunt and took off, wings flapping her up the stairs.

‘See?’ Tom ducked behind the workbench. ‘Even the bird thinks you’re mad.’

‘You’re going to regret this when I’m knee-deep in gold,’ I said.

Tom’s voice called from behind the bench. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

I lit the fuse. I watched it crackle and spark, then joined Tom behind the bench. Not because I was worried, of course. It just seemed … prudent.

The fuse reached the bottom. For a moment, there was nothing.

Then the gunpowder ignited. There was a hissing, and sparks shot from the bottom. The cylinder popped into the air.

I pulled on Tom’s sleeve. ‘It works! It works!’

Then the second charge began to burn. A thin, smoking flame rushed out of the bottom. Slowly, it tipped sideways. Then it rocketed through the door into the shop.

‘Was that supposed to happen?’ Tom said.

‘Well …’ I said, but the correct answer was: No.

From the doorway to the shop came a flash. Then a BOOM. The boom was expected. The voice that followed it was not.

‘AAHHHH!’ it said.

Chapter 2

We scrambled into the shop. There, I found myself somewhat conflicted.

On the one hand, my invention had worked! My Smoke-Your-Home had indeed filled the shop with a thick, sweet-smelling haze. On the other hand, there was a big black scorch mark on the wall between the front door and the window. Also on that hand, Harry, the stuffed hedgehog on the windowsill, was on fire.

Waving his arms and coughing, Tom rushed forward and threw the front door open. He grabbed the hedgehog’s tail – the only part of it that hadn’t yet begun to blaze – and hurled it down the street. Harry tumbled end over end in a flaming arc, bouncing twice on the cobblestones before he came to rest, burning lazily in the lane.

Tom turned to glare at me. I flushed. ‘Now, wait a minute –’ I began. Then I noticed: the shop was empty. ‘Didn’t we just hear someone scream?’

Tom’s eyes went wide. ‘You blew up a customer.’

‘Just missed, actually,’ a warbling voice said.

The top of a man’s head peeked out from behind the display table near the fireplace. I saw the familiar shock of wispy white hair, the slightly clouded eyes. And my heart leaped.

‘Master Isaac!’ I said.

‘Nice to see you boys are keeping busy.’ Isaac crawled out from under the table and pushed himself to his feet with the creaking slowness of the elderly.

I rushed forward, stopping just short of touching him. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Better than the hedgehog.’ Isaac brushed off his breeches. ‘Might I enquire as to the purpose of this? Did the beast anger you in some way?’

‘That was my invention. It’s supposed to stop the plague.’

He nodded. ‘I imagine turning someone to cinders would indeed prevent the sickness.’

My face burned. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘No harm done.’ He spotted a scorch mark on the shoulder of his doublet. ‘Well, some harm done, then. Oh, don’t worry about it.’

As embarrassed as I was, I was so happy to see him again. Isaac Chandler, the bookseller, had been one of Master Benedict’s few friends – and mine, too, it turned out, in helping me and Tom stop the Cult of the Archangel, which had murdered a dozen men in the spring, including my master. Isaac owned a shop tucked away in a block of warehouses north of the Thames. More importantly, in a vault deep below that shop, he kept a secret alchemical library, filled with ancient works that spanned centuries of arcane knowledge. I’d been there twice: once to collect a key that helped me find a secret of Master Benedict’s, and the last time, four weeks afterwards, to hide that same secret my master had sent me to find: the recipe for a terrible, explosive weapon called the Archangel’s Fire.

I wished I’d been there more. Isaac’s warm, cosy shop had quickly become one of my favourite places. But, right now, I was just glad Isaac was here. He’d been out of town for two months.

‘Are you back in London for good?’ I said.

‘Yes. And no.’ Isaac dragged a large leather satchel from under the display table. ‘May I sit? The journey home was tiring.’

‘Of course.’ I took the satchel and drew up the comfortable chair by the fireplace.

He nodded towards the workshop. ‘Privacy would be better, I think.’

Surprised, I escorted him into the back. Tom stayed behind and picked up a brush, giving me a long-suffering look as he began scrubbing the scorch mark from the wall. Isaac hobbled over to a stool at one of the benches and motioned for me to join him.

I did, placing the satchel between us. Now that we were out of the haze in the shop, I could see Isaac much clearer. He didn’t look well.

A knot twisted in my gut. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I don’t have the plague, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘I do, however, appear to have grown very old.’

He slumped on the stool, eyes sunken, face dirty with dust from the road. I brought him a mug of stale beer from the one remaining barrel in my pantry, along with the last breakfast bun Tom had baked this morning. Isaac drained the mug in four gulps.

‘Thank you. It’s been many years since I’ve been on a horse.’ He shifted on the stool. ‘My backside wishes it had been longer.’

‘Did you just get back?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘An hour ago. Arrived with an old friend of yours.’

I frowned. Did I even have an old friend?

‘Lord Ashcombe,’ Isaac said.

Lord Richard Ashcombe was the King’s Warden, personal protector to His Majesty, Charles II. Along with Isaac, Lord Ashcombe had been instrumental in helping stop the Cult.

‘I thought he was in Wiltshire with the king,’ I said.

‘He’s only returned to London for the day. But I needed to meet him, as he’d collected something for me.’

Isaac opened his satchel and pulled out two packages. The first was wrapped in a linen cloth. Isaac patted the second. It was covered with a greased leather sheath and tightly bound with cord. The knots were sealed with wax.

‘What is it?’ I said.

‘A book,’ he said. ‘A very special book. One I’ve waited thirty years to acquire.’

I stared at the package, as though if I tried hard enough I could see through the leather. ‘What’s it about?’

Isaac ran his fingertips along the cord. ‘That’s not important at the moment. Perhaps one day I’ll show it to you. But not today.’

Master Benedict used to say the same thing. It drove me mad. But I didn’t imagine I could cajole Isaac into telling me, so I tamped down my disappointment and said, ‘What’s in the other package?’

‘Nothing quite so valuable, but precious to me nonetheless.’ He pulled away the linen. Underneath was a freshly baked honey cake, icing frosted on top.

‘My favourite,’ he said. ‘Have some.’

I cut a piece, my mouth watering, still studying the mysterious package on the counter. ‘Where did it come from?’

‘The bakery on Fleet Street.’

‘I meant the book.’

‘Did you?’

‘Master Isaac,’ I said, exasperated.

‘Egypt. It came from Egypt. And that’s all I’m telling you,’ he said good-naturedly. He stuffed the book back in the satchel. ‘I’m glad to see the plague hasn’t dampened your curiosity. Or your appetite.’

I’d already finished the first piece of cake. I guess he’d seen me eying the rest of it. ‘Sorry.’

He cut me another slice. ‘I’m happy to share it. I’ve been worried about you. News from London has been particularly bad.’

Whatever he’d heard couldn’t possibly convey the darkness that shrouded the city. When the Cult of the Archangel had murdered my master, I’d thought they were the worst thing that could happen to our city. I was wrong.

The plague, quiet in London for almost thirty years, had returned with a vengeance. What began as a few scattered cases outside the city walls spread quickly, finally exploding with the heat of the summer. The Bills of Mortality, published every Thursday, kept the grim official tally – 6,102 deaths last week alone – but everyone knew that number was low. The true count was probably double that. The total was thirty thousand dead now, and rising every day.

A child was the first on our street to go: Jonathan Hartwell, the silversmith’s son, only ten years old. In the beginning, his parents held out hope the boy had a different illness, as the plague started like many others: chills, cramps, the sweats. But then things turned. The vomiting started, uncontrollable. Seizures racked his body. Delirium took him; his mind leaped from angels to demons, seeing rapture and torment by turns, praying with one breath, cursing the next. Still the Hartwells denied it was the sickness, until the proof finally marked the boy’s skin.

Unique to the plague were ‘the tokens’: horrible black swellings on the neck, under the arms, at the groin; or, in rarer cases, rashes and red, blotchy skin. Like most, little Jon had the swellings. He screamed so badly I could hear him four houses down, through locked doors, shuttered windows, my hands clamped over my ears.

There wasn’t really anything I could do. I took his father some poppy to try to alleviate the poor boy’s agony, but that was little comfort against the sickness. Even then, his mother held out hope, as some did actually survive the plague. But the ultimate quiet finally took him, replaced by his mother’s wailing, and all I could do was listen: helpless, useless. Like now.

‘Things just keep getting worse,’ I said to Isaac. ‘I’m really scared.’

‘The sickness makes us all the same,’ he said. ‘Have you been following that prophet, then?’

‘Who?’

‘The report I heard,’ Isaac said, ‘is there’s a prophet in the city who can predict the course of the plague. Have you seen him?’

I’d never even heard of him. ‘Tom and I pretty much just stay in the shop. We don’t get news from outside. Except for the Bills of Mortality, I suppose.’

Which was more than either of us wanted to know. Like everyone else, Tom and I tried to keep safe by staying indoors, as no one really knew how the sickness spread. Everyone believed smoke would keep it away – hence my not-quite-successful invention – but you could never be sure whether someone was infected until the tokens came.

There wasn’t much reason to go out now, anyway. With the plague, London had ground to a halt. Most shops had closed, jobs disappearing with them. Anyone who could afford to leave had already gone; all summer, London’s streets had been clogged with carriages, the wealthy fleeing in panic to the safety of the countryside. The only regulars on the road these days were the keepers of the dead-cart, hauling away token-marked corpses every night with a ringing bell and that terrible cry: Bring out your dead.

Isaac shook his head. ‘There have been three plagues in London during my lifetime: 1603, 1625, and 1636. And I tell you, Christopher, this one is worse than all of those together. If there really is a prophet out there, it’s a dreadful sign that the worlds beyond have taken an interest in our city once again. And I don’t have to explain to you how dangerous that is.’

I shuddered, thinking of the Archangel’s Fire. ‘When the plague struck, I thought you might not come back at all.’

‘I hadn’t planned to. But the news of this prophet – and the reports of looting in the city – made me change my mind. That’s why I stopped here on the way back. I wanted to let you know I’m closing my shop.’

His announcement felt like a punch in the gut. Though I’d only been to Isaac’s twice, his connection to my master made me feel I was losing a second home. ‘But … why? And what’s going to happen to the library in the vault?’

‘Nothing. That library is precisely why I’m shutting the shop down.’ Isaac sighed. ‘I love my shop, almost as much as your master loved this place. But the library … that is my purpose. Everything I’ve ever done has been to serve it, grow it, protect it. Nonetheless, I’ve been foolish.’ He motioned to the book inside his satchel. ‘I’ve been purchasing works for the future. What I should have done was prepare for it.

‘I have no apprentice,’ he said. ‘If I die, there will be no one to take my place. And that library must survive. So, I must survive along with it. At least for a little while longer.’

Isaac stared into his mug. ‘I’d have preferred not to return at all. But if my shop gets looted, and thieves find the secret passage to the library … I can’t let that happen. If I must be in London, then there’s only one sure way to avoid the sickness: no contact – with anyone – until it’s over.

‘So that’s what I shall do,’ he said. ‘I’m going to shut the shop and seal myself away in the vault. It’s clear now that the plague will last for several months more. I’ve just arranged for enough food to be delivered to last me through it.’

I tried to imagine spending months underground. Never breathing fresh air, never seeing the sun. It sounded awful. ‘Won’t you be lonely?’

‘My books will keep me company. Unless you’d like to stay.’

I blinked. ‘Me?’

He nodded. ‘That’s why I stopped by. With your master gone, I wanted to offer you the chance to join me in the library. There’s plenty of space for both of us, and, even with my books, it would be considerably more pleasant with someone to talk to. It would put my mind at ease, as well. I wouldn’t have to worry about you catching the sickness.’

I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t really want to live underground. Then again, I didn’t really want to live through this plague, either. I’d also get the chance to know Isaac better, to hear his stories about Master Benedict. And that library! All those books. And all the time in the world to read them.

‘What about Tom?’ I said. ‘Could he come, too?’

Isaac pursed his lips. ‘Tom’s family. Are they still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘And would they want to know where he’s gone?’

Now I understood why Isaac had asked for privacy. ‘Yes,’ I said, downcast.

‘Tom himself would be welcome,’ Isaac said. ‘I trusted him earlier with our secret, and your friend’s loyalty proved him worthy of that. But, as you’ve already learned, the knowledge in that library would be dangerous in the wrong hands. His family cannot be told. So I’m afraid the answer must be no.’

I was disappointed, but I didn’t blame Isaac. Tom’s mother was a decent person, but a terrible gossip. Tom’s sisters were good girls, as well, but far too young to be trusted with this kind of responsibility. As for Tom’s father, the less said about him, the better. Clearly, Tom couldn’t come.

That gave me my answer, too. What if Tom got sick while I was safe underground? I couldn’t abandon him. Nor could I abandon what my master had left me.

‘I’d really like to come,’ I said to Isaac. ‘But Tom might need my help. And … I don’t know. I’ve been hoping that maybe I could find something to do to help the city.’

I felt rather stupid saying that. But Isaac just smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder.

‘I made the same offer to Benedict, back in ’thirty-six,’ he said. ‘And he told me the same thing. Very well. On to practical matters. Before I seal myself away, is there anything you need?’

I was embarrassed. ‘Well … now that you mention it … I was wondering, maybe … I mean, if you had any …’

Isaac raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d like to return home before I catch the plague, Christopher.’

‘Right. Um … could I maybe … um … borrow some money?’

‘Money?’

‘I’ll pay you back, I promise,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s just … I’m sort of … out of it.’

Isaac regarded me sternly. ‘The Apothecaries’ Guild gave you ten pounds after Benedict’s death. Surely you haven’t squandered all of it?’

‘I haven’t squandered any of it,’ I said. ‘I never got it.’

Realization dawned. ‘Let me guess,’ Isaac said. ‘You went to collect it every week. They always had some excuse as to why it wasn’t ready. And now, with the plague, they’ve closed their doors, and you can’t collect it.’

‘They were always very polite about it.’

‘I’m sure. What have you been living on all this time?’

‘I’ve been selling off some of the shop’s supplies to other apothecaries,’ I said. ‘But no one will buy them any more.’

‘Because they’re worried the goods are tainted by the sickness?’ Isaac said.

I nodded, feeling miserable. The murder of my master hadn’t just left a hole in my heart. It had left me with no way to support myself. After the business with the Cult of the Archangel, the Apothecaries’ Guild was supposed to assign me a new master. But, when the plague swelled, the Guild Council had closed Apothecaries’ Hall and fled alongside the rest of the wealthy. With Guild business shut down, any chance of me getting a master disappeared – along with my promised ten pounds.

As an apprentice, it was illegal for me to sell remedies myself: hence the Smoke-Your-Home. Since smoke only prevented you catching the plague instead of curing it, technically, smoke wasn’t a remedy, so selling it wouldn’t be illegal. But that big black scorch mark beside the door – and the charred hedgehog in the street – made it pretty clear my invention wasn’t quite ready to market. And, with the few remaining apothecaries no longer willing to buy my stock, my strongbox was finally empty.

‘Oh, Christopher,’ Isaac said. ‘I shouldn’t have left you alone. Here.’ He pulled five silver shillings from his doublet and placed them on the table. ‘I’d give you more, but I spent the rest of my savings provisioning for the plague. Tell you what, take the honey cake, too. No, no, don’t argue.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I may love it, but it doesn’t love me.’

If it weren’t for the sickness, I’d have hugged him. ‘This will be a huge help.’

‘But not enough,’ Isaac muttered.

It wouldn’t last the whole outbreak, to be sure. But those silver shillings would keep me fed for a few weeks yet. Tom, in particular, would be thrilled – and not just to see the honey cake. His family’s bakery had shut down, since all their regular customers had fled, and, with flour so cheap, most people left now baked their own bread.

His father, being a considerable miser, had money stashed at home to last a while, so neither Tom nor his five sisters would starve. But his father wouldn’t spend a farthing on me. In fact, he’d gone so far as to actually encourage Tom to spend the days with me, so Tom would eat from my stores instead of his. What he didn’t realize was that Tom had been sneaking food from home and bringing it to me the whole time. But he couldn’t take too much – just a bun or two, small enough to hide under his shirt. So Isaac’s money would make a huge difference, at least for a while.

I jumped from my stool to go and tell Tom.

‘Wait,’ Isaac said.

I stopped in the doorway. In the front, Tom had finished scrubbing away the scorch mark and was putting the curios back in their places. Through the window, I could see a pair of men walking towards my shop.

‘I gave Benedict my word that I wouldn’t say anything,’ Isaac said. ‘But I suppose, under the circumstances, he wouldn’t mind my breaking that promise.’

He sat up on his stool. ‘I presume you haven’t found your master’s treasure.’

Chapter 3

I blinked.

‘Treasure?’ I said. ‘What treasure?’

The front door opened, and the two men I’d seen crossing the street walked in. Isaac cocked his head, listened. Then he put a finger to his lips.

Tom looked back at me questioningly. I motioned to him to take care of the visitors, then closed the door to the workshop and ran back to Isaac. ‘Treasure?’

He nodded. ‘When Benedict saw the Cult of the Archangel was getting close to discovering him, he wrote a new will, leaving everything to you. Even so, your master remained concerned about what would happen to you after he was gone. In particular, there was something he wanted you to have, but he didn’t want to name it. In case the will fell into the wrong hands, you see.’

‘Treasure?’ I appeared to have turned into a parrot. ‘What is it?’

Isaac frowned. ‘I’m not certain. I know he had money – a lot of money – but Benedict hinted he’d left you something special. Something he wanted only you to have. He wouldn’t tell me what it was; he wanted you to find it on your own. Yet he was worried you wouldn’t. So he left one last thing with me, just in case.’ Isaac motioned to the satchel on the workbench. ‘There’s a bundle of letters in there. One is for you. Go ahead.’

I found seven of them, tied together with twine. I didn’t recognize the first five names. The sixth, I did: Lord Richard Ashcombe.

I lingered over it for a moment, curious as to what business Isaac had with the King’s Warden. But it was the last name I really wanted to see. It was written in my master’s smooth hand. I traced my finger over the letters.

Christopher Rowe

Blackthorn Apothecary, London

‘Benedict made me promise not to give that to you until at least a year had passed,’ Isaac said. ‘He really did want you to find what he left for you on your own. But given the sickness …’

I turned the letter over. On the seal, my master had inked a single symbol: a circle, with a dot in the centre.

I recognized it. As a secret alchemist, my master had searched for the truths of the universe beyond the mortal world. To keep their research hidden, alchemists used special symbols to represent materials, celestial bodies, instructions, and the like. The circle with the dot in the centre represented the sun: light, life, warmth. Like all celestial bodies, the sun was linked to an earthly metal. Mars was iron. Mercury was quicksilver. The sun?

The sun was gold.

Voices came through the door from the shop. I ignored them. I broke the seal and read my master’s message.

Christopher:

Somewhere in our home is a prize, hidden for you: Treasure. Understanding your nature, you probably haven’t found it yet. Doubtlessly, you’d like to get it sooner rather than later. Yet you won’t find it until you realize something incredibly important.

Our home is now yours. Use everything you’ve been given. Recognize exactly what that is.

But if I say more now you won’t listen, so you’ll have to work this one out on your own. Read this message closely. Decipher its meaning. Solve this last riddle, and you’ll not only find your treasure, you’ll learn one last thing – and that is the most important thing i’ll ever want you to know.

My eyes stung. My heart ached as much as it had since he’d been taken from me. But still his letter made me smile. Because – of course – he’d left me a puzzle.

My master had had an absolute passion for puzzles: secrets under secrets, codes inside codes. Among other things, he’d passed that love on to me. I wiped my eyes and scanned the letter for clues.

Isaac cleared his throat. ‘I can see you won’t pay any attention to me any more.’

I looked up. ‘Sorry.’

He waved my apology away. ‘Benedict was exactly the same.’ He stood. ‘I wish I could help you find whatever’s hidden in that message, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. In the meantime, I’m sure you’d like to start looking. And it’s time for me to return home.’ He frowned. ‘Besides, I think Tom might need your assistance.’

I’d been so focused on my master’s letter that I hadn’t noticed what was happening out front. Now I heard them: sharply raised voices. An argument.

I opened the door to the shop. Tom stood at the counter, trying to placate the different parties. A pair of men stood right in front of me: the two I’d seen before. A third man was hunched on the opposite side of Tom. He must have come in after I’d shut the workshop door.

This man had clearly fallen on hard times. His clothes were stained and worn, with home-sewn patches covering the tears. His skin was just as filthy, as was his unwigged, unwashed hair. His hands were scabbed, and he had a giant wart on his bulbous nose. Worst of all, he smelled like he’d just stepped in something decidedly unpleasant. The first two men seemed to object to his presence as much as to what he was doing: he was begging.

‘Please, master,’ he said to Tom. ‘Anything.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said. ‘But I told you, it’s not my shop –’

‘We were here first,’ one of the others complained.

Tom looked relieved I’d finally come out. The beggar spotted Isaac in the doorway behind me. He went straight for him, hunched over and limping. ‘Good sir –’

Before he could continue, Isaac motioned to me. The beggar looked a bit surprised, but he pleaded his case to me nonetheless. ‘Please, young master. My name is Miles Gaspar. I was a tanner, down by the docks, before the sickness came. Now the tannery’s closed down. I’ve been out of work for two months. Do you have a job for me? I’ll do anything, anything.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t –’

‘Oh, please, sir, I’m not proud. Anything, no matter how small. I can’t feed my family.’ Miles wrung his hands together. ‘My wife and I have two little ones. We’ve lost our lodging, because we can’t pay the rent. We give the children what little we can find. I haven’t eaten for three days. Please. Anything.’

I felt terrible. Seeing this shop, he must have thought I was swimming in gold. How could I tell him I’d had to beg Isaac for money myself?

‘I … I don’t have anything I can afford to give,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

He bowed his head. ‘I understand. I’m sorry to trouble you.’ He turned away.

Watching him limp out reminded me of my own life, a few short months ago. I’d been out on the streets, too. And even with Isaac’s shillings, if I didn’t find Master Benedict’s treasure, I might be on the streets once again, and soon.

There wasn’t much I could do for the man; I really did have next to nothing. But I remembered that back in June someone who also had next to nothing had kept me safe – and had passed up a fortune in reward money to do it.

‘Wait,’ I said.

In the doorway, Miles turned back, hopeful. I went through the workshop to the pantry. It was nearly empty, just half a sack of oats, a barrel of stale beer, and a wedge of salted cheese. I took the cheese, wrapped it in the linen cloth from Isaac’s honey cake, then went back to the shop.

I held it out to him. ‘For your children.’

Miles took the food with trembling hands. He blinked away tears. ‘The Lord bless you, kind master. God’s blessing be upon you.’

‘That’s all I have,’ I said.

‘I understand, master, I do. I won’t trouble you again, I promise. God save you.’

God save us all, I thought as Miles left. Tom looked pleased that I’d been able to help the man. The other two in the shop seemed more pleased the beggar was no longer fouling the air.

‘Do you have time for paying customers now?’ said the man who’d spoken before.

A lack of time wasn’t my problem. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t –’

‘Our master sent us to buy your Venice treacle.’ This had become a popular request. Many believed Venice treacle, an antidote for certain poisons, could also fight the plague. ‘We’ll take everything you have, and any more you can make.’

I’d placed a sign in the window two months ago: TEMPORARILY CLOSED – OPENING SOON! That didn’t always help, as plenty of people couldn’t read. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘but the shop isn’t open yet. I’m waiting on a new master.’

‘Will he be here this morning?’

‘Uh … no.’ I didn’t want to tell him Blackthorn was closed indefinitely. If word got out before I was appointed a new master, I might lose all our former customers for good. ‘He … won’t be here for some time.’

The man held out a coin purse, already open. ‘Well, we don’t have time to wait. Give us whatever this will pay for.’

I stared at the purse. The coins inside were gold – guineas, worth a pound and a shilling each. I could see at least eight of them.

My throat tightened. ‘I … I can’t sell it to you.’

‘Don’t you have any?’

I had plenty, right up there on the shelf behind the counter. ‘I’m … not allowed to sell remedies without a master.’ I swallowed. ‘There’s another apothecary down on –’

‘We don’t want another apothecary,’ the man said. ‘Our master ordered us to buy it here. He said Blackthorn’s treacle was the best.’

Every word this man spoke made me feel even worse. Our treacle was the best. And the money in that purse could keep me fed for years.

Tom gaped at the coins. Just take them, a small voice said in my head.

I looked the men over. They’d mentioned their master, but I didn’t know who that was. As for the men themselves, I didn’t recognize them. They both wore fairly plain clothes, wool and linen. Servants, I’d have guessed, except for two things.

First, both were carrying weapons. One had a war club slung over his back, an iron spike at the end; the other had a shortsword in his belt. And, second, both had a small bronze medallion sewn on the breast of their doublets, right over their hearts. Each bore the same design: a circle with a triangle in the centre, and within that something that looked like a cross. Engraved round the edge were letters of some kind. I couldn’t see what they were.

The man thrust the purse towards me. The coins jingled. If I took them, we’d be fine until the plague ran its course.

And if their master told anyone where they got the treacle?

I felt Tom’s eyes on me as I searched for something to say. But I knew what my answer had to be. ‘I … I can’t. I’m sorry.’

The man held the purse out for a second more. Then he drew it closed. ‘Our master won’t be pleased with you.’

He said it like a threat. It didn’t make any difference. If I got caught selling remedies, I’d lose everything: my shop, my future, all Master Benedict had left me. I wouldn’t throw that away. Not for all the gold guineas in the world.

‘I really am sorry,’ I said.

The man opened his mouth to retort, but Isaac stepped forward. ‘The boy’s made his decision.’

The man glared at all of us. Then he spun on his heel and left, taking his companion with him. It took every bit of will not to run after them.

Isaac put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You did the right thing. You’ll feel better when you buy fresh food from the market. And even better once you find Benedict’s treasure.’

I nodded miserably. Tom just looked confused.

‘Treasure?’ he said. ‘And food?’

Tom almost cried when he saw the honey cake. I showed him my master’s message as he munched on it.

‘Amazing,’ he said, spraying crumbs everywhere. Tom looked around the workshop, as if wondering which of the hundreds of apothecary jars that lined the shelves hid Master Benedict’s treasure.

I didn’t think it was in any of them. ‘He wanted me to work out this puzzle to get it. He wouldn’t hide it somewhere I might stumble upon out of luck.’

Tom took another piece of cake. ‘Why did Master Benedict think you wouldn’t find it?’

To me, that was the biggest puzzle of all. He’d mentioned it twice in the letter.

Understanding your nature, you probably haven’t found it yet.

You won’t find it until you realize something incredibly important. Recognize exactly what that is.

Yet it obviously mattered a great deal to him. And to me. Not just for the money, either. You’ll learn one last thing, the letter said. And that is the most important thing i’ll ever want you to know.

Even Isaac had noted it. Benedict hinted he’d left you something special. Something he wanted only you to have.

What could my master have believed was so important, yet he felt I’d never realize it on my own? I didn’t understand what he was getting at. But I had found something in his message.

Tom noticed it, too. He pointed to the last line. ‘Shouldn’t this i be a capital letter?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s not a mistake Master Benedict would have made. It has to be a clue.’

‘A clue to what?’

I didn’t know. Master Benedict had taught me so many different ciphers during the last three years that I couldn’t begin to remember them all. And, of course, there were plenty of codes he’d never taught me: ones he’d planned to explain but never had the chance, or that he’d wanted me to work out on my own.

I wondered if I should try searching through his notes. The problem with that was my master’s notes were, to put it kindly, a mess. He’d kept the store and workshop in perfect condition, but upstairs was a different matter. Most of the rooms, including my master’s bedroom and the hall leading to it, were so stuffed with books and papers he could have started his own library. And my master had never kept his notes organized – at least not in a way other people could understand.

He’d often sent me upstairs for a work. ‘Get me Culpeper’s Herbal,’ he’d say. ‘It’s in the storage room on the top floor.’

In an ordinary house, the ‘storage room’ would have been someone’s bedroom. Here, it was filled with stacks of papers and books, just like everywhere else. In fact, the only space my master didn’t store his books was in the crawlspace underneath the house where we kept our ice vault, which he’d always meant to turn into a proper cellar, but never got around to it. And the only reason that crawlspace wasn’t filled with notes was because he was worried about the damp.

So up I’d go, knowing I’d be standing there helplessly. ‘Master …?’

‘Twelfth stack from the northwest corner, widdershins,’ he’d call up the stairs. ‘Fourth from the bottom. The cover is patterned leather.’ And I’d come back down, holding that exact book and shaking my head.

But my master was no longer around to tell me where to look. So Tom and I sat there, eating honey cake and staring fruitlessly at an uncapitalized i.

It was later that morning that I worked it out.

We made plans to go to spend Isaac’s money at the market after lunch, since I wanted to keep working on Master Benedict’s message. Bridget kept us company, marching around the workbench and pecking at whatever she could find as Tom made today’s bread. He was taking the freshly baked buns out of the oven with a wooden peel when I jumped from my stool with a whoop, sending Bridget scurrying for cover. ‘That’s it!’ I shouted.

‘Aaahh!’ Tom started, and the steaming bread went flying.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Bridget flapped her wings at me, annoyed. Tom looked forlornly into the cauldron, in which a pair of golden brown lumps were slowly sinking. ‘You made me lose my buns.’

‘Never mind those. Come and look.’ I smoothed my master’s message out on the workbench. ‘I’ve got the answer. That i at the end isn’t lower case because it’s important. It’s lower case because it isn’t important.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Tom said.

‘I thought not capitalizing it meant Master Benedict had made it part of the message. But he did that so it wouldn’t be part of the message. You see? He hid the secret in the capitals.’

I took an inkpot and used a quill to circle every capital letter in my master’s message.

omewhere in our home is a prize, hidden for you: reasure. nderstanding your nature, you probably haven’t found it yet. oubtlessly, you’d like to get it sooner rather than later. et you won’t find it until you realize something incredibly important.

ur home is now yours. se everything you’ve been given. ecognize exactly what that is.

ut if say more now you won’t listen, so you’ll have to work this one out on your own. ead this message closely. ecipher its meaning. olve this last riddle, and you’ll not only find your treasure, you’ll learn one last thing – and that is the most important thing i’ll ever want you to know.