Free The Blackthorn Key by Kevin Sands

grumbling inside. I had bigger worries than Baron Cobley’s vomit.
    I let her into the shop, then donned my blue apron and refilled her jar. I made a note of it in the ledger, adding the cost to the baron’s tab, which was already the size of a whale. I’d planned to lock up and go look for my master again, but as Margaret left, Francis the publican came in with a nasty bottom rash. I took care of him—the prescription, anyway; he’d have to put the ointment on himself—and then Jonathan Tanner arrived, and before I knew it the shop was packed.
    And then finally, finally, finally, Master Benedict stepped in from the workshop.
    I felt like a sack of lead had been lifted from my back. He was all right. In fact, other than the bags under his eyes, he looked very pleased indeed. I didn’t get the chance to speak to him; he barely got a pace inside before he was swarmed. He sent a weary smile in my direction and got to work.
    By lunchtime, we’d whittled the horde down to five; me with William Fitz and his seeping earlobe, Master Benedict with Lady Brent’s swollen hand, and three more waiting before we could break. I’d just finished writing up Mr. Fitz’s account in the ledger when Lady Brent said, “Are you listening to me, Mr. Blackthorn?”
    My master, standing behind the counter, stared past her out the front of the shop. I tried to see what he was looking at, but there was a customer blocking the window: a stocky boy of around sixteen, wearing his own blue apron, smirking at the still-unrepaired bear in the corner.
    â€œMr. Blackthorn?” she said again.
    He blinked. “One moment, madam. I need to check our stock.”
    When he returned, a minute later, he looked pale.
    â€œWell?” Lady Brent said. “Can you make it?”
    Master Benedict wiped his forehead. “Yes. Yes, of course. It will be ready Monday.”
    He really didn’t look well. I tried to catch his eye, but he barely glanced at me. He turned away, scanning the shelves, then went to the ledger on the counter.
    â€œChristopher!” he barked.
    I jumped.
    â€œCome here,” he said.
    I went around the counter. My master no longer looked ill. He looked furious.
    He stabbed a bony finger at the ledger. “Did you serve Baron Cobley this morning?”
    â€œYes, Master,” I stammered. “His maidservant.”
    â€œAnd did I not ask you—twice—to collect his account the next time she came?”
    Had he? “I . . . I’m sorry, Master, I don’t remember—”
    He hit me.
    He smacked me on the side of my jaw, an open-handed blow that cracked like a thunderclap. I stumbled into the shelf hard enough to make the jars rattle.
    â€œYou are useless ,” he said.
    I stayed there, hunched against the wood. My cheek burned. It hurt worse inside. I felt all the customers’ eyes on me, Lady Brent watching curiously, the boy by the door freshly entertained by the show behind the counter.
    â€œDo something right,” Master Benedict said. “For once.” He snatched a handful of pennies and a few worn shillings from the strongbox. “Go to the Exchange and purchase all the natron they carry. And don’t return until you have.”
    â€œBut—” His narrowing eyes stopped me. I bowed my head. “Yes, Master.”
    â€œAnd get Lady Brent her electuary. And the lemon juice.”
    I brought him the jars. He huffed. “I apologize for my apprentice, Lady Brent,” he said.
    â€œNot necessary, Mr. Blackthorn,” she said. “Servants need firm correction. My husband purchased a bamboo whip from the Orient for just this purpose.”
    â€œDid he buy an elephant as well? It would take a kick from one to fix this boy.”
    She laughed. So did he.
    I fled.
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    I barely saw where I was going. I was so blind, I almost walked straight into an older boy twice