“Sure.” I lifted the chessboard from the bed and balanced it on a stack of books, careful not to move the pieces. “I’m sorry we haven’t been around much. It’s been mad, the last few days.” I sighed. “There’s something I have to tell you. The Raven isn’t dead.”

Simon listened, shocked, as I recounted most of what had happened. I kept my new apprenticeship to the spymaster a secret, as ordered, and said nothing about the Templars. But by the time I was finished, he was furious.

He tried to get out of bed. Tom and I pushed him down until he calmed.

He cursed in French. “I’m sorry, Christopher. I truly thought he was ended.”

As disappointed as I was, the truth hadn’t cut me so deeply. Because, in my heart, I’d never really believed the Raven was dead.

“What happens now?” Simon said, eyes hard. He was thinking once again of revenge.

“His Majesty has promised me help. In the meantime, we’ll keep looking.”

“You have my help as well. Anything you need. As soon as that quack lets me out of this bed.”

I looked over at the window. It was open at the bottom, allowing fresh air in. “Did Bridget come?”

“Yes,” Simon said. “An hour ago, or so. She pecked at the window, but by the time I dragged myself over to open it, she’d flown away.”

I wondered if she’d gone up to the roof when she couldn’t get inside. That was where she’d once lived, before the Cult of the Archangel had destroyed our pigeon coop. “You mind checking for her?” I asked Tom. “I have to find Isaac’s arthritis recipe.”

Dutifully, Tom climbed up through the roof hatch in the hallway while I went down to the workshop to hunt through Master Benedict’s notes. It didn’t take long to find the correct paper. I remembered the formula, and even spotted the comment Master Benedict had written in the margin.

For I—twice daily.

I sent Henri to get Simon another bottle of brandy, as he’d requested, then pulled the ingredients together for my master’s recipe and began to work. Tom came down the stairs, pigeonless.

“Nothing?” I said.

He shrugged. I shook my head. Bridget had been behaving so oddly since we’d returned, I didn’t think too much of it. I assumed that, after we hadn’t arrived at Blackthorn, she’d gone looking for me.

I was wrong.

I’d just finished Isaac’s potion when I heard the door to the shop open. I went out front to see a small boy of about nine poking his head in. “This Blackwell apothecary?”

“Blackthorn,” I said.

“Right, that’s it.” The boy stepped in, gingerly holding a package wrapped in burlap. “Looking for Christopher. Man said you’d give me a penny if I delivered this. Careful. He said not to turn it over.”

I fished a penny from my coin purse and traded it for the package. “What man?”

“Dunno. A right proper gentleman, he was, though.” The boy tipped his cap and hurried out.