And I could never return to that.

I’d known this day was coming, of course—with no master, the guild would never let me take the test to become an apothecary—but now that it was here, I couldn’t control my nerves. Who was this new man? What was he like? How could he—how could anyone—ever replace my true master?

The king had one answer for me, at least. “Woodrow Kirby is his name. Do you know him?”

I shook my head.

“One of my private apothecaries.” A pair of spaniels vied for the king’s attention; he settled the squabble by putting them both on his lap. “He’s served me since my return.”

Lord Ashcombe opened the door and spoke to the servants outside. A moment later, Woodrow Kirby, apothecary, entered the room.

He looked to be in his late fifties. He was an average-size man, with a bit of a belly, heavy-lidded eyes, and sagging jowls. He wore a long, black wig, and his clothes hung loose on his frame.

I’d already placed Barbara on the floor and stood, heart hammering in my chest. Tom stood automatically beside me, still holding one of the dogs.

The apothecary bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty.”

“Master Kirby. This is the boy I was telling you about.”

Kirby looked me up and down. What he was hoping to see, I didn’t know. His face didn’t betray any feeling. “Rowe, is it?”

“Yes, Master,” I said. My voice cracked, which left me mortified. “Christopher.”

The apothecary glanced over at the king. “With His Majesty’s permission…?”

The king nodded.

“List the four humors,” Kirby said.

So. It was to be a test. “Blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile,” I answered.

“Odd’s fish, even I know that,” the king said. “Ask him something hard.”

Kirby thought for a moment. “Describe briefly anything you know about how to produce spirits of salt.”

“Um… by Valentinus’s process? Or Glauber’s, Master?”

He blinked at me. Charles covered a smile. The king is showing me off, I realized. I felt rather like one of his spaniels.

“Glauber’s,” the apothecary said.

“Heat salt in the presence of oil of vitriol,” I answered. “Distill and condense the vapor.”

“Harder, Kirby, harder,” the king urged. I wished he’d stop.

The apothecary thought a little longer this time. Then he said, “List as many ingredients as you can that are used in the production of the Venice treacle.”

This was a difficult question—namely because Venice treacle had sixty-four ingredients. Except not only had Venice treacle been a specialty of Master Benedict’s, but, after the trouble during the plague, Magistrate Aldebourne had contracted me to produce as much of it as I could. I knew this answer cold.

I began with the most famous ingredient: snake venom. “Viperinorum,” I said. “Trochiscorum scilliticorum, hedichroi radicum gentianae, acori veri, valerianae…”

I continued, the king grinning openly as Kirby stared in amazement. I think I missed a few—I lost count somewhere around ingredient thirty—but I’m not sure the apothecary noticed.