And being free didn’t bring any opportunities. I’d still learned, practiced, cooked, cleaned, ran errands. Without a master, none of that would have got me any closer to my dreams.

Now I was supposed to become a spy? Again, someone else was making my decisions for me. It wasn’t the apprentice’s place to question. But I found myself questioning anyway.

What if I didn’t want this?

I said none of it aloud. Nonetheless, Lord Ashcombe seemed to understand the struggle going on inside.

“You have the right to refuse,” he said. “I told you before you went to Paris, you are not a slave. But His Majesty needs you. And, whatever you say, this sort of thing is what you’re best at.

“You will still be an apothecary. As Kirby said, you’ll need to make appearances in his laboratory, take examinations. And Blackthorn will remain your shop. You’ll just be, in secret, this other thing as well.”

I wasn’t sure about any of it, not at all. But if I could still be an apothecary… it made me feel a little better. “Yes, my lord.”

“Now, about Walsingham. He’s strange. Dealing with him requires patience. But he’s loyal, and brilliant, and an exceptional spy.”

Nerves fluttered in my gut. “Yes, my lord.”

I looked over at Tom. He seemed just as stunned as I was, by everything. But he wasn’t about to meet the king’s chief spymaster. He gave me a look of sympathy, which was pretty much all he could do.

And then we were there. Somewhere inside the maze that was Whitehall, Lord Ashcombe stopped at a door and motioned to it.

I knocked. A quiet, baritone voice said, “Enter.”

I took a deep breath and went inside.

CHAPTER 13

THE SPYMASTER’S OFFICE WAS NARROW and cramped, with no windows. A desk near the far wall had been placed to face the door, so anyone sitting behind it could see who came in.

Alexander Walsingham, 1st Earl Walsingham, was not at his desk. He sat, instead, on one of two plain wooden chairs in front of it, angled slightly toward each other. The spymaster was younger than I’d expected, maybe in his late thirties, and possibly not even that. His wig lay on the desk, revealing a head of close-cropped blond hair. He was lean, not particularly tall, and somewhat plain looking. Not the sort of man one might remember in a crowd—which I supposed was good for a spy.

If I hadn’t heard him say “enter,” I’d have thought he was having a nap. He was just sitting there, eyes closed. Without opening them, he motioned to the chair beside him.

“Sit,” he said in that same quiet baritone.

I did. And I waited.

Walsingham made no more gestures, said no more words. He simply sat there in silence, again looking to all the world as if he were fast asleep.

Was I supposed to acknowledge him? Introduce myself? Start the conversation?

I opened my mouth to speak but stopped. Lord Ashcombe had said the man was odd—but he’d also said dealing with the spymaster required patience.