Was that a hint?

I didn’t know. But if Walsingham was to be my master, it was up to him to decide what I should do. So I just sat there and waited.

Minutes passed. At first, my mind raced. There’s a strange sort of pressure, sitting with a stranger, no one saying anything. Should I disturb him? Keep silent? Sing a song? Sally could sing wonderfully; where was she when I needed her? Safe in Berkshire House, I thought, away from all the murders. But as more time passed—I swear, it had to be approaching an hour—I grew bored. Trying not to fidget, I studied the room.

There was a bookshelf by the door; oddly, none of the books’ spines were labeled. A few paintings hung on the walls. There was an Oriental rug under our feet, too large for the floor; one edge curled a few inches where it ran out of room to stretch. The desk was free of all papers; nothing on top but a ticking clock and the spymaster’s discarded wig. A faint scent of mint filled the room. I couldn’t tell from where it was coming.

Eventually, I ran out of things to study. So I turned my mind to the cipher in yesterday’s message. And the key I still hadn’t discovered.

Remember Paris, the letter had said. I’d already tried the obvious words, and none of them had worked. So what was I forgetting?

I’d just begun to run over the whole trip in my mind. Then I noticed: Walsingham’s eyes were open.

And he was staring at me.

His gaze was penetrating, unsettling. It was like he was looking right through me. I almost said “Master?” just to still my nerves, but I managed to clamp my mouth shut.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” he said, quiet as ever.

I’m not sure I could have pulled away, even if I’d wanted to.

“The door you entered,” he said. “On one side is a bookshelf. What is on the other?”

Another test, I realized.

And this one even more important.

I searched my memory. “A painting.”

“Of?”

“A… naval battle. Naval siege, I mean. Ships, attacking a city.”

“How many ships?”

How many ships? “Uh…” I closed my eyes, tried to remember.

There were three in the foreground, tilting against the waves. Three more behind them. Then one closer to the city… no, wait. Two. That made…

“Eight,” I said.

“And what city are they attacking?”

How on earth was I supposed to know that? “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

“If you had to guess?”

“Um… Bilbao?”

The spymaster tilted his head, curious. “What makes you say that?”

“Well… the city looks Dutch, but the ships are English, and the painting was clearly done years ago, probably during the war with Spain. Since the painting is in the Dutch style, I figured the artist used his own memory to create a city he’d never been to. Like how painters put the faces of people they know as saints, or whatever. I know we’ve attacked Spanish cities, so I chose the closest port, which is Bilbao. I think.”