“Interesting. You may look.”

The first thing I did was count the ships. Yes, there were eight… Oh no. “There are nine,” I said, disappointed. “There’s another mast sticking up behind the ship on the left.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what city it is?”

“I have no idea.”

I blinked. “So there’s no right answer?”

“There often isn’t.” Walsingham shifted in his chair. “The purpose of my question, then: Can you understand it?”

If there was no right answer… then the answer wasn’t what mattered. Instead… “It was about me,” I said. “What—or rather how—I think.”

He nodded. “You are acceptable. You may inform Ashcombe of this.”

Was I being dismissed? I began to rise. “Yes, Master.”

“Never call me that.”

I flushed. “Sorry, Ma—uh… my lord. I thought—”

“I am your master,” Walsingham said, “and the title brings no shame. Nonetheless, you must avoid calling me so, even in private.

“Keep this in your mind always: Our association is to be secret. So, from this day forward, your only master is Woodrow Kirby, apothecary. If you must refer to me publicly—and you should avoid this wherever possible—refer to me only by my title. I am Lord Walsingham, or His Lordship, the Earl.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“Of course,” he said, “your role will not remain a secret. Nothing ever does. But, at the very least, we can avoid hastening the discovery. Tell me about your mission in Paris.”

His abrupt change of topic threw me. “I wrote some letters to Lord Ashcombe—”

“I read them. I wish to hear the story directly from you.”

I’d already begun to recall my trip, while I’d been waiting for Walsingham to speak. Now I told the tale out loud, beginning with the attempt on Minette’s life in Oxford, up to the execution of the traitors outside the Bastille, and the discovery that Rémi—the head servant at Maison Chastellain, and who called himself the Raven—was behind it all. When I finished, the spymaster studied me.

“You are an excellent storyteller,” he said.

“Um… thank you, my lord.”

“And you are an equally excellent liar.”

CHAPTER 14

THE SPYMASTER’S EYES BURNED INTO me.

“My lord?” I said, flustered. “I swear, everything I told you really happened—”

“I believe that,” he said, still quiet. “And yet, your story does not add up. There is something you are not telling me. Your lie is a lie of omission.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Because he was right.

The one thing I’d left out of my letters, the one thing only Tom and Sally knew, was that the Templars weren’t dead. Their ancient order still existed, after all these centuries, operating behind the scenes, in secret, to protect the world from descending into chaos. After we’d discovered this, I’d promised a Templar priest, Father Bernard, that I wouldn’t spread the word. And I hadn’t.

“My lord…” I had no idea what I was going to say. So I was relieved when Walsingham raised his hand to silence me.