I was supposed to go straight to the palace. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Blackthorn. My shop was north, not on the way to Whitehall. Yet I had to see it.

Legs aching, I quickened my pace.

I ran till I spotted the sign.

BLACKTHORN

it said, in big red letters. Underneath, in smaller printing,

RELIEFS FOR ALL MANNER OF MALIGNANT HUMORS

The words were surrounded by leaves of ivy, painted green, and a golden unicorn horn. The paint, once bright, was dull with neglect, the chains that held the sign dotted with rust. The windows were dirty, the doorstep covered with mud. It would take some care to bring it back to the way it should be.

But it was still here. No smashed glass, no splintered doorjamb. I nearly cried with relief. London might be my city, but this shop, this gift Master Benedict had given me, was my home.

And someone was waiting. A pigeon fluttered down from the flat-topped roof high above, flapping salt-and-pepper-speckled wings to land at my feet. She ran over my muddy boots, trilling a hello.

“Bridget!”

I picked her up. As we’d pulled onto the road this morning, I’d let her out of her cage to stretch her wings. She’d flown off into the blue, disappearing from sight almost immediately.

“Where have you been?” I complained. “I had to walk back here all alone.”

She cooed and nestled into my hands. I suppose I couldn’t blame her for being excited. Pigeons have an incredible sense of direction, and Bridget was keener than any bird I’d known. After we’d left Brighton with Lord Ashcombe three days ago, she’d grown increasingly restless. I think she’d understood we were going home.

At least she was all right. I cradled her in the crook of my arm and pulled out my key. I’d just clacked open the lock when I heard the call.

“Christopher?”

I turned. From the door of the Missing Finger, the tavern across the street, a tall girl of seventeen hurried across the road. It was Dorothy, the innkeeper’s daughter, wearing her serving smock and apron. She hadn’t bothered to put on a coat.

“It is you!” she said, and she hugged me, welcoming me home. If there was any doubt the plague was behind us, that put it to rest. The day I’d left, she wouldn’t have touched me for all the wealth of kings.

She laughed and let me go. “What happened? You’d told me you’d be gone awhile; I didn’t know you meant for months. I was worried the sickness— Are those pistols?”

Dorothy stared at my waist. Sure enough, two flintlocks hung from my belt, grips forward, in clear imitation of Lord Ashcombe. Though mine weren’t nearly as nice as the King’s Warden’s. No fine walnut, no handles of pearl, no engraved barrel or trigger guard. Just simple, functional guns.

After our travels in Paris and Devonshire—and with my enemy, the Raven, still at large—Lord Ashcombe had ordered me to start carrying a weapon. Tom wanted me to learn the sword, like him; he’d been training with one since we’d left for France. In the two months we’d spent stuck on the southern coast of England, held there by terrible storms and fear of the spreading plague, the King’s Men had really taken Tom under their wing, coaching him in earnest. He’d not only practiced with his sword—an ancient holy blade called Eternity, given to him by the secret order of the Knights Templar in Paris—he’d learned techniques for spear, poleax, and halberd, too.