The boy ran upstairs as the two of us returned to Blackthorn. The doctor paused in the doorway when he saw Simon on the floor, the dagger sticking out of him.

He glanced over at me. “Some accident.”

“It wasn’t…” I didn’t have time to explain. I didn’t even know what was happening. “He came in like this.”

The doctor gave me a speculative look, but only briefly. “We have to get him up. Where’s your bed?”

“Upstairs.”

We each took one arm. Simon screamed as we lifted him. I looked over at the doctor.

He shook his head. “Can’t be helped.”

We went slowly, careful not to bump Simon into the wall. “You didn’t take the dagger out,” the doctor noted as we inched our way up the narrow stairs.

“My master said not to.”

“Good lad.”

The doctor’s apprentice arrived, clutching the doctor’s satchel, as his master and I carried Simon into my bedroom. The place was a mess of books. Piles upon piles of them, stacked so high they teetered like trees bending in the wind.

The doctor made us a path by kicking them out of the way. The books toppled, knocking down others in a rumble of leather and paper. I winced to see them treated so badly.

The doctor’s only care was his patient. Gently, we laid Simon on the bed, facedown. He cried out, then lay still, breathing in short, ragged gasps.

“Move aside.” The doctor bumped me backward. The apprentice stepped more lightly, weaving between the books to my desk. He cleared a space on top, then began drawing out his master’s tools.

I was surprised to see so many saws and blades. “Are you a surgeon?”

“I was in the army,” the doctor said, as if that answered the question. Which I supposed it did. He’d have seen much worse than this. “I’m not part of the guild, if that’s what you’re asking. You planning on letting them know?”

It was a serious question. By law, the Company of Barbers and Surgeons performed all operations. He’d be in big trouble for doing this. “No.”

“Then go on, get your master. I’m going to need some things.”

“I don’t have a master,” I said.

He frowned. “You’re talking nonsense, boy. Isn’t that your master’s shop downstairs?”

“No, it’s mine. It’s… My master was murdered. Last year. He left me the shop, and this home. I was supposed to get a new master, but the Apothecaries’ Guild’s been ignoring me.”

The physician snorted. “Politics, is it?”

I nodded.

“Well, then,” he said, “let’s annoy the guilds together, shall we?” And he grinned. “I need water, at least four buckets of it, and as much cloth as you can spare. When that’s done, bring me whatever you use to cover wounds.”

“What about something for the pain?” I said.

“Not until I’m finished. Go on now. And you”—he nodded to his apprentice—“get these blasted books out of my way.”

I did as the physician asked, stamping down the panic in my chest. Cloth was no problem; we kept tons of rags for cleaning spills. As for water, normally I’d have a barrel full, but what was in the store was four months old and stagnant. I’d need to go to the well.