The Blackthorn Key Read Online Free

all. What had to be at least three pints of urine, dumped from a chamber pot out of a second-floor window, splashed inches from his feet, yet he didn’t even flinch. A hackney coach nearly ran him over, the iron-shod wheels clattering over the cobbles, the horses passing so close, I could smell their musk. Master Benedict just paused for a moment, then continued on toward the shop like he was strolling through Clerkenwell Green. Maybe he really was a tree. Nothing seemed to faze him.
    I couldn’t say the same. My guts twisted as Master Benedict unlocked the front door to the shop. Above the entryway hung a weathered oaken sign, swinging on a pair of silver chains.
    BLACKTHORN
    RELIEFS FOR ALL MANNER OF MALIGNANT HUMORS
    Carved leaves of ivy, filled in with a deep mossy green, ringed the bright red letters. Underneath, painted in broad gold brushstrokes, was a unicorn horn, the universal symbol for apothecaries.
    Master Benedict ushered me through the front door and toward the workshop in the back. I craned my neck to see the store: the stuffed animals, the curios, the neatly stocked shelves. But it was the workshop that really made me stop dead and stare. Covering every inch of the workbenches, jammed on the shelves, and tucked underneath rickety stools were hundreds of apothecary jars, filled with leaves and powders, waters and creams. Around them were endless tools and equipment: molded glassware, heated by oil-fueled flames; liquids bubbling with alien smells; pots and cauldrons, large and small, iron and copper and tin. Inthe corner, the furnace huffed skin-scalding waves of heat from its gaping mouth, twelve feet wide and four feet high. Dozens of experiments cooked on its three racks, glowing coals at one end and a blazing fire at the other. Shaped like a flattened onion, the smooth black curves of the furnace rose to the flue, where a pipe bent away, pumping fumes out the back wall to mix with the stink of garbage, waste, and manure that wafted over from the London streets.
    I’d stood there, open mouthed, until Master Benedict dropped a cast-iron pot in my hands. “Set the water to boil,” he said. Then he waved me onto a stool at the end of the center workbench, near the back door, which led to a small herb patch in the alley behind the house. In front of me sat three empty pewter mugs and a small glass jar filled with hundreds of tiny, black, kidney-shaped seeds. Each one was about half the size of a ladybug.
    â€œThis is madapple,” he said. “Examine it and tell me what you discover.”
    Nervously, I plucked one of the seeds from the jar and rolled it between my fingers. It smelled faintly of rotten tomatoes. I touched it to the tip of my tongue. It didn’t taste any better than it smelled: bitter and oily, with a hint of spice. My mouth dried almost instantly.
    I told Master Benedict what I’d experienced. He nodded. “Good. Now take three of those seeds, crush them, and place them in the first mug. Place six in the second, and ten in the third. Then pour the boiling water over them and let them steep.”
    I did as he ordered. While the infusion brewed, he asked, “Do you know what asthma is?”
    â€œYes, Master,” I said. Several children in the orphanage had had it. One summer, when the air had been soaked in smoke and stink, two boys had died of it on a single day, their own lungs choking the life out of them as the masters stood by helplessly, unable to assist.
    â€œIn small doses,” Master Benedict said, “madapple is effective for treating asthma.” He pushed the first cup toward me. The three crushed seeds swirled at the bottom of the darkening water. It smelled rank. “This is the correct dose for a man of ordinary size.”
    He pushed the second cup toward me. “This amount of madapple will cause terrible hallucinations, true waking nightmares. Once those are gone, the patient’s body will be racked with pain for