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Chapter Text

Benedict gave him the book for no other reason than a well-rounded education. “Master Galileo is one of the most celebrated astronomers of our time,” he said, pushing the leatherbound tome across the table. “It’s important for men of our profession and standing to be familiar with such works.”

He neglected to mention the fact that the majority of Galileo’s works, including this very one, were banned across most of Europe. England, of course, did not maintain an index of prohibited literature, yet the Italian polymath was not well regarded there either.

Christopher picked up the book, examining its plain exterior with a curious expression. He flipped through it gently, eyes brightening at the intricate diagrams of the solar system, concentric circles fanning outwards.

“I have not heard of this Galileo before,” he said, nose still buried in the text, “but he seems most interesting already.”

“Acquaint yourself with it this week,” Benedict instructed, moving onto the next task. “I should like to discuss it with you soon.”

He did not anticipate the boy to become so enchanted with it. A mere three days later, his apprentice was already asking for further reading, to see what the other scholars and astronomers made of such a text.

“I had never thought that the sun might be at the center of it all,” the boy admitted over dinner one night. “Such a notion—it goes against nearly everything that the Church teaches, not to mention other natural philosophers.”

“It’s hardly a new concept,” Benedict agreed, “though even today, when we make such grand strides in knowledge, we are still so behind in understanding our very universe. Aristarchus of Samos first proposed the notion, I believe. Have you read of him?”

“No, Master.”

“I believe he’s referenced in one of Archimedes’s texts. I have a copy upstairs in the storage room, should it interest you. Besides, I know there’s some of Copernicus’s works that give more detail as to the specifics.”

The boy devoured these next, much to Benedict’s surprise. That was one thing about Christopher; he was forever asking questions. Are there more accurate ways of predicting a harvest? Why do malaria and plague spread more in summer? How can one calculate water displacement more accurately? Do you know any Polish, and could you teach me? 

It had taken a long time for Benedict to get to this point, to soften the boy enough into asking questions. His first month, he had barely spoken more than three sentences; now, nearly three years later, the boy was clamoring for ever more knowledge. Hugh had laughed and clapped his shoulder when he saw it.

The boy is just like you, he said, a genuine smile upon his face. Never have I seen a more spitting image than he. Always asking for more, never satisfied with a simple answer. He’ll run rings around us all by sixteen, I guarantee it.

One of his happiest memories came not long after, when Christopher had at last read everything he owned pertaining to astronomy. It was a warm night, the first one that spring, and he had found his apprentice sitting on the roof of their home. The largest of the pigeons, affectionately dubbed Bridget, rested on his shoulder.

“Come look at the stars with me, Master,” Christopher called to him, making space on the rooftop beside him. “Venus is out, and I think Mars is too. You see there, just above the horizon, that little red point so far away?”

And so they passed a very pleasant evening together, finding endless joy in the space between the stars.

Chapter Text

“What are they?” Tom asked, wrinkling his nose. The fruits—or were they vegetables?—were such an utterly peculiar shape. Bright yellow, with little brown dots growing along a curved exterior. He couldn’t imagine taking a bite of one, let alone swallowing it into his stomach.

“It’s a banana,” the King replied breezily from his place on the velvet sofa. “From the New World, I believe, or perhaps Madagascar. Aren’t they delightful?”

“I’m not sure, Sire. I shouldn’t like to eat one, I think.”

“Is it the smell? A bit unusual, I’d agree, but not unpleasant.” Charles smiled, setting down one of the spaniels on his lap. He glanced up at Tom, mischief in his eye. “Or is it the shape that is so off-putting to you? I swear, Richard was practically jealous when I ate one in front of him the other day, can you believe it?”

Tom nearly choked, dropping the banana back into the glass vase with a start. Both images—that of the King eating the rather uniquely shaped fruit, and the association with Lord Ashcombe—flooded unbidden to his mind.

“I don’t—Your Majesty, that wasn’t at all—I…not, oh, really, I don’t think—”

“Come now, Thomas, it was merely a jest. Please, you must take one, I insist. They’re such a delicacy among the nobles these days.”

Reluctantly, he picked one of the curved fruits up, holding it like a live serpent in one hand.

“I suspect you shall enjoy the taste,” the King said, with an air of magnanimity. “Besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t think Christopher has an ounce of jealousy within him.”

If Charles was determined to kill him through utter mortification, he certainly was succeeding.

Chapter Text

Sally hadn’t known what to expect when Isaac took her on as an apprentice. She knew little of books, even less of libraries, and hadn’t the faintest idea of bookbinding or restoration. Nor did she have more than the barest sketch of what her apprenticeship would look like; there would be learning, of course, and cleaning, and whatever else Isaac needed, but precisely what she would do was a mystery.

“No need to worry,” the old man comforted, patting her hand with his own. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”

What she hadn’t expected was how peaceful the library could be, both above ground and below. The gentle sighing of pages, the creak of new leather, the looping scrawls and the freshly printed letters standing at attention. Each day was a wonder, filled with discovery and realization; words came alive with the voices of long dead authors.

“I love it here,” she told Christopher one day, the late afternoon sun pouring through the windows. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“This was Master Benedict’s favorite place too,” he said, tone wistful. “There’s nothing in this world quite like a library.”

Chapter Text

“Speak to him in French, will you?” Benedict asked. “He’s good with the language, but he mostly reads it. Besides, there’s no replacement for true immersion.”

“Of course,” Simon agreed, “though he seems rather reluctant to speak to me at all.”

Benedict hummed. “Christopher…can be shy, sometimes. With people he doesn’t know.”

He forgot, sometimes, just how hesitant the boy could be. 

“He looks at me like I’m about to bite,” the younger man said with a shudder.

“Yes, well, he doesn’t know you won’t, does he?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not. A few weeks, and he’ll like you well enough.”

“A few weeks?” Simon looked at him aghast. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Practice French with a brick wall?”

The older man rolled his eyes. “He’s hardly mute, Simon, he’s just overwhelmed. It’s not like I’m trotting him about to social gatherings every Saturday evening. I know he’ll like you very much once he sorts himself out.” Christopher could be quite endearing, even when he wasn’t trying to be. His innocence would certainly charm Simon, given time.

“If you insist. The boy is far too much like you, I think.”

“Really?” The apothecary chuckled. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Yes, really. All quiet and intellectual and clever. Already has a stack of twelve books in his room, I’m sure. Clearly works far too much. I’m afraid for what your influence is doing to the lad.” Simon plucked an invisible hair from his coat with a grimace.

“And when was the last time you picked up a book?” Benedict asked, carefully laying his tools out on the new workbenches. He could tell without looking that his comment had landed. Simon scoffed theatrically.

“Boys Christopher’s age shouldn’t be wasting their eyesight on ancient treatises. They should be outside, running in the fields, kissing girls and committing petty theft.” Simon insisted, then grinned sheepishly. “At least, that’s what I was doing, and I turned out just fine.”

“The exception to the rule, I’m sure.”

“I’ve always considered myself to be an exceptional person.”

“Just don’t completely ruin him, all right? I rather like Christopher as he is.” Innocent, his mind wanted to say. Untainted by the cruelties of this world. Safe and whole and by my side.

Chapter Text

“You’re irascible, do you know that?” Charles called to him over his shoulder. With a sigh more theatrical than genuine, he flung his feathered hat across the room, bouncing it off of an ornate chair.

“So you have mentioned, Sire.”

“And yet—” here he began pulling off his shoes and tossing them to the floor, “here we are, my dear Richard; me, throwing an immaculate ball that the courtiers will speak of for weeks, and you—” next came the stockings, then the overcoat, all in a heap. “—you have the audacity to refuse my first dance. It’s unbelievable, truly, for the King of England to be shunned by his right hand in such a way.”

Charles turned back to look at him, dark eyes radiant in the firelight. Like this, flushed and half-drunk on wine and love, he seemed more a god than a man, next only in brightness to the sun itself.

On nights like tonight, Ashcombe fell in love all over again.

“My sincerest apologies, Sire,” he said as he bowed at the waist, formality just on the brink of sarcasm. “But I believe my liege may have forgotten that the Marquess of Chillingham does not dance.”

“Oh really? Since when was this?” Charles came closer, bare feet treading across the Turkish rug. His lips were dark, turned a rich red by wine. How soft they would be against his own, how gentle and smooth.

“Since I was a man far younger than you,” Ashcombe replies, holding onto his wits with a soldier’s resilience.

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Not even a gavotte, just for a bit of fun?”

“I’m afraid such art is above me, Sire. Particularly when matched with a partner like yourself.” He couldn’t look away from his lips. Charles noticed his gaze and smiled slowly, the languid look of a victor.

“Well,” he shrugged, “there are few that can match me, that is true. But I will not tolerate your excuses any longer, Richard. Next time, it shall be the first two dances, and you will ask me, and being a gentleman you shall try your best to keep your touch quite respectable.” They were close now, so close that Ashcombe could feel his beloved’s breath on his mouth. 

“Is that so?” He licked his lips, trying to pull himself together.

“It is. I’m glad you’re so amenable to this arrangement.” He smiled, eyes crinkling, and the King’s Warden felt his knees go weak.

“Now,” the younger man whispered, and took his ruined hand in his. “Shall you come to bed, or do you need cajoling in that as well?”

Wordlessly, he brought Charles’s hand to his twisted mouth, brushing the knuckles with his lips. When it came to the King, he needed no encouragement.

Chapter Text

“You have…you know…had a conversation with him, right?” Simon asked, perched atop one of his worktables.

“What sort of conversation?” Benedict asked, arranging various materials—mortar, pestle, dozens of tiny glass bottles—on the surface nearby.

“You know. The conversation. About what happens at night.”

The older man furrowed his brow. “At night?”

“Sex , you old fool. Lord, it’s no wonder he’s hopeless, with you as father and mother both.”

“Christopher knows everything he needs to know,” he replied, hastily and perhaps defensively. “We’re apothecaries, Simon. Anatomy is a requirement of the task.”

“And does he know anything about how that anatomy is used ? Or, God forbid, more than the barest sketch of what a woman’s lower half looks like?”

“Of course,” he insisted, though this was more dubious. They had discussed it at some point, he was sure. Probably. Besides, Cripplegate must have taught him something, at the very least, so Benedict wasn’t wholly responsible in this area. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“Well,” the noble began, legs swinging off the edge of the table, “I may have told him a joke—tasteful, obviously, I’m no bawd—and…well, the boy seemed rather confused by it all. And when I prodded him a bit more, he nearly stopped speaking.”

“He’s only fourteen years old. A bit of shyness is entirely normal.”

“Shyness doesn’t excuse ignorance. I was already bedding girls at fifteen; what will you do when that starts happening, hm?”

“Christopher isn’t like you.”

“Nor is he entirely like you either.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Simon sighed exaggeratedly. “You have no care for love or romance or companionship, a decision that I respect. But not everyone shares your disdain for such things. Should you not give him the knowledge to make his own choices, when the time comes?”

“I already have. What more can I offer him?”

“Benedict, you foolish man; there is so much to know. How to not get someone pregnant, how to give and receive pleasure—perhaps he likes boys, in which case you’ll need an entirely new set of guidance. I certainly had no clue what I was doing, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Benedict turned back toward him, at last meeting his eye. “I’ll talk to him,” he murmured at last, though that was a conversation he didn’t relish having.

Chapter Text

They had been careful with the wound, but evidently not careful enough. 

The flesh of the palm had turned dark, blood pooling beneath the skin, which was taut with pain and infection. The puncture itself was jagged, punched clear through to the other side, with both exit wounds leaking pus at all hours. The delicate bones of the hand, tapered and thin like a bird’s, had been brutally smashed by the blade.

There was no doctor who could mend such a thing. Sally had known this intrinsically, but she had still prayed nightly for a miracle that never came.

“It’ll be the hand,” said the physician, gently examining the week-old wound. It wept a yellowish fluid each time he touched it, and Sally could barely keep herself from shrieking in agony. “It’s turning your own blood against you. If we try to save it, it’ll only end up rotting you from inside.”

The girl swallowed heavily, then nodded. It’ll be the hand. Did the physician not know how much she needed it? Music, sewing, knitting, riding, holding a baby, kneading bread—how could she exist in a world without such things?

***

The morning after his visit, she lay on the kitchen table, one sleeve pulled high to expose her forearm. She felt woozy, unreal, gone from her body—who was this girl on the table, hair like blood spilling out behind her head? 

She must have fallen again. That was the only explanation for it. Broken like an egg dropped from a balcony, soaring through the air before that all-consuming crack. Brains leaking out against the cobblestones, an angel painted in blood and bone.

She had always been beautiful, she knew. There was nothing more poignant than ruined loveliness.

Voices, the low murmurings of men. Speak up, she wanted to call, and nearly laughed. I can’t hear you all the way down here.

She wondered, briefly, if her father was among them, if he was watching the proceedings next to Lord Ashcombe and Captain Tanner, if he knew that his daughter would be maimed for life. How strange, that peculiar station of fatherhood. How quickly such things could end.

“We should get going, My Lord. The poppy won’t quiet her forever.”

Had they given her something? She couldn’t remember anything besides the throbbing in her hand. It felt like holding a hot coal in her palm, beating in time to the flutters of her heart. Shadows brushed against the edges of her vision, Lord Ashcombe leaning upside-down over her.

“I’ll hold her steady. Make it quick, for all of our sakes.”

Someone pushed something into her mouth. She tasted leather and saliva, and tried to spit it out, but found the rod wedged firmly between her teeth.

“All ready?”

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir.”

The telltale sound of a blade being drawn, the glint of metal in the sun. Something sharp against her wrist, a terrible pull, and a push, and a pull again, and she writhed against the hands holding her down.

Darkness. She welcomed it with open arms, and did not rise for another three days.

Chapter Text

Charles II was magnificent. There was no other way to put it, no other word that could capture everything that he was: king, friend, brother, paramour, idol, ruler, companion, charmer. All these words and so many more, too many to list.

“You are not subtle in your tastes,” Walsingham whispers in his ear one night, as they stand at the edge of the ballroom. “The King pulls everyone into his orbit, sooner or later. Even I have been unable to resist such a tug.”

Ashcombe glanced at him, then back towards Charles. The spymaster did not intend to wound him, he knew. That did not lessen the blow of seeing him so enchanted by another.

“I say this not as a rival,” the younger man continued, “but as someone who knows what it is to long for the unattainable. You cannot love the sun, My Lord. It belongs to us all, and none of us, radiant and distant and glorious.”

“Am I to stop reaching, then?” His voice grated against his throat.

“Learn to grasp at what’s possible. It’ll save your heart from the inevitable pain.”

“Since when have you cared so for my heart?”

“Since I fell back to earth, and realized my own futility.”

Chapter Text

It’s hard to explain his feelings to anyone else. They wouldn’t understand, he tells himself. On his better days, he can dismiss these thoughts as irrational, as cruel or meaningless, and they fade away to the back of his mind. Other times they rise to the surface, angry and bitter.

It takes a long time for Christopher to admit it is jealousy. It’s a petty emotion, foolish and small, and it makes him feel strange and twisted inside. Master Benedict had no tolerance for such things; even now, for this sin alone, he feels like a disappointment.

At first, he thinks it may be merely protectiveness. Sally had so little not long ago; is it wrong to be cautious of her getting so much? The King made her his ward, and such a station could so easily be taken away. Orphans stuck together, after all. That was the code they survived by.

It is only later, much later, that he realizes that he is not jealous for Sally, but of her. It is a stupid, rotting idea, and yet it has taken root so deeply in his mind that he cannot pull it out. Why does she get to have this? This beautiful life of luxury and ease and love—what has she ever done to deserve it?

Love. That is the core of it. People love Sally, have always loved Sally, ever since the day she was born. Two parents wed, the three of them a little family. Barely three years in Cripplegate, and still with a grandmother in Paris, half a dozen cousins, Isaac the bookseller as a master. Even the king of fucking England couldn’t help but adore her.

What was it, Christopher wondered, that so drove people to her? How could she be so fundamentally loved that all she needed to do was exist?

He yearns for unconditionality. Every relationship he has had, every care and moment of fondness, has been buried beneath the weight of transaction. The orphanage cared for him in exchange for money. Master Benedict took him in on the promise of work. Lord Ashcombe aided him for his service to the Crown, and Lord Walsingham taught him in trade for his spycraft. King Charles favored him like one of his spaniels, ready to amuse with another feat of intellect.

He thought it was different between the three of them, Sally and Tom and himself. But even now they are fashioned as pieces in conjunction: Christopher as the spy, serving the King, Sally as the maiden, lovely and witty, and Tom as the protector, guarding the investments. Perfectly matched, each a counterbalance of the other. How sickeningly lovely it all is.

It is not their fault it has come to this. Yet it does not lessen the pain that rubs beneath his ribs, scratching the very marrow of his heart raw.

Perhaps there is something unlovable in his nature. The bastard child of two dead peasants, the orphan who waited a decade for a ghost. A master who killed himself rather than run away with him. A new set of allies who saw in him a blade to be honed.

Jealousy is a strangling weed, and it chokes the life from his lungs.

Chapter Text

“It’s called escargot, ” Simon instructed, waving a hand over the meal set on the table. “It’s quite a delicacy back in Paris. Why, it’s considered shameful not to have at least a table of them at any respectable ball.”

Peter sniffed at the snails, wrinkling his nose. “You want me to eat a snail,” he repeated dubiously.

“Correction: I want you to eat several snails. As a meal, with me.”

“That sounds revolting.”

“Yet it’s quite delicious, I promise. You had better learn to enjoy them now; how else will you manage once we’re in Paris, hm?” Simon gave him a disapproving look, picking up one of the shells between his fingers. Eagerly, he stuck his miniscule fork and began excavating the toasted meat inside. The sight of it sliding out made Peter want to retch.

“Surely you have a cook who can prepare something edible?” he asked.

“Only the best at Maison Chastellain. But among society, you shan’t be so fortunate.”

“Another sign of the backwardness of the French.”

“And another sign of the foolishness of the English. You cannot overlook the humble snail, for what may seem a plain shell conceals a true delight within.”

Peter sighed heavily, then swallowed. “I shall have one snail, and only one, if you insist on being such a bother.”

His mirror image laughed as he exaggeratedly plucked a shell from the plate, gently prodding the mollusk out from within. The material that came out was green and distinctly slimy, hitting his chinaware with a splat.

“When in Rome…” he murmured, before popping the creature in his waiting mouth.

Chapter Text

“You’re too hurt to go on your own,” Tom said, sheathing his sword at his hip. “What would I tell Lord Ashcombe if you fell? He’d kill me, I swear.”

“He would hardly kill you,” Christopher replied evenly. “He’d kill me, naturally, then tell you not to be such a pushover.”

“He’d probably keep me from sparring for a week. Maybe two, if it was a bad fall.”

“So? A week of fewer bruises, then. There are worse things than that. Such as being killed by Lord Ashcombe for your foolishness, like I would be.”

“But I like sparring. And then the men would make fun of me for still being a child, and it’d take months for them to stop joking.”

“Oh, but it’d be all in good fun, and they would all forget about it in a matter of days. All of this is beside the point, because I won’t fall, and it will be completely fine.”

“Your ribs are broken.”

“Only two of them.”

“And your wrist still hurts you. Don’t say it doesn’t, because I can tell it does. You turn pages with your left now, and you never used to before.”

“It’s a sprain. It’ll heal.”

“Stop being so casual about it.”

“I’m not being casual. I’m being realistic. And you know that if I don’t go by horse, it’ll take over an hour just to get there, plus the same back. I don’t have the time to spare for all that, nor the energy.”

“So go next week. Or in a few weeks, once you’re better.” Tom knew that was a futile line of argument; Christopher would go regardless of what he thought. It was infuriating, but he understood the reasoning behind it. They were bound by duty, the both of them, and most things did not wait for convalescence.

“It must be today. If I don’t, then I’ll be hearing about it from Lord Walsingham, and he won’t trust me to do more important tasks like this again.”

“Would that really be so bad? He works you to exhaustion, Christopher.” Certainly, the dark circles beneath his friend’s eyes were nothing new.

“It’s not like you’re much better off. Perhaps you’ll go to war someday, and I’ll never see you again.”

“But that’s the future. This is now , this is you putting yourself at risk again when you should be resting.”

“No time like the present.”

“I wish you took this seriously. Can’t you see that I care about you, even if the others do not?”

“I am taking you seriously, I’m simply taking my work seriously as well. Multiple competing priorities, and all that.”

“You’re maddening, do you know that?”

“So you’ve mentioned. Now will you let me get on my horse, and do what must be done?” Christopher said exasperated, punctuating his question with an eyeroll. Tom sighed heavily.

“Fine. But you ride with me, and you aren’t arguing about it.”

“How about beside you instead?”

“I just said no arguing—don’t you ever listen to me? And you’ll go in front, so I can make sure you don’t tip over the side.”

“I swear I won’t fall. You don’t need to carry me like a babe, I can do it myself.”

Tom stuck out a hand, unwilling. “Come on then. Up you go.”

Christopher eyed him from his position on the ground. “You aren’t going to change your mind, are you?”

“At last, he learns something.”

“You’re absurd,” he shot back, but he took Tom’s hand in his own. Christopher’s hands were smaller, slighter, narrow in the wrist and fingers; the fingers of a musician, or a dancer, or a surgeon. Tom’s were far larger in comparison, meaty and soft, callused across the palm and scarred by burns and cuts. They could not have been more different, those two hands, yet when they clasped it simply felt right.

With ease, he pulled Christopher up and into the saddle, settling him in the very front, his back and legs pressed up against Tom. He was far too skinny these days—Tom would have to nag him into eating more, for he suspected his friend had taken to skipping meals again.

He did not loop an arm around his midsection, for he feared the pressure might harm his wounded ribs. Even so, the steady weight of Christopher against him was a comfort, and he nudged Lightning into a marching walk, the two of them together.

Chapter Text

It is an innocent question. At least, that is what Benedict tells himself when the words leave his mouth, when he feels that creeping dread whenever he makes a wrong move and sets himself back a month with the boy.

It starts like this:

It is dinner, one of a thousand just like it, an evening of soup and conversation and bread that is just starting to go stale. They are talking about classifications, names and kingdoms, who gets to decide what such things are called

“Well, what about your name, hm?” he asks, all in good nature. “Do you know why you were named Christopher?” He doesn’t think anything of the question, and at this moment, neither does the boy.

“For the saint,” he replies. “At least, I think it was for the saint. Patron of travelers, and all that.”

“Not for a relative, then? Or perhaps your parents were fond of traveling?” Looking back, this line feels particularly ignorant. Of course he knew he was an orphan. It had been the very first thing he learned about him, even before he had taken him on as an apprentice. Still, he had failed to consider it before opening his mouth.

“I wouldn’t really know,” he answers truthfully, caught off guard by Benedict’s questioning. “I never knew them.”

Oh. That explained it, didn’t it? Yet even with all his theoretical knowledge, he is unprepared for how strikingly sad that statement is. It was entirely logical; few orphanages were in the business of taking older children, who could likely fend for themselves. Even then, he has never considered such an absence of familial knowledge.

Perhaps it is because it is so opposite his own childhood, which emphasized bloodlines and history and lineage above all. His uncle had been Benedict Blackthorn, and his great-grandfather before him—his name bound him directly to the past, to a legacy that could never be shaken.

What of the name Rowe, then? Was it concocted by overworked priests, who searched for the most common surname for each abandoned child? Had his parents been Smiths instead, or Whites, or Clarks?

He doesn’t know why this has struck so deeply into his mind, only that it has lodged there like a splinter, working ever deeper below the surface.

A silence falls across the table, the conversation having suddenly turned awkward by his own stumble. He clears his throat, changing tacks.

“It matters not now, I suppose. You’re my apprentice—the only name most anyone will concern themselves with will be mine, most unfortunately. It appears you shall be burdened with Blackthorn for several more years.”

A tiny smile flits across his apprentice’s face. “If that is the name I am burdened with,” he says, “I shall bear it as best as I can, Master.”

Chapter Text

“I need to cut my hair,” Christopher announced one day, running his hands through his unruly mane. It had gotten rather long, now that he mentioned it, the wavy mess spilling out far past his ears. Benedict thought it adorable, though he would never say such a thing aloud.

“Perhaps,” he agreed with a nod. “You don’t want to get nits, after all.”

“No, Master.” The boy ran his hands through his hair again, pulling it slightly. “Will you do it, then?”

The older man blinked. “Don’t you want Tom to do it?”

“He can’t cut for the life of him. Remember how he did it last time, Master?” Benedict did, in fact, recall it now. There had been worse haircuts, he supposed, but it had not been far off.

“I’m no barber.”

“I’m not picky, Master,” he replied, turning to sit in front of the man. “I trust you with scissors around my neck.”

Chapter Text

Long locks were dangerous in battle. Most soldiers kept their hair short, or at least tied up and under their hats; the King’s Men all cut their hair as soon as they entered training at Gravesend.

Lord Ashcombe was a notable exception to the rule. Some thought he wore his hair long as a reminder of his noble status; if wearing a wig was too hazardous, then perhaps longer locks were as close as he could get to honoring tradition. 

Others wondered if, perhaps, it was some sort of good luck talisman; if wearing his hair loose around his face somehow kept him from being killed in battle, or marked him as untouchable by a blade.

Still others had different ideas, ranging from the plausible to the humorous: a way to add to his intimidation, the one concession to laziness, a disguise for old scars. All of them had a kernel of truth to them, yet none of them were the true reason behind it.

“My sweet Richard,” Charles crooned, running his fingers through his hair. “My most beautiful warden. What a pearl of a man you are.”

Lord Ashcombe nearly purred beneath his hands as his ministrations continued. Charles adored his hair, loved to brush it and braid it into outrageous plaits, ran his fingers through it when they lay in bed together. It was, perhaps, the closest he could get to Heaven, exhausted and content with touch.

It was worth the extra risk in battle, knowing the prize he could come home to.

Chapter Text

“Keep your heels down in the stirrups,” Lord Ashcombe instructed. “Toes up, and turned just a bit outward. Relax your knees—don’t try and grip the saddle.”

Christopher attempted to make the following adjustments with moderate success. Given that it was his very first time sitting astride a horse, it wasn’t a half bad go of it, especially with one shoulder still out of commission.

“Good,” he called to the boy. “Reins firmly in the hand, but not pulling back. The mare will get confused otherwise, and think you’re trying to halt. Pull too hard and she’ll try and back up.”

“Like this, My Lord?” Christopher asked, raising his hands slightly to show him.

“A bit more forward. Strong, but relaxed. You control the mount, not the other way around.” Ashcombe studied the boy, his careful posture, his eyes trained on the flat ground ahead. He nudged his own mount closer with a press of his heels, moving to walk in stride with the boy.

“Tell me what you’ve learned so far.”

“Heels down, toes up,” Christopher repeated perfectly. “Close, but not tight. Shoulders tall, but my back shouldn’t be hollow. Reins firm, looping through the fourth finger.”

“And the commands?”

“One press is forward, a bit more for trot. Each rein turns in the same direction, but I shouldn’t pull on her mouth.”

“Good,” Ashcombe grunted. “We’ll wait another week for trotting, I think. It’s more jostling than it looks—it might hurt your shoulder, this soon.”

“Could we ride again tomorrow?” the boy asked, voice hopeful. There was little else to do in Southampton; riding, at least, provided some relief from the monotony.

“If the weather is good. I’ll teach you to shoot as well, if you’d be interested.”

“Shoot? Like one of those?” He nodded towards the pearl-handled pistols hanging from his belt.

“Start with a rifle first. Easier to handle, less room for misfire.”

“Thank you, My Lord. I…I would be honored.” Ashcombe nearly snorted alongside his horse. 

“Don’t thank me before we’ve begun.”

Chapter Text

“Try and press down on the buttons, if you can. A-flat, then C, D, E, just as I showed you.” The musician’s words were nothing but pleasant, but Sally found herself bitter nonetheless. Lord Ashcombe had engaged the man, upon Christopher’s request; he had simply shown up this morning, hurdy-gurdy in tow, eager to instruct his latest pupil.

He did not ask about her hand. She didn’t know if someone had told him, or if Lord Ashcombe’s silver had been enough to quiet any questions. He simply acted as if everyone had a semi-paralyzed hand, bloody and raw with a new wound.

She tried to press the A-flat, willing her index finger to move. Barely, it twitched, but she couldn’t put any force behind it. 

“I can’t—perhaps in a few days, I’ll be able to—” 

“That’s perfectly alright. You’ve got the theory of it down, I know.”

Her eyes felt hot and wet. You’ve got the theory of it down. That was all she would have of music in her life, then. Theories and notes and songs memorized, chords that would never be strummed again. A fantasy for a cripple.

“Shall we take a break, miss?” asked the musician, pleasant voice hesitant and soft. “We can try again tomorrow, if that would be better.”

“Will you play for me?” she begged. She had not sounded so much like a child in years.

Dutifully, he took the hurdy-gurdy from her, and his lithe fingers pulled the instrument to life. The melody hung in the air, churning like the tides, and Sally wept for the loss of it all.

Chapter Text

“You never go to parties, Master,” Christopher said. 

“I don’t care for such frivolity. There are better uses of our time, are there not?” His daily life was busy enough; Benedict could not imagine wasting an entire evening on dancing and drinking, not to mention the next morning ruined by exhaustion.

“Have you never gone, then? Not even the once, for the music?”

“I’ve never been one for music,” Benedict replied, ending the conversation on that subject. He had nothing against musicians, of course. But George had so dearly loved to sing, and Benedict had never quite gotten over how the sound brought back so many memories left to rot.

Chapter Text

“What are they, Master?” Christopher asked, eyes wide with astonishment.

“Pelicans,” he replied. “They came from the East, a place called Russia. The ambassador brought them just after Charles retook the throne.”

They were in St. James’s park, the two of them, on a lovely Sunday afternoon. For the first time in ages, it was sunny, the wind just on this side of being cold.

“Will they survive being so far away from home?”

“I’m not certain,” Benedict offered, even though it was not the response the boy wanted to hear. “The climate is certainly different in Russia than it is here. It’ll take some adjustment, but I think they could learn.”

“I hope they come to like it here. They are so very pretty.”

“Even with that enormous beak?” 

A laugh. “Yes, Master. Even with the beak.”

Chapter Text

“Have you ever been in love, Thomas?” asked the King, plucking cherries from a silvered bowl. Tom considered the question, then shook his head.

“No, Your Majesty. At least, I don’t think I have.”

“Hm. You would know if you had, I’m certain. Still, you’re nearly sixteen; there’s never been a girl you’ve been sweet on? Some seamstresses' apprentice or barmaid?”

“Er—not really. There was this girl, Dorothy—”

“The publican’s daughter? The one who was rather bearlike?”

Tom nodded. “I thought, y’know, perhaps I did like her, but I think that really…I liked the idea of liking her more than I actually did. If that makes any sense, Sire.”

“You’re surprisingly wise for your years, Thomas,” said the King, his tone mildly impressed. “Sometimes it’s easier to believe the things that we want, rather than what we do. A hard lesson for most.” 

He took another cherry from the bowl, then offered it to the boy. He hesitated, as though afraid it might be an offense to partake, then his stomach got the better of him.

“Thank you, Sire.”

The King waved his gratitude away like smoke in the wind. “Would you like me to try and arrange something for you? Just some introductions, nothing serious, of course.”

“I—well, I’m not…maybe not right now, Sire. Just—I’ve been so busy these days, what with training again under Sir William, and I wouldn’t…it would be rude to not go, and a girl—a lady, I mean—would require more time, and perhaps—”

“How the proposition distresses you! Truly, I had no intention of disturbing you so. It was merely an offer, that’s all.”

Tom breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to meet them; of course, he longed to get married one day, and have a house filled with children of his own. But right now…well, right now he was happy just as he was, with Christopher by his side. To try and add someone new in felt wrong somehow, an odd betrayal of his friend.

“Thank you, Sire. I appreciate it, I do. Now is—” he broke off, swallowing. “I’m happy with Christopher now. And I don’t want to change that.”

“Of course.” Charles smiled, a merry twinkle in his eye. “You two are good together. You remind me of Richard and Alexander.” Tom snorted, taking another cherry from the bowl. 

“Lords Ashcombe and Walsingham?” He wrinkled his nose as he said their names. “I don’t think so.”

“Whyever not? You’re strong, and brave, and will go far in life. Christopher is too clever for his own good, and those codes—well, let’s just say I’m glad he’s on our side of things. Just like my warden and my spymaster.”

“I’m not certain of any of that,” replied Tom, shaking his head. “Christopher and I…we’re nothing like them. We’re not nobles, or geniuses, or masters in our field. We’re just apprentices. Just friends.”

“You forget that Richard was not always as you see him now. I knew him, Christ, nearly thirty years ago, back when he was barely older than you. He was hardly the man he is today; stubborn, of course, but far more prideful and foolish, not to mention gangly and riddled with acne.” Charles smiled fondly at the memory, fingers on the stem of his wine glass.

Tom blinked at him, stunned. “I just can’t imagine Lord Ashcombe as gangly , Sire.”

“Well, you should, as it’s the truth. The people we are today are never who we once were, and are never who we’ll be in the future. Everything changes.”

“And what about Lord Walsingham? Was he gangly too?”

“I didn’t know him back then, but if I had to guess, he would’ve looked such a child. Lord, he still has the face of an infant now—did you know he can’t grow a beard? Not even a wisp of hair on his upper lip, and he’s past thirty five!” He laughed, throwing his head back, causing the surrounding spaniels to glance up at him curiously. At last, he quieted, then patted Tom’s hand with his own.

“Don’t worry about the future, Thomas. Everything has a way of working out, even when it all falls apart. And if you’re happy with Christopher—” here he smiled mischievously, “then, by all means, don’t let me get in the way of it. So much of youth is wasted on insecurities.”

Chapter Text

Benedict and Hugh laid back on the glass, looking up at the stars and the moon. It was a beautiful summer night, nearing midnight, certainly, but the air still carried a pleasant warmth. Nights like these were rare indeed, and deserved to be enjoyed.

After a few moments in silence, Hugh sat up, then began rifling through his satchel and drawing out the supplies. Benedict remained at ease, grass tickling the back of his neck.

“Have you a tinderbox?” the younger man asked, nudging him with a boot. “It seems I left mine at home.”

“Why did you take it out of your bag?”

“Because I only have the one tinderbox, and it seems foolish to buy another merely for our little escapades. Pull yours out, Benedict, we haven’t got all night.”

Benedict grumbled as he sat up, pulling out his flint from one of the pockets on his sash. 

“It’s a bit dull, but it should do just fine. You brought the pipe?”

“And have everything ground already. No need to dip into your private stores, Benedict. Tonight is my treat.”

“You say that like it’s a hardship for you. Don’t pretend you and Nicholas don’t have an in with one of the men from just outside town.”

“It’s called leveraging connections. I’d tell you to try it, but I know human communication is a struggle for you.”

“Just light the blasted thing already, will you?” Benedict leaned closer, holding the pipe steady as Hugh struck sparks from the flint. It took a few tries before it finally caught, the pale green herb glowing like a lit coal. Hugh took it gently from his fingers, putting the narrow end to his lips. He breathed in slowly as the smoke built, then carefully blew it out of his mouth.

“Here. It’s quite fresh, just dried a few weeks ago.” Hugh passed the pipe back, and Benedict took a long draw from it as well. It had been some time since he had last smoked; over a year, now that he thought about it. He’d have to be careful not to overdo it.

Hugh took a long pull, the grounds within flaring bright, then hastily passed it back to the other apothecary. 

“Here, quickly, before it goes out.” He inhaled strongly, watching as the smoke gathered in the chamber of the glass pipe, then carefully blew it out of his mouth. Or, at least, he tried to, before he broke into a desperate fit of coughing.

“Christ, you old fool, that was a lot to take,” Hugh laughed, pounding him on the back in an effort to ease his chest. It didn’t work; he hacked desperately, his lungs burning, and drank from his waterskin in an effort to cool the flames.

“Fuck me,” he ground out, once he could finally speak. “Fuck, that was too much. I nearly died of suffocation.”

“That was a bad one. I didn’t want to panic you, but by God, you had me worried there. You’re out of practice; you shouldn’t try and take so much in.”

“Thank you for enlightening me.”

“Probably drew the constable here as well with all that racket. Have some more water before another round, eh?” Hugh passed him the waterskin again, and he took another pull from it, slower this time. His chest still felt as though it was smoldering, but at least he could breathe. His former apprentice gently nursed the pipe in silence.

“Ready to go again?”

Benedict groaned softly. “I don’t think I can.”

“You must. I can’t smoke all this on my own, and we’re not wasting any. Man charged me nearly a shilling an ounce, it was utterly ridiculous. If only we could somehow keep the plants in an artificially warmer climate—they have those orangeries in Padua, you know, perhaps something like that.”

“You seriously did not just suggest we rig up a growroom in Blackthorn, did you?” Benedict asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Where else would we keep it? Not at my house; what would I tell my wife? Oh, don’t mind me dearest, just putting up a little rooftop garden for my marijuana, it’s the latest fashion these days, don’t you know? ” Hugh laughed at the absurdity of it. Benedict, caught up in fondness and pharmaceuticals, laughed alongside him, then let out a most undignified snort. This led to Hugh laughing harder, falling against Benedict’s shoulder, and before he knew it they had fallen backward into the grass, cackling until they were gasping for air, clutching at each other’s coats like schoolboys in their first taste of wine.

“I think she’d love the idea,” Benedict managed to get out at last. “She does love all things fashionable. Perhaps you could start a trend amongst high society.”

“I’ve always considered myself a trendsetter.”

“Have you now?”

“And then I’d rake in the riches, and leave you in the dust,” Hugh intoned seriously, but his eyes were alight with mirth. “Christ alive, we're both high as kites, aren’t we?”

This admission sent off another round of laughter. 

“I can’t believe that I’ll be hungover at Church tomorrow. Reverend Wright won’t even know what to say—do you think Christopher will notice?”

“Don’t be so paranoid,” his former apprentice dismissed with a wave of his hand. “It’s a good thing you’re such an upstanding member of the community. A little laxity is understandable.”

“I doubt the Reverend will see it that way. Ten years under Puritan rule, and the man still acts like they’re breathing down his neck.”

“Too late now.”

Chapter Text

Christopher is a light sleeper. Tom knows this—it’s the reason why he tries to lay as still as possible, keeping his breathing slow and deep, staring at the ceiling in the half dark. His friend is a flighty creature, and it was work enough just to get him to take half the bed. He won’t ruin it with his own disruption.

On these nights, he passes the time between the dreaming and the waking studying the contours of his face, the way the shadows fall against such fair skin. Christopher is beautiful, he knows. Other people know it too, but only he gets to see this hidden side of him. It makes him feel possessive, nearly jealous, though he cannot understand why.

Perhaps it is because he can have him, yet there are still depths that he will never be able to fathom. 

Christopher talks in his sleep. That was a revelation when he first discovered it, a startling new window into his soul revealed. Soft sighs and whispered words and Tom is delighted, strains to catch these unbidden thoughts as they lay side by side. He never understands them, however, and is left in the morning with more blank spaces.

“You spoke last night,” he tells the boy when at last he rises in the morning. “While you were sleeping.”

“What did I say?”

“I’m not sure. It’s always in Latin.”

A laugh. “Perhaps that’s for the best. I don’t want you to know all my deepest secrets, now, do I?”

What do you dream of? He nearly asks, but the words grow stale and shrivel on his tongue.

Chapter Text

Isaac is uncertain when he takes Sally as an apprentice. He has no problem employing a girl—women get the same work done as men—but it’s the fact that he doesn’t know her in the slightest that makes him nervous. He has no guarantee of family or friend, no association by which to understand her competency. Christopher gave his assurances, of course, but even now he barely knows the boy.

She shows up promptly on the agreed upon day, bringing with her fresh bread from the bakery. In an hour, the shop is remarkably tidy; in two, his flat upstairs is sparklingly clean. In many ways, she is the ideal apprentice: quiet, neat, strong of character and from a respectable family. Isaac wonders if this is how Benedict felt at first, in those early days so long ago. 

It is not a typical relationship, he knows. She does not live beside him, sleeping in his shop, nor does she cook or share meals with him. He strives to teach her, but is stymied by a complete absence of Latin and Greek. He has never been a tutor before, and it is an adjustment for them both.

Even with the hurdles, everything goes more smoothly than he had anticipated.

“I’m very glad to have your help,” he tells her, two weeks into their arrangement. “It seems that I got old without even realizing it.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she replies easily. “I like having something to do. Gives meaning to my days, you know?”

“You have known Christopher for a long time, then?” He knows little of their relationship, both the nature and the duration.

“Oh, yes. Since I was eight, and moved into the orphanage. We met again, during the plague, when we stayed together for a few months.”

“So you never knew Benedict, then?” He asked, tone almost wistful.

She shakes her head. “I never had the chance. Christopher doesn’t really talk about him.” It is strange, now that she thinks about it. Christopher probably knows more about her family than she knows about his—he only ever mentions the man in passing, and then never in detail.

“He was a good man. Losing him so suddenly…it was a great tragedy for us all. Those of us who loved him, I mean.”

“Do you ever talk about him? The two of you, I mean.”

Isaac smiles, but it is weighed down with a cascading grief. “Some wounds hurt too much to touch, even when they are shared.”

Chapter Text

“Why doesn’t he sleep upstairs?” Sally asks him, bent over the stuttering hearth. “It’ll be crowded in the shop, all three of us. And he gave me his palliasse, so it’s just hardwood floor for him.”

Tom hesitates, and she glances back at him, confused. The logs pop and crackle in the flames, but she pays them no heed.

“Christopher…was very close with his master,” he says slowly, rather awkwardly. “When he died—it was bad, for a long time.”

“But wasn’t that, what, nearly four months ago?”

“Not even three. Just—he doesn’t like to talk about it, but I know it hurts him. He was all he had, you know? And then one day he was gone, and Christopher doesn’t know how to live in that world anymore.”

“But what does that have to do with the bed?” She asked, still uncertain. “Doesn’t he want to be with his things, feel like he’s still here?”

“I don’t know. Don’t tell him this but…” Tom glanced about, making sure that the two of them were alone in the room. “I think that a part of him is still pretending, you know? If he sleeps in the shop, goes about his life, he doesn’t have to think about that hole in his life. And maybe, just maybe, he can imagine that he’ll open the door and walk downstairs just as he used to, and everything can go back to the way it was.”

Waiting forever for an impossible dream. What a terrible fate, indeed.

Chapter Text

It was late in the evening, several hours past dinner, in that great expanse of time in which bloom so many ill-advised decisions. Charles had planned a party, as he often did, and was simply enjoying a last bit of wine before making his way to the ballroom. 

Lord Ashcombe was there in his room, ever-present as always. The truly unexpected was Walsingham, who so often confined himself to his books and his letters until the early hours of dawn. To see him here was a surprise indeed, but a welcome one.

“I must get going,” Charles groaned, throwing an arm dramatically over his eyes. “And neither of you are dressed. Surely you won’t be so endlessly boring and remain upstairs, will you? I had a Portuguese quintet brought specially for the occasion.”

“Remind me: what occasion might that be?” asked Lord Ashcombe with a roll of his eyes.

“Another thousand pounds spent at his tailor, perhaps,” suggested the spymaster, sipping at his own glass. Richard, damn the man, actually let out a chuckle. 

“Or perhaps the acquisition of a new burgundy. The cellar has been running empty as of late.”

“You forget yourself, for surely it was another fruitless battle against the Dutch. What have our losses been, twenty ships? Two hundred?”

“Our naval supremacy shall triumph in the end,” Charles threw back airily. “We’ve just got to put those Flemish bastards back in their place. And this ball, as you both know quite well, is in honor of my dear sister Minette. Tomorrow is her half birthday, and so the festivities must go until at least midnight to celebrate.”

“I have other matters to attend to, Sire,” the spymaster said. “Reports, correspondence, the affairs of the state. The half birthday, alas, shall have to be supported only by your magnificence.”

The King huffed. “Well, at least Richard shall be by my side.”

“I will not, Sire. I’m busy tonight as well.”

He squawked in outrage, glaring at the man. “Doing what? As my Warden, you know you have to accompany me everywhere. That includes parties.”

“Perhaps the affairs of the state affect me as well. Walsingham requires constant supervision, else who knows what mischief he’ll concoct.”

“You’ll both be sorely missed, then, and most lacking in entertainment. My juggler was to perform a series of feats never seen before. I heard he was going to demonstrate how to swallow a sword, can you imagine?”

Walsingham stood, topping off his glass. “Oh, I guarantee, Sire, I’ve already studied that demonstration extensively.”

“I’ve witnessed it myself,” chimed in Lord Ashcombe, his expression completely neutral. “Though I’d say your spymaster should continue his studies. His technique could be more polished.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Charles asked, feigning nonchalance. “I rarely see you performing such feats, Richard. Perhaps the spectator shouldn’t be so quick to critique.”

“Now now, Sire, you know our Richard is always at the heart of the action. His tongue, naturally, is not nearly as clever as yours,” Walsingham drawled, “but I suppose we all must make do with what we have.”

“‘Make do’ ? I’m thrice as strong as you, Walsingham, so watch yourself.”

“And you do so enjoy having the advantage in strength. You certainly take every opportunity to show off, particularly with your swordsmanship.”

“Few men can handle a blade like my Warden,” Charles said wistfully, fingers trailing the stem of his wine glass. “It’s one of his best features.”

“Careful I don’t stick you with one for your words.”

“You’d relish it, I’m sure. As you can see, Sire, dear Richard and I shall be fine in your absence. We wouldn’t want you to miss the sword swallower, would we?” Walsingham said, raising a brow.

Charles glanced between them, then sighed theatrically. “I’m suddenly feeling rather unwell,” he said, “and I think I had better stay in my rooms tonight. At least for an hour, to settle my nerves.”

“An hour, Sire, is hardly sufficient. Two, at a minimum, if only to assuage the concerns of both of us.”

“Oh, if you insist. You’ve always known best when it comes to these things.”

Chapter Text

Isaac buries his friend on a Saturday. It is sunny and warm, and the birds are chirping overhead, and the wrongness of it all has him weeping in the grass. There is no headstone, not yet, just freshly turned earth against his fingertips.

“You promised me that I’d go first,” he laughs, tears sliding down his weathered face. “But I was always a fool, and you were far ahead of me.”

This is not how it should be, not for a respected man such as Benedict Blackthorn, with brothers still living and a thriving business. There should be others here, Hugh and Pembroke and Lord Mortimer, distant relatives and old friends alike. His apprentice, though he has only met him the once. Neighbors and clients and fellow apothecaries, at least one member of the guild council.

But none of them are here, and it is just Isaac left alone, touching the soil where his friend’s face would have been.

Chapter Text

His mind was hazy with pain. 

It was a feeling he was well acquainted with. His childhood had been filled with bruises, scraped knees and black eyes, sickness and hunger and the clawing ache of loneliness. Pain was a constant companion; pain was a god to bow before, a force that could break with a glance.

Master Benedict did not tolerate such things. It had always been strange to Christopher—agony as a symptom was concerning, of course, but pain on its own was normal. Master brought bandages and tonics and relievers, things he never had and knew no use for. He would have questioned it, but he knew better than that.

His vision swam, dark spots creeping in at the edges, and Christopher winced. Too many sensations were upon him: the light of the windows, the fabric beneath him, wool against raw fingertips and that burning in his shoulder, that pressing heat across his forehead, and it was all too much—

“Christopher.”

Where was he? This was not the wool he knew, nor the morning light through the windows. He turned his head, blinking, trying to dismiss the fog from his eyes. Someone was sitting beside him, cool hands on his wrists, holding him still.

“Try not to move. You’ll hurt yourself, if you aren’t careful.”

It was Master Benedict. It must have been, at any rate, for who else could it be? Long dark hair and callused hands, too tall and too thin. Was it pain that had him dazed, or the poppy? He did not know, and had not the strength to ask.

A hand moved to his forehead, and he flinched again. Too cold, and he was so hot, burning alive from the inside out. Fingers on his throat, feeling for his pulse, then back to his wrist again.

Too much touching. Master Benedict knew it was too much for him sometimes, would not lay his hands upon him any more than necessary. Why had he forgotten now, when this was when it mattered the most?

“Rest. The fever will break if you can sleep,” he ordered, and his voice was strangely rough.

“Yes, Master,” he murmured, eyes sliding shut, then open, then shut once again. His hands were still on his wrists, holding him still—such rough hands, how had he never noticed before? And what had happened to two of his fingers? Turned to stumps and ragged scars; Master was never careless, but his work was dangerous. Perhaps he had hurt himself while the boy was asleep.

At least he would be here when Christopher woke up.

Chapter Text

He is a slip of a thing when Oswyn meets him, barely more than eyes set against flesh and bone. 

“Christopher has a small sum left over from his inheritance,” the reverend is saying, though the apothecary has only half a mind for his words. “Little, to be honest, but a few pounds could be found. It is our hope to apprentice him to a cook in a few year’s time.”

He does not know why he says it, in all truth. Perhaps it is pity that moves his heart, for he knows what it is to be hungry, to have barely a shadow of a future to live for. He tells himself, later, that it was the intelligence behind the boy’s eyes, but he had no knowledge of the boy’s education. Only sorrow for the child, and the boy he once was.

“Why not send him to our guild instead?” he offers. Valentine looks at him, shocked, and Sir Edward furrows his brow in confusion. They recruit amongst the wealthy, the third sons of the peerage, the middle class recently come into money. They do not, as a rule, sponsor the poor. Such things are not done in the Chartered Society of Apothecaries.

The reverend knows this, but is too awestruck to refuse such an offer. One of his children in a prestigious guild—pride is a sin, but he so clearly is succumbing to its flavor. This could mean further donations in the future, a space freed up for another child, even, perhaps, greater connections to men of standing. 

What a glittering opportunity he presents with an offhand remark.

“You teach Latin, I assume?” Oswyn asks, and the reverend nods eagerly. 

“Greek as well, Master Colthurst, and one of our clerics knows some Hebrew. I’m certain I could arrange lessons for the boy.”

“Include mathematics as well as theology, Reverend,” he insists, then glances back at the boy. “How old are you, child?”

“Nine, Master Colthurst,” comes the murmured reply, barely more than a breath.

“Two years, then,” he tells the reverend. “Ten is too young, but we’ll accept them at eleven. Twelve, if you think he is not ready yet.”

It would be eleven, he knew. Twelve meant another year of feeding and clothing and teaching the boy; places like Cripplegate threw out their children as soon as they could. Two years was not a long time, but it would have to be enough.

“What was that about?” Valentine accosts him when they are seated in their carriage at last, rumbling slowly toward Sir Edward’s manor.

“Merely offering a promising candidate an opportunity. It is our responsibility to recruit, is it not?”

“Among men of means. Not these lice-ridden brats.” He turns towards Sir Edward at his right. “Surely you agree with me, Grandmaster.”

“Perhaps our Secretary is overly sentimental,” the elderly man murmurs, and Oswyn feels the remark like a slap across the face. He shrugs it away, putting on a small smile.

“In two years, we may all be surprised.”

Chapter Text

His apprentice was a curious creature, one that demanded further study. The boy was clever, and had a surprising breadth of knowledge—botany, astronomy, linguistics, theology, and a decent bit of mathematics, in addition to philosophy and literature. Well mannered and quiet, endlessly polite, though a bit skittish for Walsingham’s taste. He never liked to be touched, except in those moments when he craved it.

For all his intellect, however, Blackthorn had made the boy shockingly ignorant in some fields. He had no understanding of fashion, and barely anything of art or law or government; political scheming seemed to confuse him more than anything else. Paintings worth a fortune were pretty, not priceless, and he couldn't care less about what a countess’s gown said about her family status.

To some degree, this was understandable. Christopher had never been to court, and had no connection to nobility or wealth of his own. What Walsingham couldn’t fathom was his utter inability to comprehend value.

“A diamond of seven carats, set into a twelve-carat gold ring,” the spymaster would say. “Good craftsmanship, but no special adornments, aside from perhaps some minor engraving on the interior. What is the value of this object, and how much could it fetch on the black market?”

Christopher would blink at him, stupefied. “Well,” he would start slowly, “the gold is about half-pure, then, mixed in with cheaper metals. And the diamond…is relatively large?”

“Compared against what?”

“I’m not sure, My Lord. I suppose against other gemstones.”

“That statement is subjective. A value, apprentice.”

“Thirty pounds?”

“Explain your logic.”

“Well,” he began, “it’s a ring, right? So it must be relatively small, if it’s going on a woman’s finger. And the gold is only half-pure, so that lowers the cost, but diamonds are expensive. Apparently.”

“You assume that only women wear rings,” he corrected. “Plenty of men do, including our King, so sizing would necessarily be different. However, the correct value would be closer to fifty pounds, as the size of the diamond compensates for the impurities of the metal. A black market jeweler would buy it for forty, then smelt it down and sell the components individually. On its own, the gold would fetch a little less than six pounds.”

“How come a ring costs the same as a jar of myrrh?”

“Because gemstones are rare, and require a great deal of effort to obtain, even more so than myrrh. Besides, many are willing to pay for the symbol that it provides, which is one of great wealth and luxury. Let us try again, apprentice. His Majesty is commissioning eight ships to be built, two of the first-rate, two of the second-rate, and four of the third-rate. What is the lowest that he should expect to pay in total?”

Christopher hesitated, carrying out the calculations in his head. After a minute, he stopped, then sighed.

“I don’t know, My Lord. A lot.”

“Such as?”

“A hundred necklaces, perhaps. Twenty thousand pounds.”

“Incorrect. A hundred thousand pounds would be on the lower end, for the first-rate ships are all triple-masted. Did you not read the book on naval warfare that I provided for you last week?”

“I did read it—well, most of it, at least. I cannot even imagine so much money. A carpenter makes less than a shilling a day, so why does it cost so much to build a ship?”

“All the carpenters, and the woodcutters, and the wood itself, followed by sailmakers and ropemakers and coopers and every other profession. Think of the effort to make a single ship, apprentice. Then think of how difficult it is to create a fleet, and perhaps you’ll have greater appreciation for our conflicts with the Dutch.”

“Forgive me, My Lord, but it is all so—” the boy waved a hand, searching for the right word. “So abstract. You tell me a necklace is worth five hundred pounds, but I know that a sparkly geode at the country fair is worth a farthing. To me, these things are the same, but then you tell me they couldn’t be further apart. I don’t understand how I can learn how to tell.”

“The same way you learn anything else. Instruction, practice, memorization, and application.”

“But the rules depend on where I am,” the boy insisted stubbornly. “I am not from this world of jewels and ships; why should I know how to trade them or what they’re worth? But I know what a fair price for a pound of onions is, or a bushel of carrots, or Spanish laurel. Those rules don’t apply here.”

Walsingham sighed, then nodded.