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Crispin turned his head, not looking back entirely over his shoulder. “You say you and your guild have used this place to meet?”

“I said that the place has not been entirely abandoned.”

He pivoted to look at Peter straight on. “Do you play games with me, sir?”

“Me? Not at all.”

Crispin studied him. He was short, wiry, young. “Then what is your meaning?”

“What I mean to say, Master Guest, is that though we meet infrequently, we have been known to meet here. And other places.”

“And where might those other places be?”

“Well, that, I cannot say. Alchemists must be cautious, as surely you can understand.”

“But I am looking for an alchemist, a man who has perpetrated murder, abduction, and perhaps a host of other crimes. Would you shield him?”

“To protect my brethren, I might.”

Cosmos and Damian looked nervous on either side of him, but they did not naysay their apparent leader.

Crispin snorted and pointedly turned away. He made a slow circle about the space, feeling along the walls for secret entrances. All the while, the thrum in his belly made him feel wretched and disconnected.

Jack, though wary of their companions, noticed. He came up alongside Crispin. “Are you well, Master?” he said quietly.

“I feel a little poorly. Maybe it’s time to go home. I see nothing here.”

“Shall I … shall I give it my own inspection first, sir?”

Sensible. He nodded, rubbing his stomach, and watched as the boy made his own perusal. He looked in areas under windows and near pillars that Crispin hadn’t thought of, making him wonder yet again about the extent of the lad’s past criminal experience.

From across the room, Jack looked back at Crispin and shrugged. There was nothing to be gleaned here. Nothing while Crispin was distracted by the pains in his stomach.

“Let us go, Master,” Jack said reluctantly, joining him again.

Crispin turned to the alchemists, standing in the doorway. “I thank you for your hospitality. And I beg that you follow us no more.”

“As you wish,” said Peter, stepping aside for him.

Crispin escaped down the stairs, looking back once they had gotten to the corner of the street.

Peter still stood at the top of the stairs, listening intently as his companions spoke softly to him.

It was a relief to get home at last. And a comfort to see the fire stoked and Avelyn beside it. But the food she had brought made his stomach turn and he flung open the window to breathe the fresh air of a dark London.

“Take the food away. I cannot abide it.”

But he’d said it out the window, and Avelyn had been unable to read it on his lips. He heard the sounds of Jack intercepting her and her bowl of whatever she had cooked.

“He don’t want it,” said the boy, too loudly. “Can’t you see he’s poorly?”

Crispin leaned on the sill, certain he was going to sick up out the window, when he heard Avelyn return the bowl to the pot on the fire. Her light steps came up behind him and soon there was a touch on his arm.

“No,” he whimpered. “Let me be.”

She would not leave him alone-damn the woman! — and turned him instead. Her concern furrowed her brow and she led him and then helped him to the bed, allowing him to lean heavily on her arm.

I’ll care for him,” said Jack. His voice was more than a little petulant. “He’s my responsibility, not yours.”

But as usual, Avelyn ignored that which she chose. She stuffed the pillow under his head and began unbuttoning his cotehardie. It was a relief, for he had begun to sweat again.

Jack was suddenly leaning over him, too. “Here? What are you doing?”

She elbowed him out of the way, and Crispin heard the boy’s breath whoosh and then a cough. “Sarding woman!”

Crispin closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. It had all the earmarks of a night of binge drinking without the former benefits. “Avelyn, he’s only trying to help, as are you.” He licked dry lips.

He opened his eyes when he heard her gasp.

She was holding the little bundle of herbs sold to him by Bartholomew of Oxford. Only it hadn’t been him, but an impostor. She clutched it in her hand and stared at it, before raising her eyes to Crispin’s. Without hesitation she yanked it from his neck, snapping the knot in the leather thong.

Crispin jerked up to a sitting position and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ow! What the devil? It’s only a sachet.”

She shook her finger at him and her face darkened. She clutched it in her hand, turned, and heaved it into the fire. The hearth flared in bright colors of greens and blues. Crispin stared at it as the smoke curled up to the ceiling. He was about to shout at her, but just as suddenly as the fire had flared, so did the discomfort slip away from him. He no longer had an ache in his belly, nor did the room turn and roll as it had done. He felt better. And hungry.

“God’s blood. What the hell was in that?”

She made a sign with her fingers he did not know, but he did not need to interpret to know instinctively what she meant.

“Poison.”

Jack stood before the fire, mouth hanging ajar. “God blind me! That devil of an alchemist tried to poison you!”

Crispin chuckled from pure relief. “And I even paid him for the privilege. The whoreson.”

Tucker knelt at his feet. “Master, are you well now?”

“Yes. Yes, by God! I feel much better. I could use a dollop of food now. And some wine.” Jack scrambled, even pushed Avelyn aside, to serve it himself. Crispin shook his head at the boy but turned to Avelyn and made the sign for “thank you” at her. She smiled.

Crispin rose and moved to the table, but he glanced back at the fire and devised just how he was going to get his hands around the neck of that knave.

As night fell around them, Crispin cast a glance at their distinctly domestic scene: Avelyn kneeling by the fire, absently pushing the coals around and sending an occasional sparking ember spitting up the chimney; Jack sitting opposite Crispin at the table, his chin on his crossed arms, eyes scouring the chessboard as the pieces slowly made their way across the squares.

For the last two hours, Crispin had taught his apprentice the intricacies of the game, and he was pleased and swollen with pride that Jack was such a quick study. Even so, most of the captured white pieces sat on Crispin’s side of the board, while his own black pieces began crowding round the white king.

Jack sighed. “If I move there, your bishop will get me.”

Crispin nodded.

“And if I move there, the castle will. So in … one, two, three moves, you’ll win anyway.”

“Can you see no way out of it?”

He shook his head and rubbed his nose. “No, sir. I’m defeated. Again.”

“Quite right.”

The boy tilted his king over. “I like this game,” he said, sitting up. “I might even win it someday.” He grinned.

“I daresay you will.” Crispin set about putting the pieces carefully back into their box.

Jack stretched, bones cracking. “I can see why you like chess. It’s a bit like what we do out in the city, isn’t it? Trying to stay one step ahead of the enemy.”

“Exactly. Games of strategy have always intrigued me.” He placed the last piece in its velvet-lined niche and closed the lid. “I’m very pleased you have taken to it so readily.”

Jack raised his chin with a wide grin. “Aye. Well, I’ve a good teacher, don’t I?” He rose and yawned. “I’m for bed, then. Unless there is aught else you need, sir.”