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heaven.”
    “I pray so,” whispered the boy. Listening to the rain beat upon the roof, he reminded himself he was better off inside.
    “Then we understand each other,” said the reeve. He peered around to make sure the innkeeper remained asleep before continuing, in a lower voice. “Now, then, Alfric, pay close heed: there’s a man in town—a very old man—who goes by the name of Thorston. He’s an alchemist. Which is to say, he makes—gold.”
    “Please, sir, how does he do that?”
    “That, Alfric, is something you must discover.”
    “Me, sir?”
    “Since gold making is illegal, only I—who am the law—should know of it, so as to protect the public from its misuse. Now, then, as I say, this Master Thorston is old and dying. But, Alfric, hearken, he’s in need of … a green-eyed boy.”
    Alfric lowered his eyes.
    “Indeed,” pronounced Bashcroft, “I never would have purchased such a worthless boy as you unless you had green eyes.”
    “My eyes can read, sir.”
    “Who taught you?” snapped the reeve.
    “My father, sir.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Dead, sir.”
    “Then reading didn’t profit him much, did it?”
    Alfric gave a dismal nod.
    “And your mother?”
    “Dead, too.”
    “I can assure you,” said Bashcroft, “they’re better off. Now then, tomorrow morning, I shall bring you to this Master Thorston’s house. You will insinuate yourself into his household, discover the man’s gold-making method, and deliver it to me—only to me.”
    “What will this man do with me, sir?”
    “I neither know nor care. I merely warn you that if you fail to learn his secret, I’ll thrash you—mercilessly. Do you understand?”
    Alfric nodded.
    “Moreover, I shall always be close, watching. You’ll not escape me, Alfric, not until you’ve provided me—only me—with the gold-making secret. And, if you reveal his secret to anyone else but me, I shall wring your neck like the runty puppy you are. Can you grasp that?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Then you may have just enough intelligence to survive. Now, follow me.” So saying, the reeve heaved himself up, wrapped himself in a great cape, and strode loudly out of the Pure Hart and into the pelting rain.
    Miserable, cold, and wet, Alfric kept close.

CHAPTER THREE

    1

    M ORNING , however unwilling, seeped into Fulworth. A gray, raw morning, with blustery winds blowing through the narrow streets and alleys, spreading the stink of rot, open privies, and spoiled food. When the bells of Saint Osyth’s cathedral rang for Prime, they did so with peals that sounded like colliding lumps of lead. And in the decaying stone house at the end of Clutterbuck Lane, Sybil, through chattering teeth said, “I don’t think Master wishes to live.'’
    “He once told me,” said Odo, “that when he knew he was going to die, he’d make sure he stayed alive. Like most humans, he’s not kept his word.”
    Sybil, contemplating Thorston’s unmoving face, said, “How old do you think he is?”
    “Eighty years or so.”
    “I suppose,” said Sybil, “he should be content: he’s lived far longer than most.”
    “I don’t care how long he’s lived,” said Odo. “I ask for just one hour—if he talks.”
    Sybil filled the wooden spoon with broth and continued trying to force liquid through Thorston’s clenched lips. A few drops got in. Most dribbled down his chin. She wiped the spill with a dirty rag. “It’s useless,” she said. “He won’t take anything.”
    “Which means we won’t get anything,” croaked the bird.
    Upset, Sybil carried the bowl to the brazier where she had kept a small fire burning with chips of sea coal. Next to the fire stood the iron pot with which Thorston had been working when he took ill. She stood close to it. As she shifted about, trying to warm herself, she caught a sudden, furtive glance from Odo. Sensing he was troubled by her nearness to the pot, she decided to look at it closely. As she bent over it she saw—out of the