Product Description Christopher Rowe is back and there are more puzzles, riddles, and secrets to uncover in this follow-up to the Indie Next pick The Blackthorn Key, which was called a “spectacular debut” by Kirkus Reviews in a starred review.The Black Death has returned to London, spreading disease and fear through town. A mysterious prophet predicts the city’s ultimate doom-until an unknown apothecary arrives with a cure that actually works. Christopher’s Blackthorn shop is chosen to prepare the remedy. But when an assassin threatens the apothecary’s life, Christopher and his faithful friend Tom are back to hunting down the truth, risking their lives to untangle the heart of a dark conspiracy.And as the sickness strikes close to home, the stakes are higher than ever before… About the Author Since escaping from university with a pair of degrees in theoretical physics, Kevin Sands has worked as a researcher, a business consultant, and a teacher. He lives in Toronto, Canada. He is the author of the award-winning and bestselling Blackthorn Key series. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Mark of the PlagueCHAPTER1“THIS IS A BAD IDEA,” Tom said.He stared sidelong at the device at the end of the workbench, as though, if he looked at it directly, it might poke out his eyes.“You don’t even know what it does yet,” I said.He bit his lip. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.”The contraption did look rather . . . well, odd. It was five inches tall, with a bulging top balanced over a narrow upright cylinder, wrapped tightly in folded paper. The upper part of the device balanced on three wooden prongs sticking out of the bottom. A wick of cannon fuse trailed from its end.“It’s like a mushroom,” Tom said. “With a tail.” He edged away from the workbench. “A flammable tail.”I couldn’t help feeling slightly wounded. Odd or not, this device was the most important thing I’d ever made. All of the other equipment in the apothecary workshop-the ceramic jars, the molded glassware, the spoons and cups and pots and cauldrons-lay crammed on the side benches, cold and quiet. Only the faint scent of ingredients and concoctions lingered in the room. Even the giant onion-shaped oven in the corner was still. Because this was the creation that would save my shop.I held it up with pride. “Blackthorn’s Smoke-Your-Home! Guaranteed to . . . uh . . . smoke your home. Well, that advertisement needs work.”“Your brain needs work,” Tom muttered.Now that was going too far. “My inventions do exactly what they’re supposed to.”“I know,” Tom said. “That’s the problem.”“But-look.” I put my Smoke-Your-Home back down-gently-and showed him my design, sketched on an unrolled sheet of vellum.“It’s like a firework,” I said, which in retrospect was probably not the best way to start.Blackthorn’s Smoke-Your-HomeInvented by Christopher Rowe, Apothecary’s Apprentice“You light the fuse at the bottom. The gunpowder in the lower part pops the top into the air. Then the second fuse makes that burst.” I swept my arm over it like I was hawking silks at the Royal Exchange. “Fills any room with smoke to keep your family safe! Designed to help drive off the plague!”“Uh-huh,” Tom said. I think my theatrics made him less impressed. “Why is it full of flour?”“That’s the best part. Watch.”I went to the side of the workshop, where I’d stored the two sacks of flour I had left. I grabbed a handful of it and picked up the taper burning on the workbench. When I puffed the flour into it, it burst with a bright flash of flame.“See?” I said. “It explodes. That’s what blew up Campden’s mill last summer. There was too much flour in the air.”Tom pressed his fingers to his forehead. “You based an invention on an exploding mill?”“Well . . . it’s less dangerous than gunpowder, right?” Tom didn’t seem to think that was a selling point. “Anyway, when the flour explodes, it incinerates the sawdust and herbs, fill

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