Christopher Rowe is back and there are more puzzles, riddles, and secrets to uncover in this third novel of the award-winning Blackthorn Key series. Wherever Christopher Rowe goes, adventure—and murder—follows. Even a chance to meet King Charles ends in a brush with an assassin. All that’s recovered from the killer is a coded message with an ominous sign-off: more attempts are coming. So when Christopher’s code-breaking discovers the attack’s true target, he and his friends are ordered to Paris to investigate a centuries-old curse on the French throne. And when they learn an ancient treasure is promised to any assassin who succeeds, they realize the entire royal family is at stake—as well as their own lives. In the third heart-pounding installment of the award-winning Blackthorn Key series, Christopher, Tom, and Sally face new codes, puzzles, and traps as they race to find the hidden treasure before someone else is murdered. 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. The Assassin’s Curse CHAPTER 1 “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT,” Tom said. He folded his arms and turned away, gazing unhappily through the carriage window. Beyond the curtain, the lights of distant farmhouses dotted the darkness of the countryside. “But I haven’t done anything,” I said. “You think we’re here because of me?” “No, I—” “I’m not the one setting fire to pear trees,” Tom said. “That was an accident.” “I’m not the one saying, ‘Hey, let’s blow up these pumpkins in the street.’?” “That was an experiment,” I protested. “And it was one pumpkin. The rest were squash. What does that have to do with anything?” “Maybe you destroyed an important pumpkin.” “How can a pumpkin be important?” “Maybe it was a prize-winning pumpkin,” Tom said. “Maybe it was England’s pumpkin, to be entered into the International Pumpkin Fair. In Scotland.” “Now you’re just stringing random words together.” “Oh? Then explain this.” He grabbed the . . . invitation, I suppose you’d call it, that had fallen to the floor of the carriage and thrust it at me. “Explain it!” That was the problem. I couldn’t explain it. This whole business had come as a surprise. Yesterday morning, Tom and I had been eating lunch in my apothecary shop when a heavy fist had hammered on the door. I’d opened it to find myself face-to-face with one of the King’s Men, the royal coat of arms emblazoned on his tabard. Behind him was a carriage, a second soldier waiting beside it in the street. “You Christopher Rowe?” the King’s Man said. When I nodded, he handed me a letter. I stared at it, uncomprehending. When I read it, I understood even less. Christopher: Get Thomas Bailey and get in the carriage. Ashcombe Baron Richard Ashcombe, the King’s Warden, was the Lord Protector of His Majesty, Charles II. I looked warily at the soldier. “Are we in trouble?” He shrugged. “I was just ordered to bring you to Oxford.” Oxford? That’s where the king’s Court was staying. “Are we under arrest?” The man tapped his foot impatiently. “Not yet.” And that was how Tom and I ended up bumping our way through the countryside in the back of this carriage. After a night under guard in an inn, Tom was convinced we were headed for doom. “We’re going to end up in the dungeon,” he moaned. “We’re not going to end up in the dungeon,” I said, not entirely certain of that. “Do you know what happens in a dungeon? There’s no food. They starve you.” “We’re not even in irons.” Tom’s lower lip trembled. “All you get is a single piece of bread, once a night. And not the good bread, either, with poppy seeds and maybe a bit of cinnamon. No. It’s hard bread. Hard bread for a hard life.” Trust the baker’s son to critique the dungeon’s bread. Still, I wished he’d stop. The more he spoke, the more the prospect of wasting away behind bars loomed large in my mind. I tried to push his worry aside and think of why Lord Ashcombe would call for us. I’d only had contact with the King’s Warden twice since we’d stopped the plot against the city at the height of the plague. The first was after Magistrate Aldebourne had told Lord Ashcombe what had happened. He’d written to me separately, asking for my account. The second was when he’d found a job for Sally, as promised. His note, characteristically brief, said he’d found her a position as chambermaid to the Lady Pemberton, and a horse would come to collect her. As the baroness was with Court, which had fled London when the plague came, Sally had said a bittersweet goodbye to us back in September. Since she’d gone, I’d written her letters every week, but I hadn’t heard back. That wasn’t unexpected—her job wouldn’t give her enough money to pay for post—but Lord Ashcombe’s summons made me wonder if she was in some kind of trou