Her Majesty's Necromancer (The Ministry of Curiosities #2)(30)

I'd seen how accurate his knife throwing was. He'd planted a meat cleaver into Anselm Holloway's shoulder when my adoptive father had attacked me in the courtyard. It would be a useful skill. "Yes, please."

"We should run it by Death first," Gus warned.

"He ain't here," Cook said, signaling for me to follow him out the door.

"Why wouldn't he want me to learn to throw knives?" I asked.

Gus fell into step alongside me as we trotted down the stairs. "He will, when he feels you're ready."

"Why aren't I ready now?"

He sighed. "I don't know. All I know is, he hasn't given permission."

"Stop worrying, Gus. It's not like you."

We headed out to the courtyard at the back of the house. It was an area set aside for receiving deliveries and for the servants to use as a recreational space during their spare time. Although I'd sat on the bench seat and read often during the early weeks of my arrival, the colder weather had driven me indoors lately.

"There be any wooden barrels in the stables?" Cook asked Gus.

"Aye, but you can't use those. They'll be no good to anyone if you put holes in 'em. There's some spare planks in the carriage house."

He disappeared into the building adjoining the stables, while Cook returned to the kitchen. They both emerged a few minutes later, wooden planks and knives in hand.

Gus set three planks up on their ends and leaned them against the wall of the storehouse at one side of the courtyard. Next he drew a smiling face on the middle one with chalk. "A point if you hit the face. Extra if you get an eye."

He joined us and Cook handed me a knife. "The heavy end be thrown first," Cook said. "A knife with a heavier blade than handle should be held by the handle. One with a heavier handle, hold it by the blade. What's yours? Blade or handle heavy?"

I tested its weight by balancing it on my palm. "Neither."

"Good. It be a balanced knife. Best for beginners. Mine be blade heavy." He gripped his by the handle and I did the same, taking careful note of where he placed his fingers and thumb. "Don't hold it too tight or too loose. Now put your left foot forward, but keep your weight on the right. Bend your arm. Not so close or you'll cut your ear." He adjusted my arm for me. "Move your weight onto your front leg, unbend your arm, and release the knife when it be fully stretched out. Watch me."

He did everything he'd just instructed me but in rapid motion. The knife lodged in the eye Gus had drawn.

Gus whooped and clapped.

"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked Cook.

"My pa taught me. He were a knife thrower with a travelin' troupe of carnival folk. They performed at country fairs and the like."

"You didn't follow in his footsteps?"

"For a bit, aye, but the travelin' life weren't for me."

"How did you come to be here at Lichfield?"

"I were assistant cook for Lord Gillingham."

I pulled a face. Gillingham was one of the committee members and he'd made it abundantly clear that he didn't like me. What wasn't clear was whether he didn't like me because I was a necromancer, had lived on the streets, or both. "He stole you from Gillingham?"

"Gillingham dismissed me, the little turd."

"Why?"

"Thought I'd been drinkin' the wine from his cellar on the sly, but it weren't me. Were his cook, but the cook blamed me. The cook were jealous because I cooked a meal for his lordship's guests one night when he were sick, and they all thought it were the best they ever had."

"Did you defend yourself and tell Lord Gillingham you didn't drink the wine?"

"Course, but then the cook found out I been to jail for theivin' a few years back, and there were no hope I could stay after that. Ain't no one who wants a thief in their house."

"Except Mr. Fitzroy," I said wryly. I'd also been a thief and had only escaped jail by raising a dead man's spirit and frightening the guards. "Did Fitzroy feel sorry for you and decide to employ you here?"

Both Cook and Gus snorted. "He don't feel sorry for nobody," Cook said. "He employ me because I the best cook in London."

Gus rolled his eyes.

"Go on, Charlie," Cook said. "Your turn."

I set my feet apart like he'd shown me and held the knife near my head, arm bent. I released it in a smooth motion. It missed all the planks and bounced off the brick wall. "What did I do wrong?" I asked, going to retrieve it.

"Your aim be off."

"I gathered that. Anything else?"

"Maybe stand closer. You be weaker than me."

I came in another foot from my previous position and set myself up again. I was just about to release it when Lincoln rode into the courtyard on his horse.

"What is this?" he growled, dismounting.

Gus rushed over to gather the reins.

"Target practice." I held up the knife and indicated the planks. "Cook is teaching me how to throw them to wound someone."

"I didn't give permission."

"It was only a little practice. Why do we need your permission?"

"Because I am your employer." He stalked into the house, flinging his cloak from his shoulders.