The Accidental Alchemist (14 page)

eighteen

At the hospital, we
weren’t allowed to see Blue or even leave her flowers. We were told her condition hadn’t changed; she was still in a coma but stable. Olivia insisted on taking the flowers home with her so the beautiful bouquet “wouldn’t go to waste.”

Olivia asked to be dropped off at her house, a Craftsman in an East Portland neighborhood not far from mine. Though a similar style to mine, her house was half the size, but in much better condition. Barren rose bushes lined the small yard in front of the porch. I imagined that in the springtime they would match the pink shutters. It was walking distance to Blue Sky Teas, and Olivia said she wanted to eat lunch before returning to the teashop.

“Blue’s healthy pastries will be good for another day or so,” she said, “but I don’t enjoy the taste of sawdust.”

“They can’t be that bad.”

“I gave you fair warning.”

I was again curious about how bad Blue’s cooking could possibly be, but I didn’t have time to find out. Brixton would be home from school in a few hours, which gave me enough time to try another experiment in the basement. I was still holding out hope that by going through the motions my subconscious would kick in and I’d remember the important subtleties of alchemy I learned long ago, helping me see what I was missing in the coded illustrations and text of Dorian’s book.

As soon as I came through the front door, planning on heading straight to the basement, I was accosted by a frantic gargoyle.

“Where were you? I was worried.”

“I went to see Blue at the hospital.”

“You left only to take Brixton to school. I thought you would be returning home presently.”

I’d been on my own for so long that it hadn’t occurred to me anyone would be worried about me. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I’d been pushing people away for so long that this was a big adjustment. Attachments were too painful. But along with the pain, I’d lost sight of the joy they could bring.

He sniffed. “I used up the last of the fresh vegetables cooking us lunch. You will need to buy more food before you resume work in your alchemy lab.”

“Ah,” I said. “That’s why you missed me.”

“The provider of food is a very important role.” He sniffed. “As is the chef.”

With that, he returned to the kitchen. I followed behind to see what he was making. He’d cooked a fresh loaf of bread to accompany a roasted beet soup. I often made a pureed beet soup in the blender, but Dorian’s stove-top version was a combination of chunks of seasoned beets and other root vegetables floating in a creamy broth. The attention to detail in the small touches in the meal assured me that Dorian’s transformation back into stone wasn’t progressing more quickly. We had at least a little bit of time. I hoped.

After lunch and a quick trip to the market, I took a few deep breaths and walked down the stairs to the basement.

The French cooking idea of
mise en place
, where you set up all your ingredients and tools before starting to cook a meal, also applies to alchemy. Even without a proper lab set up, it was important to locate the tools and measure the ingredients. Glass vessels, a stone mortar and pestle, herbs I’d dried myself, and pure alcohol. It wasn’t much, but it would do for now.

Dorian poked his head in the door. “We are out of coconut sugar again,” he said.

“Already?”

“I know you are busy. You can buy more at your earliest convenience.”

That gargoyle was going to send us to the poor house. If it wasn’t such a draining process, there was no question that I would have worked on turning metal into gold as my foray back into alchemy.

For now, I returned to a basic plant alchemy transformation. I used a mortar and pestle to grind the dried herb, mixing in a rhythmic, clockwise circle. As soon as I mixed the herbs and alcohol together, the concoction began to steam. That
wasn’t
what was supposed to happe
n. I knew what must have happened. In all my efforts to clean up the basement itself, I hadn’t cleaned the mortar and pestle. It was a stupid mistake. One I never would have made before. I couldn’t remember what I had last ground with it. The contents of the steaming jar began to bubble.

This couldn’t be good.

The mixture exploded from its glass jar, showering me with
gray
slime this time.

“
Mais non
!” a voice called out from the stairs. “What has happened?”

I wiped gray slime from my lips. “I told you not to disturb me until it was time for me to pick up Brixton from school.”

“It is time. You are going to be late.”

I could have sworn only thirty minutes had passed, not three hours.

“This is part of alchemy?” Dorian asked skeptically. “Turning yourself gray is correct?”

———

Half an hour later, Brixton voiced a similar question.

“What happened to you?” he asked as he climbed into the truck.

I hadn’t had time to shower to get rid of all the slime. I thought I’d gotten most of it with a wet washcloth. Apparently not.

“I forgot to put the lid on the blender,” I said.

“You’re making
gray
smoothies now? There’s no way I’m trying one of those.”

Brixton knew I was using my skills in an attempt to figure out the poison used on Blue, so we could save her and clear her. But I was shielding him from the reason I was setting up a complete alchemy lab
.
I didn’t want to burden Brixton with the knowledge that some
one else was dying, and that I needed to solve the riddle of
Not Untrue Alchemy
to save Dorian’s life. Worrying about Blue was enough for him.

Brixton had convinced Dorian to let him use his phone for short interludes while the gargoyle watched him, and Brixton had started calling the hospital to check on Blue’s condition. That made it clear how important it was to him, because the thought of speaking to someone on the phone, rather than texting them, horrified him. He knew she was still in critical condition, still in a coma.

While Brixton devoured the desserts Dorian had been baking, I headed to the bathroom to get rid of the remaining gray slime. I was nearly as good as new when I joined Brixton and Dorian downstairs. I smiled at the sight of the two of them at the dining table.

The thick wooden table was something I’d found in the south of France in the late 1860s. It wasn’t practical by any stretch of the imagination, even at the time. I knew I would only be in the village for a few years, until it was obvious I wasn’t aging. I’d learned that it was easiest to live as simply as possible. The less baggage—both emotional and physical—made it easier to move on. But living without attachments also took its toll.

The local man who built the table was a true artist and also a struggling widower with four small children. I didn’t have the money to pay what the table was worth, so for more than a month I went through the draining process of creating gold. By the time two full moons had come and gone, I hadn’t yet transmuted enough lead into gold. I must have looked as tired as I felt, because the town took up a collection to send for a doctor to attend to me. I was so touched that I paid everyone back twofold with gold. With the renewed energy their generosity had given me, I was able to transform the largest amount of lead I’d ever turned to gold. I paid the craftsman more than he was asking for the table. It’s one of the most beautiful pieces of furniture I’ve ever owned. I kept in touch with his daughter for many years. After I had to leave, we kept up a correspondence of letters until she passed away from old age. I would have liked to have seen her again, but there was no way I could have let her see me. The table was one of the special items I kept in my storage collection.

Brixton had an algebra textbook in front of him on the hundred-year-old table.

“Can we go visit Blue?” he asked.

“The last time I checked, they weren’t allowing visitors.”

“It doesn’t hurt to try, right?”

“Are you done with your homework?”

“It’s
math
,” he said, slamming the book shut. “I suck at math.”

“Um …” I began. I knew mathematics as it applied to calculating measurements and documenting chemical interactions, and also in its older and broader usage that included astronomy and physics. But I wasn’t sure any of that would come in handy with algebra homework.

“Do not look at me,” Dorian said, not looking up from the paperback book he was reading. “I can assist with French literature, linguistics, and the sciences, not mathematics.”

“We can check on Blue,” I said. “We’ll figure out the math later.”

“While you are out,” Dorian said, “please stop by the library to get me more detective fiction novels.” He gave a contented sigh and closed the Agatha Christie novel in his hands.

“I’ve got a whole shelf of them in the trailer,” I said.

“I know. I have finished them.”

“There are dozens of books.”

“Yes, I never knew how entertaining such books could be. British ‘penny dreadfuls’ were looked down upon when I was a child.”

“You,” Brixton said, “were a child?”

“Of course,” Dorian said. “Were you born knowing everything you know today?”

“A little baby gargoyle?” Brixton shook his head. “My life is too weird.”

“I was never smaller than I am now,” Dorian said, “yet I did not possess the knowledge I now have.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” I said. “What
did
happen right after you were brought to life? Could you speak, or were you as helpless as a newborn?”

“You have not obtained another recording device?” Dorian asked Brixton.

“No way. You’re helping clear Blue. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I was not,” Dorian said, “an infant in the traditional sense. I was neither tiny nor helpless. I spoke only Latin.”

“
Only
,” Brixton muttered.

I agreed with the sentiment. Nicolas Flamel had insisted I learn Latin for my alchemical studies. I hadn’t taken to it nearly as well as I had to plants. But after learning the basics of Latin, other languages followed much more easily.

“You spoke Lati
n,” I said, “because that was the language of the text that brought you to life.” It made sense in an alchemical way—transformations rearrange existing elements. I wished that knowledge of the strange
visual symbols included in the book had been transferred to the gargoyle as well.

“What are you two talking about?” Brixton asked.

Damn. I had spoken before thinking. I was used to keeping my own secrets, but having a gargoyle in my life was something new. But Dorian didn’t seem to mind. He chuckled.

“My father’s Latin was not so good,” Dorian said. “It took time for us to learn to communicate and for him to teach me French.”

“Your
father
,” Brixton repeated.

“You have heard, of course, of the great Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin?”

Brixton stared at him blankly. “That name sounds French. I live in Oregon. So your dad’s like an actor or something in France?”

Dorian’s complexion didn’t turn red when he was angry, but dark gray granules gathered in his cheeks when he became agitated. His face was now visibly darkening.

“He was a very famous stage magician,” I said before Dorian could explode. “This was in the 1800s. He used to create mechanized illusions that were technologically much more advanced than the times.”

“That’s wicked,” Brixton said.

Dorian’s coloring returned to normal.

“I’ll pick up some books for you,” I said. “Come on, Brixton. Let’s go check on Blue.”

———

I hadn’t expected the trip to the hospital to be successful, but visitors were allowed in to see her. Though Brixton was happy about this development, I wasn’t so sure I was. There was still a murderer out there who h
ad already tried to kill her once.

Blue’s condition remained the same. Brixton sat with her for the twenty minutes until visiting hours were over.

“Can’t you, like,
do something
?” Brixton whispered at one point. “With your alchemy? Do you have any of that Elixir of Life stuff? That should save her, right?”

“I wish it worked like that,” I said. “The Elixir of Life can’t be transferred between people.”

I spoke the truth about the Elixir, but at the same time Brixton’s words were more true than he knew. I used to be thought of as a healer. But that was centuries ago. I’d pushed those skills aside along with the painful memories I tried to keep at bay. There was no longer anything I could do for her.

Neither of us spoke on the drive to the library. Brixton stayed in the car while I selected the maximum number of books I could check out. I was only half paying attention to what I’d selected for him. I grabbed anything that fit the description of being from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction.

I handed Brixton the books to look through in the car, but he simply set the stack down at his feet. When we reached the house, he went straight up to his room and slammed the door.

“
Qu’est que sait
?” Dorian asked.

“He’s worried about Blue.”

I set down the stack of books on the dining table. Dorian hopped up on a chair and looked through them, nodding with approval.

“These will work,” he said.

“You mean you’ll enjoy them?”

He set down the book in his hand and faced me. “I did not wish to speak in front of the boy. It is my body. If I allow myself to be completely still, I begin to turn to stone. This did not used to be a problem.
Maintenant
, it is more and more difficult for me to resume my normal moving form. Even small movements, such as reading, keep my body awake. This is why I have asked for books. While you and the world sleep, I must stay awake—or I fear I may remain trapped in my stone body forever, never to return.”

nineteen

At
dawn the next
morning, the house was silent. I’d like to say I knew something was wrong right away. That the house was “too still.” But I didn’t.

On my way downstairs, I noticed that Brixton’s door was ajar. I poked my head in. The bed was
empty.

“
Dorian!” I called out, rushing down the stairs. “Brixton!” I opened every squealing door in the house, one of which fell off its hinge when I yanked too firmly. I even checked under the beds, holding out a false hope that they were playing a joke on me. I circled the house, thinking maybe they couldn’t sleep and had gone outside to eat an early breakfast. I checked inside the trailer. They weren’t there, but a strong odor was. The confusing scent rattled me until I remembered that Brixton had broken several bottles. I continued my search. My truck was parked in the driveway behind the trailer as usual. There was only one thing out of place. Brixton’s bike, normally re
sting in a spot next to the back door, was missing.

I had once known a Native American tracker, but I had no idea how the skill was executed. I couldn’t even detect a bike track leading out of my yard. I had no way to know where they’d gone. Could I have slept through the two of them being abducted? I’m a sound sleeper to start with, and I’d been exhausted.

The sound of wheels skidding echoed in the early morning stillness. I sprinted to the front door. An out-of-breath Brixton ran through the open door a second later, Dorian right behind.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you all right?”

Brixton bent over and breathed deeply, his gloved hands on his knees. “I think we lost him.”

Dorian nodded, clicking off the living room light and peeking out the windows. “You have it?”

“What are you two talking about?” I looked between them but neither of them looked back at me. “What’s happening?”

Brixton stuck his hand into the pocket of his bomber jacket and removed a small glass vial.

This couldn’t be good.

“What is that?” I said.

“The poison that hurt Blue.” Brixton handed the vial to Dorian. “Don’t worry, it’s not blood or anything. It’s the liquid remains they found of whatever she drank.”

“I will hide this with Zoe’s other alchemy supplies,” Dorian said.

“You didn’t,” I said. “The
police lab
? You broke into the police lab?” I sat down, not feeling so well.

“Dorian said you could learn more about the poison than the police,” Brixton said. “You said you were trying to help her.” When he spoke of Blue, his eyes weren’t those of a jaded teenager but of a worried child.

“Brixton, this isn’t a movie. You can’t go around breaking into places you don’t belong—especially police labs—no matter what Dorian says.”

Dorian coughed indignantly. “I resent the assumption it was my idea.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“
Mais oui.
Of course this was my idea. But I did not wish the child to come with me.”

“I’m not a child!” The outburst made him sound more like a child than usual.

“He followed me,” Dorian continued, “on his bicycle.”

“What?” Brixton said when I gave him a pointed look. “He told me what he was doing. Did he really think I wouldn’t follow?”

“It is not my fault that he followed!” Dorian said.

This must be what it felt like to have children. I took two deep breaths to moderate my voice when I spoke. “Just tell me,” I said, pausing to take another calming breath, “what happened.”

“The boy could not sleep during the night,” Dorian said. “I was here reading, and I made him a snack. He asked about what you and I were doing to help Blue. You did not have a large enough sample of the poison from Blue’s house. He told me the police lab would have it. He knows much about this city. He knew where the lab was.”

“How did you get inside?”

“It was not difficult,” Dorian said, tapping his claws together.

“But there was an alarm,” Brixton added.

I put my head in my hands. “Of course.”

“It was a silent alarm. We didn’t know—” Brixton broke off and looked to the gargoyle.

“Until the police arrived,” Dorian finished.

I groaned. “How did you get away? Did they see you?”

Brixton flipped up the hood of the black hoodie he was wearing under his jacket and held up his hands. Between his shadowed face and gloved hands, even in close proximity it was difficult to identify him.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve broken in somewhere,” Brixton said. “I know what I’m doing. I’m the reason we got out of there.”

“He is a very intelligent boy,” Dorian chimed in.

“You’re not helping, Dorian,” I snapped. “How could you let him go into the lab with you?”

“He was already there! Would it not have been worse to leave him outside?”

“No,” I said. “It would have been a million times better if he hadn’t
broken into
a police lab.”

“We’re back,” Brixton said. “And we got the poison. No reason to be so upset.”

“
No reason?
” I said. “Do you realize you’ve broken the whole chain of evidence? Anything we learn from this can’t be used as evidence.”

I took measured breaths, trying to calm myself. I really shouldn’t leave those two alone.

“Who cares about evidence?” Brixton said. “I just want you to fix Blue.”

It was difficult to be blindingly angry when I knew why they were each doing it. Desperate times called for desperate measures. My exasperation faded. But only a little. “What happened when the police arrived?”

“I’d hidden my bike a little ways away,” Brixton said. “We ran there and I put Dorian on the handle bars.”

“The police didn’t follow?”

“It was weird,” Brixton said. “I didn’t think they had seen us, but then one guy caught up. I took us through the Shanghai Tunnels to get away. My bike got beaten up going down the stairs, but Dorian was able to fix it in the dark. We stayed down there for a little while, to make sure nobody was following us. That’s why we’re back so late.”

I hadn’t noticed until now that they were both dusty. The underground tunnels explained it.

“Get cleaned up,” I said. “I’ll drive you to school.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Oh, well, then… take a shower to clean that tunnel dirt off.”

“Your shower is either freezing or boiling. It’s torture.”

“Then let the cold and hot water run together and take a bath.”

He grumbled on his way upstairs.

“Is this enough?” Dorian asked, holding up the vial.

“This is a bad idea,” I said.

“Do you have a better one?”

———

Dorian cooked breakfast—brown bread fresh from the oven with wild blackberry preserves from wild blackberries he found in the woods during one of his recent nights out exploring.

“I have not yet perfected a vegan butter,” he lamented. “Nut butters are not the same. I will master it yet. Dorian Robert-Houdin does not walk away from a challenge.”

I had a challenge of my own to tackle. I waited until Brixton climbed into bed before getting to work on the poison.

With fear as a motivator, I was more effective in the laboratory than I’d been the day before. In a strange way, I was also happy. I had experienced some of the happiest moments of my life when Ambrose and I worked side by side.

We each worked differently—he with metals and me with plants—but we complemented each other. They talk about couples completing each other’s sentences. Ambrose and I completed each other’s thoughts about our alchemical transformations. If I needed a glass retort for the next phase of a process, Ambrose would hand it to me moments before I moved to get one myself. If he needed a crucible to move his creation into the fire of the athanor, I knew when he was ready for it. In alchemy, a practitioner’s energy is transferred to the vessels they work with. Therefore most alchemists didn’t let other alchemists touch any of the items in their labs. But with two of us, it was as if those rules didn’t apply. We were so in synch that our alchemy transformed us into one. I had never felt so connected to life as I was when I was in the laboratory with Ambrose.

R
emembering those moments, I found my rhythm. Like many alchemists before me, I was so caught up in the moment, so focused on the process, that I forgot I was dealing with an unknown substance. I should have been working more carefully, but I was giddy with getting back into the rhythm of alchemy. Through the distillation proc
ess, some of the liquid from the vial had turned to steam. It was too late to stop the process, or to leave the room. I breathed in the noxious fumes.

I felt myself falling. I must have been physically falling to the hard concrete at my feet, but that’s not what it felt like. I was falling in slow motion, through the sky.

I knew, then, what I was feeling. The toxin in the air was the most essential metal in all of alchemy:
mercury
.

The last thought I had was that I was being killed by an alchemist.

Then everything went dark.