The Elusive Elixir

by Gigi Pandian

  “You did the only reasonable thing by leaving. You cannot help me if you are in prison. Or on the run in France. Or dying with a wooden stake in your chest.”

  “I get the point.” I cringed at my unintended pun.

  The gargoyle was right. He was a lovable and infuriating combination of adolescent puppy dog and wise old sage. Madame Leblanc was not someone to dismiss. I’d known people like her in different countries and different times. Women who were too easily dismissed when they should not have been. Some of them suffered in silence. Some of them formed communities of like-minded souls. And some of them took revenge.

  “What are we to do?” Dorian asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I need to tell you about the other gargoyle—”

  “My brother.”

  I hesitated.

  “Why did you purse your pale lips?” Dorian asked. He tilted his head. “Perhaps you should buy some lipstick. That might squelch the vampire rumor.”

  “There’s no vampire rumor.”

  “Whatever you say, ashen alchemist. Why were you pursing your pallid lips?”

  “It’s not good to think of him as a brother. You don’t know him, Dorian.”

  “What is there to know? He is my brother.”

  He blinked at me so innocently that I felt tears welling in my eyes. “You shouldn’t get too attached to the idea of another living gargoyle. We might not be able to bring him back from stone. When I saw him—”

  “You saw him?” Dorian flapped his wings and wriggled his snout. “You did not tell me this! You said he was being held captive by a mad professor—”

  “I’m fairly certain I didn’t say that. But it’s true, I did see him after I sent a swarm of bees after the professor so I could sneak into his office.”

  “Bon.” Dorian slapped his good hand against his knee. “Is my brother arriving later in a crate? I cannot believe you neglected to tell me of this upon your arrival.”

  “I didn’t mention it first thing because I couldn’t get him out of Paris, Dorian. He’s more than a foot taller than you—there was no way I could carry him out of the university.”

  “Why did you go to see him without an escape plan? You caused harm to the professor but not so you could free my brother? This makes no sense. What were you thinking?” He flapped his wings.

  “I’m most concerned about you. I needed to test what we thought we knew about your book and the Tea of Ashes.”

  “A test? You think mon frère is a test?” He harrumphed.

  “If it worked, it would have helped him.”

  “Yet it failed.” His wings folded around him.

  “The Tea of Ashes transformed him for a brief moment. Only long enough for me to know he’s still alive in there.” I trembled at the memory of the gargoyle’s pleading gray eyes.

  Dorian peered intently at me. “The great Dorian Robert-Houdin knows what you need. I will bring food. Wait here. I will return shortly. Then you will tell me all about my brother.”

  I gave Dorian a hug. “I missed you, my friend.”

  “Moi aussi, mon amie.” He cleared his throat. This level of emotion was terribly undignified for a Frenchman born in 1860.

  Eleven

  Maybe Dorian was right that I’d have a clearer head after eating something. Especially Dorian’s cooking.

  Dorian had taken over my kitchen pretty much the day I moved into my crumbling Craftsman. Shortly before his death, Dorian’s father, Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin, had the idea to serve as a reference for his adopted gargoyle son. Robert-Houdin explained that his “distant relative” Dorian was badly disfigured and did not feel comfortable being seen in public, but was a good man who would be a great help as a companion to a blind person. Dorian’s first job was for the chef who’d lost his sight in a kitchen fire. Dorian learned to cook from the famous French chef. He took to it so well that he’d been a culinary snob ever since.

  When Dorian followed me to Portland to seek my help last winter, he was horrified to learn that I eat only plant-based foods. Since alchemists aren’t immortal, I learned long ago to take care of my body. I’ve been following a vegan diet since before the word was invented. I was a “Pythagorean” at one time—the mathematician also preached the merits of a plant-based diet. It’s been a challenge at times to live in the United States, England, and France, which is why I always appreciated my sojourns to India. I was hopeful when Sylvester Graham’s Grahamite diet caught on in the United States in the 1930s, but was dismayed that while he endorsed vegetarianism, he shunned spices. What good is a long life without some spice?

  In the months since Dorian and I began sharing the house and the kitchen, he experimented with how to cook the decadent French foods he loved with vegan ingredients. Cashew cream replaced heavy cream made of dairy. Smoked salts and spices replaced bacon. Mushrooms replaced meat. Though it took him a while to admit it, he loved his new recipes more than his old ones. Before I left on this trip to Paris, he’d already declared himself to be the greatest vegan chef in all of Portland.

  I smiled at the thought. Then yawned. The adrenaline that had kept me going was wearing off.

  Dorian returned to the attic a minute later with a stack of three containers balanced in his right hand. I again noticed his inability to move his left arm, but I knew that bringing it up again before he was ready wouldn’t get me anywhere.

  The snacks he carried included a spread of morel mushrooms cooked simply in olive oil and spices, including a black salt sprinkled on top. I scooped up a mouthful with a piece of bread. It was exquisite, as expected. When I took care of myself, I ate well but far more simply than this.

  “Brixton found you these mushrooms at the market?” I asked. Our fourteen-year-old neighbor, the only person in Portland besides me who knew of Dorian’s existence, had been bringing Dorian groceries while I was out of town. Brixton was also tending to my backyard garden, which was the excuse he gave for coming over to the house while I was gone.

  “Not Brixton,” Dorian said.

  “You promised you’d tell me if you were going to use my credit card again.”

  “This is what you think of me?” His snout twitched. “Non. I have my ways.”

  “Your ways?”

  “A gentleman must keep his secrets.”

  “Dorian.”

  He shrugged. “While you were sick and then out of town, I was unable to cook for Blue Sky Teas, since they believe it is you who cooks there. I was bored. I wished to experiment with new recipes—ones that would work with only one good arm. You slept even more than usual while you were sick. It was quite tedious.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No? Did you not taste the nut bread? It is superb. The perfect texture and the ultimate balance of sweet and savory. What else do you need to know? I have told you everything important that transpired last week—unlike some people. You still have not told me of my brother. Bof. I am so distracted thinking of my brother that I did not even remember serviettes with our snack. You are dripping oil and we have no napkins.”

  “It’s not a long story,” I said, grabbing a tissue to serve as a napkin. “Once I got into the office on my own, I read the backward alchemy incantation from the book.” I glanced nervously at the book, its sweet scent of cloves and salty scent of the ocean filling the attic. “The words didn’t affect him as they did you all those years ago, when Jean Eugène read from his ‘prop.’ But when I placed the Tea of Ashes in his mouth, he awakened and spoke—”

  Dorian gasped.

  “Only a few words,” I whispered. The pleading terror in his eyes was something I’d never forget. I hoped Dorian couldn’t see the horror on my face. “He was only awake for long enough to ask for help.”

  “Alors,” Dorian said. “So it is true. This is the fate that awaits me.”

  “Not while
there’s an ounce of breath left in me.”

  Dorian frowned. “I am humbled by the sentiment. Yet you have already lost too much weight in this last month. Soon you will have completely wasted away.” He pointed a clawed hand at the decadent snack that would have looked more natural at a sunny wedding reception than the silent shadows of an attic at three a.m. “Eat.”

  I obliged.

  “How’s Brixton?” I asked.

  “Happy that it is now summer vacation. He is a good boy. He has been tending your garden, as you asked, and also bringing food to both me and Ivan.”

  “Ivan needs people to bring him meals? He said he was feeling better.” I wondered if Ivan had told me that so I would answer his practical alchemy questions instead of telling him to rest.

  Retired chemistry professor Ivan Danko had an interest in the history of alchemy as a precursor to modern chemistry. Like most modern-day scientists, he hadn’t believed alchemy was real. Ivan suffered from a degenerative illness that left him with a weak immune system and a crushed spirit. His last wish was to finish writing his book before he died. At least, that was his wish before I’d been reckless. I’d accidentally shown Ivan that alchemy was real. I couldn’t be a proper mentor to him (unlike Jasper Dubois, Ivan had asked), but because Ivan understood the need to be discreet about alchemy, I agreed to answer his questions as best I could when he set up his own alchemy lab. He was a good man and I wanted to help.

  I was far from confident that Ivan would find the Elixir of Life that had consumed and eluded so many intelligent men over the centuries. I would have discouraged him from trying, save for one thing: it gave him hope. That hope gave him renewed energy for life. He might yet finish his book before he died.

  “I do not trust that man,” Dorian said.

  “You don’t trust anyone who knows the secret that alchemy is real.”

  “That is not so. I trust you and the boy.”

  “You trust me because you purposefully sought me out, and you didn’t trust Brixton for months.”

  “This is true. But it is dangerous to trust others—as your trip to Paris proves. Brixton is young and naïve. So yes, the thoughtful boy brought Ivan a meal when he was recently home from the hospital, but this gave me an idea. Visiting Ivan was a perfect way for Brixton to keep him under surveillance during the daytime, when I could not watch him.”

  “Watch him?” I felt my eyes narrowing. “Why do you need to watch Ivan?”

  “To see if he is up to nefarious deeds. Did I fail to mention we have been visiting Ivan?”

  I rubbed my temples. “Are you trying to tell me that you and Brixton have been spying on Ivan?”

  “Spying is a strong word. I prefer to call it gathering intelligence.”

  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. “This is a bad idea.”

  “The boy can move about freely during the day—”

  “He’s fourteen.”

  “He did nothing unsafe. What is the harm? You are the one who believes we should trust Ivan.”

  I rolled my eyes at Dorian. “People don’t generally react well when they learn they’re being surveilled.”

  “Have you ever known us not to be careful?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off by saying, “I withdraw the question.”

  Twelve

  In spite of the late night, I awoke with the sun, thinking of Jasper Dubois, who hadn’t simply decided to move on from dangerous wartime Paris but had been killed.

  My body is attuned to planetary alignments, so I always awaken with the first rays of sunlight. Alchemists have different strengths—some of us excel at transmuting corroded metals into pure gold, some of us feel the energy of gemstones, and some of us, like me, have a connection to plants—but all of us are affected by nature, from the scents that drift through the air to the rotations of the celestial planets above.

  In the light of day, my immediate situation didn’t seem as dire. I doubted the French authorities would spend limited resources to follow up on such an old crime, especially since I’d left France and the suspect was most likely dead. Ivan was a good man who would laugh if he learned Brixton was keeping an eye on him. An apprehensive feeling tickled at the edge of my consciousness, but with so many unanswered questions, that was to be expected. Jasper’s death was an unsolved tragedy, but he was gone. Dorian was alive and needed me.

  Since I’d arrived in the middle of the night, I hadn’t yet seen my backyard garden. As a plant alchemist, the garden wasn’t simply a hobby; it was an extension of my being and my salvation. Feeling the energy of the plants, from their roots in the earth to their soft, fuzzy, or prickly leaves, touched my soul. When my aptitude was discovered by an alchemist who assumed it was my brother’s work, I learned that the alchemical term for creating healing medicines using the ashes of plants was spagyrics. I prefer to think of myself simply as a plant alchemist.

  I was apprehensive as my bare feet touched the cool wood of the back porch. Breathing in the chilled air, I saw that Brixton had done a great job. Especially flourishing were the beets, parsley, and an assortment of salad greens. My young neighbor had more of an aptitude for gardening than I’d anticipated. I laughed as I noticed the plant that was doing the worst: nettles. Normally the tasty, healing plant that most people thought of as a pesky weed would grow under any circumstances, pushing out other plants. Brixton was afraid of the stinging leaves, so he must have ignored it. Now that I was home, I’d pour some extra energy into the nettles.

  Simply stepping into the sanctuary helped calm my mind, which was still racing with all the confusing facts being thrown at me. The lavender made my head spin in a different way—it made me think of Max. I’d missed him more than I’d imagined I would. I shouldn’t have been surprised. We shared so much in common, from our gardens to devoting our lives to helping people, and the chemistry between us was something I hadn’t felt in decades. Was it enough to overcome the chasm in the foundation of our understanding of the world that made Max skeptical of anything he couldn’t see?

  After watering the garden and fixing myself a revitalizing green smoothie for breakfast, I came to a decision about what to do with the illegible vellum note from Nicolas Flamel. As much as I wished to learn what had become of the generous man who’d briefly been my mentor, I couldn’t risk what he’d think of Dorian’s connection to backward alchemy. I made sure the note was safely hidden away in an empty jar of Devil’s Dung in my basement alchemy lab, where nobody would ever look, then climbed the stairs to the attic. The door was latched from the inside, so I knocked.

  “I am at the denouement of a book that is giving me a frisson,” Dorian called through the door. “Come back later, s’il vous plaît.”

  I wondered if it was true he was reading a thrilling novel, or if he didn’t want me to see how poorly he was feeling. It distressed me to see my friend in so much pain, and it scared me to watch his body reverting to stone. Dorian used to shift between life and stone as easily as a person would move between standing up and sitting down. But now each time he transformed into stone, it was more and more difficult for him to regain movement. I needed answers. I hoped the bookseller would send me the book on backward alchemists as soon as promised.

  Since the garden was thriving, I collected two buckets of parsley and beet greens, then went inside and unlocked the door to my basement alchemy lab. I hadn’t had a chance to build a proper alchemy laboratory, just as I hadn’t finished construction on my fixer-upper house, but both were holding their own. After things with my contractor didn’t work out, my underemployed locksmith had made sure the house was in good enough shape that the neighbors wouldn’t complain, and I’d cleaned the basement and made it my own. Both solutions were painfully close to the quick fixes I abhorred in backward alchemy. My imperfect alchemy lab served as my daily hypocrisy check. It was a good reminder that we do the best we can, but life
isn’t black and white.

  I set the buckets of greens down on my work table, feeling an uneasiness creep over me as I did so. Something was amiss. There was nothing obvious, but I knew I wasn’t wrong. The energy of the basement felt different. I glanced around.

  I’d purposefully kept the room sparse, with two simple yet solid wooden tables, alchemy ingredients ranging from cinnabar to gold dust, and only candles and kerosene lanterns to light the space. Those sources of light served two purposes. First, they transported me to the right mental state to begin alchemical transformations. Second, they made sure that anyone snooping would have to take an extra step to cast light on their surroundings.

  Had Dorian tidied the room in an attempt to be helpful? Though his body was failing him, he was a helpful little guy. I wanted to make another batch of Tea of Ashes for him. I knew if I told him what I was up to, he wouldn’t let me go through with it. That’s why I wasn’t going to tell him in advance. Besides, this would be a small batch, not like the unwieldy batch that had backfired and made me so ill before going on my trip.

  I followed the backward steps, beginning with fire. Extracting the essences of the fresh greens through this backward process left me with ash that wasn’t alchemy’s true salt, but mimicked it closely enough to work temporarily.

  Two hours after beginning the Death Rotation, I had an ash-like substance to dissolve in hot water for Dorian to drink as medicine.

  My joints ached as I climbed the steps leading out of the basement. At the top, it took a minute for me to catch my breath. It took all my energy to boil the water to make the tea for Dorian. Luckily, the scent was so pungent that he smelled it from the attic and came downstairs before I began dragging my tired legs up the stairs. He shook his head but accepted the tea.

  “I’m going to rest for a little while now,” I said. Dorian helped me to the couch. Between his limping gait and my wilting body, we were a sad sight. My eyes fluttered shut as soon as I hit the couch cushions. I felt Dorian place a blanket over me as I drifted off to sleep.