by Lorelei Bell
“You won't divulge the secret ingredients to me? That's not fare.”
He chuckled at her, then said in a low rumble, “No, my dear. Absolutely not.”
She made a pout. It was a good one, but Saint Germain wasn't falling for this ploy, either. She went with a new tactic. “Well, then, how did you happen to come by it? If it's such a great secret, you must have either come by it by accident, or by discovery.”
He settled back in his chair, draping one hand over the arm of it, he seemed to come to a decision over what, if anything, to tell her. “I was an accomplished alchemist in my time,” he revealed. “I remain so, but enjoy very little repute for my endeavors these days.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Ah, it truly has been too long since I've contemplated my existence.” He sighed heavily, and brooded into the contents of his repast.
“Well, if you don't want to tell me what's in that cup, at least tell me where you're from?”
“I? I am from too many places. It would take a whole night to speak of them all, and I don't wish to bore you with my plights.”
“Sir, I'm sure I would never be bored by such, as you say, plights. Pick one place, or story, then. Please?” She clasped her hands under her chin and made the look of interest.
He drew in and let out an exasperated sigh and seemed to relent. “Very well, my dear. Since you persist in knowing something about me. Earth, then. Paris and the French Court of King Louis the Fifteenth; the Duc de Choiseul, Madame de Pompadour, and the Marechal de Belle-Isle, and so many others. All do I miss.” He paused, looking rueful. Gazing up at her, his expression was that of someone who was trapped in a reverie. He nearly looked embarrassed by it, or the fact that he could not give into it right there and then.
“You said Earth? The planet, Earth?”
“Yes. You have heard of it?” An eyebrow arched inquisitively.
“Yes,” she tried to hold her excitement down, having suddenly discovered something extraordinary about him. “We call it First World, since our ancestors first came from there.”
“Ah,” he said. “I do seem to recall someone telling me that.”
“And this time you speak of, of kings and so forth. I happen to know that the modern days on First World are now a few hundred years past that era.” She tried not to sputter, took a sip of water from her glass and went on. “Forgive me for sounding incredulous, but how could you, first of all, have lived what must be hundreds of years, and secondly, how did you manage to travel to a completely different planet—in a different galaxy?”
“You are inquisitive, of course, and I have said more than I had intended.” He squeezed his eyes at her as though making a decision about what to tell her, and what not.
“Of course I'm curious! But you can't tell me that you were alive during the time of Louis the Fifteenth, and expect me to not want you to explain how you have done this, otherwise you force me to accept any wild thing you say from here on and believe you without backing it up with some real proof.”
“Forgive me if I seem presumptuous,” he said, blinking. “Perhaps if I begin a little further back.” He chuckled lightly. “Maybe much further back,” he amended and he looked up, thinking, and began his story.
“It was in the early days of discovery when my peers were preoccupied with transubstantiation of base metals, striving to turn them into gold.” He made a derisive laugh. One brow arched as he went on. “There were those who'd claimed they had achieved such.” He drummed one elegant finger on the table so as to punctuate his next words. “It was accepted as truth that if a substance, or process, could be found capable of turning ordinary matter, such as this”—he picked up the fork beside his plate— “into the noblest of metals—gold—then could it not be used to perfect man himself? Make it so that he would continue to live and never die?”
Zofia felt the tug at the corner of her lips, and couldn't help herself.
“You are amused?”
“I'm sorry,” she said, pulling in her smile. “Of course there are sorcerers on my planet who can do these things and much more. But never die? Never is a long time, sir.”
He bowed his head to her. “Of course you doubt my word, and I do not blame you. However, who do you think told us the secrets of life and death, creating gold out of metal—and more, as you so aptly put it?”
“I'm sorry. This all intrigues me. Please go on.” She had to allow him to spill everything, if she wanted to get something out of him to send back to Stephen in her report.
“Where was I? Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “By removing the four elements of earth, air, fire and water from mercury, the refined product was treated with sulfur and arsenic. What resulted, if all went well, was what was known as the Philosopher's Stone, as it was called then. The elusive prize.” He took the stem of the goblet before him into two fingers, gazed at the vessel and lifted it. “Also known as the Elixir of Life.” His eyes flicked to capture her own. “Transmutation was taken on by the most famous of magicians of the time. Only two men—who were not magically endowed—that I know of had ever achieved transmutation of metals by means of the Philosopher's Stone. Albertus Magnus, and myself.”
Zofia fingered her glass stem thoughtfully. This was not the idle chit-chat of a mad man. She had never heard of such a thing as the Philosopher's Stone, but it didn't mean that it didn't exist. Possibly it was something only mortal men knew of. Those interested in it would be serious alchemists who dabbled in transmutation—something she had heard of. Saint Germain, she realized, was a serious student of alchemy and this was huge. An Ugwump from First World having achieved such a feat was unheard of, at least on this planet. She eyed his goblet. Whatever was in it, whatever he sipped now, was called appropriately “The Elixir of Life”. She may be seated across from the only man alive who possessed it and knew it's contents by heart because it was what had kept him alive for centuries.
“Only a magus or an adept can do such a thing,” she said slowly, carefully, her throat straining against the emotions which were bound up inside. Truth be known, he was several rungs up from the normal garden variety Ugwump who would be either frightened of such things, or hadn't the I.Q. to master any of the basics. Alchemy, at least on her world, was left to those who had magical Powers. Ugwumps were never allowed in academies where it was taught. There was always the threat that they might learn how to kill, maim, or destroy people, along with their homes, or the entire planet. For a long time Zofia had thought that this was a ridiculous notion, this holding back knowledge from the Ugwumps on her planet—until she lived on First World where it happened every day, and the idea that someone could merely push a button and destroy the entire world was a real threat. Thus, she now saw the reasons behind the Immortal's keeping mortals “in their place”.
“Aren't you afraid of someone learning about this might who try to steal it from you?”
He tapped his temple. “I keep the formula up here. It is not written down anywhere. I've destroyed all my notes. It was the only prudent thing to do.”
Deep shadows behind and around him seemed to float and bob, magnifying those unfathomable eyes. It made her a little dizzy. Perhaps it was only the champagne.
“Besides,” he went on, “Only an adept could even hope to harness such supernatural forces, or harness these forces of nature. Myself, and some of my colleagues, were gifted scholars, whose research lead them deeply into the little understood realms of the mind, mesmerism, spiritualism, and the like. Some went on to discover remedies of physical afflictions. Indeed, Scholar and Magician were often interchanged. And”—he let go another audible sigh—“there were just as many charlatans who took advantage of those who were not so knowledgeable. The main populace—who were illiterate—could easily be misled by someone who was clever, knew slight of hand, that sort of thing. They would dupe people into believing they had real powers just to gain easy wealth. I knew such hoaxers. Faust was one. Cagliostro another.” He grimaced suddenly as though the
name he'd just uttered had left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Cagliostro?” Zofia asked, not sure why the name seemed to haunt and intrigue her at the same time.
Probing eyes flashed on her. “You know of him?” He seemed startled, and at the same time angry. Or was it deep concern? She had to allay his suspicions quickly.
“No. How would I know of him? He is from your planet, isn't he?” She felt defensive and didn't know why. It were as though he'd caught her in some lie. Of course she didn't know who this Cagliostro was, no more than she knew the count, before they'd met. And yet, it were as though she had known Saint Germain a long while. She studied him, guessing he might be anywhere from three to five hundred years old—she wasn't sure when some of these people he mentioned had been alive. She also figured because of the fact he did not appear to age, and would never die, that he would have to move about every thirty or forty years.
He visibly relaxed. “Yes. Of course. What was I thinking?” Obviously Cagliostro was someone he truly despised, perhaps even hated.
A soft knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
Saint Germain sat up, and at his command the door opened to Jacques.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Jacques said, as a second man wearing the white apron, who was ladened down with a huge tray of food crossed the threshold. The man set his tray down on a smaller table by the door.
Jacques and Saint Germain went into conversational Arpiesian again while the other man transferred food from the tray to the table. Zofia suddenly felt strangely without appetite. In fact she felt nauseous. She couldn't figure it out. Not right away, until she suddenly remembered about her pregnancy. She'd forgotten about the written ingredients Baruche had given her. She should have gone down to the apothecary to have the prescription filled. Too late now.
The man with the chef's apron placed a plate of raw oysters in front of Zofia. One look at the mucus around the oysters and sickness rose immediately to Zofia's esophagus. Desperately she looked around for a place where she could vomit without being totally rude.
At the same exact moment, Jacques had swept over to the table and extracted the bottle of champagne from the bucket.
“More wine, madame?” he asked, and poured the wine into her glass. Spying the empty bucket, Zofia seized it and up-chucked into it, narrowly missing the poor man's shoes by milliseconds.
Startled, Saint Germain jumped to his feet; his chair crashed to the floor.
“Mon Dieu!” Jacques blurted, horrified.
The wave of dizziness that she'd felt earlier, washed over Zofia. She fainted dead away.
Chapter 21
The strong reek of sulfur—or something just as potent and noxious—startled Zofia awake from the depths of a dream world that had taken her away from the little room where Jacques had plied her with food and drink.
Almost.
She opened her eyes. Saint Germain's face came into focus. Along with a funny hollowed-out feeling in her head, Zofia felt dizzy even yet.
“Do not get up,” Saint Germain advised. “Not just yet.” Sharp worry was etched on his otherwise smooth features.
Jacques' voice swam from the void in the background as he asked something. He went into his broken English. “She eez okay, no?”
“She will be fine, Jacques. That will be all. I will see to her,” Saint Germain said quietly.
Zofia lay prone on the sofa. Jacques stood wringing his hands closer to the door than to her, and seemed to not hesitate in leaving the room when asked. She realized that Saint Germain had taken off his coat, and was now in shirtsleeves. He somehow looked sexy to her, his black shirt was open at the neck, even with the white lace circling his neck, just a little bit of chest peeked out. This was a different side to him. The austere man suddenly gone, in his place was someone more spicy, more swashbuckling. Her heartbeats altered suddenly. They became deeper. She had to jerk her eyes off his chest playing peek-a-boo with her. Get a grip.
“What happened?” she asked, moving her head, noticing the candles were all nearly guttered. A wet cloth fell from her forehead as she swiveled. Saint Germain caught it before it fell to the floor.
“You became sick and fainted,” Saint Germain explained in a quiet tone.
Lifting herself to an elbow, she now remembered. Uck! Poor Jacques! No wonder he stayed well away from her. Most likely he feared the dreaded projectile vomit.
“Are you still feeling ill?” he asked, the creases between two elegantly shaped brows showed his concern. Certainly, he didn't want her barfing all over the expensive rug. After all he'd have to run to First World to replace it.
“I think I'll be alright. I hope.”
“My dear heart,” Saint Germain took her hand into his and patted it with the other. They felt warm on her chilled skin. “I cannot think of what would have made you so sick. You ate nothing. Perhaps the wine on an empty stomach?”
“No,” she said. “No, I don't think that was it.” She was debating with herself as to whether she should tell him. She couldn't hardly keep this a secret. Not if she would be constantly sick, napping, and growing huge in the belly, eventually. If she went searching for an apothecary, people would see, people in a small village like this talked. The apothecary would know exactly what she suffered from, and eventually it would get back to Saint Germain.
“Then, what is it? Pray tell me, if you know.”
“I'm pregnant.” The reaction was pretty much the same, no matter what man she told this to. It were as though she'd just broke wind. Pregnant. Not exactly the word a man wants to hear from a woman's lips he's only just met, and possibly had any interest toward. That's the kind of personal information you left for—oh, say—the fourth or fifth date, at least.
Saint Germain straightened and stared at her. His features were unreadable. “You should have told me you were in a delicate way,” he said, the worried look returning. “I would not have put so much on you—the food, the wine. This is no good!” He snarled as though agitated with himself for being so stupid.
Staring at him, she deciphered his seventeenth century lingo. “Don't worry about it.” She waved dismissively.
“How utterly stupid I am,” he blurted. “I know the signs. I should have been more aware. More accommodating.”
“Signs? More accommodating?” she repeated, peering up at him.
“Percival told me you had a great thirst earlier. Then, he'd stepped in later and found you napping.”
She groaned inwardly. Biddle hadn't been watching out for Percival, as he had said he would. “I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself.” She was lucky he hadn't thrown her out, deducing she was either a lush, or a lazy good-for-nothing. “It was only a little nap,” she went on, twisting her fingers. “Really. It won't happen again.” Two hours' worth.
Hands going up, he said, “It is alright.” His gaze fell to her belly. She suddenly felt twelve months pregnant, about to burst with child. “You must not be far along? I did take the liberty, however, of undoing your belt.” He held it up, and handed it back to her.
“Oh. Thank you.” It had been a tad tight. She had a feeling this baby was going to be a challenge to carry. Vomiting on a man's shoes—or almost—when he is serving you wine was not a good sign of things to come.
She made to rise. Saint Germain helped her. Warm hand still holding hers, the other slid around her back, they both just stopped and looked into one another's eyes. Warmth from the hand at her back radiated through the material. His touch felt very intimate. Not only that, their faces were now mere inches away. Spice, and the hint of something metallic, acidic. Sulfur?
Holding her breath as her mind raced with what she knew of the underbelly of the castle, add to that she knew he had been working on his generators earlier, she was keenly reminded why she was here. Keep your cool, Zofia. If this is the only way to get him to open up so be it.
His eyes held a depth to them. A liquid depth which pulled her down like a whirlpool. She thought surely he would ki
ss her. Their lips were a mere breath away. She gazed up into his eyes.
“Does he hunt for you still?” Saint Germain's voice whispered against her skin.
“Who?”
“The one who bit you, of course.”
“Oh,” she said, hand going to her neck to the bite site. “Yes,” working on sounding fearful (only fearful was somehow lost in the translation), she went on, “that's why I had to get far away. As far away as I could so that he couldn't find me.” It sounded memorized. She couldn't help it. She'd heard it on a very old, late movie once where everyone had a British accent, and over acted. For some reason this scene popped into her head, and so did the words just then.
Chest expanding with a deep breath, he let it out and said, “I understand.” He still held her close. One free hand came up and smoothed across the side of her face. “You've nothing to fear with me, Zofia,” he said in that nice, almost husky whisper. “Nothing from me or in my realm. Believe me.”
A few more heartbeats thundered as she stared into his eyes. She let out a shaky breath. She couldn't help it. She felt as though at the edge of an elusive treat. Would he kiss her? Or, perhaps, she should kiss him?
Slowly, he released her. She found herself standing independently, and wavered slightly. He grasped her arm to steady her.
“Are you able to walk?”
Finding her equilibrium, she nodded.
“Good. I will take you back to the castle,” he said, gaze becoming stern once again. A certain stiffness returned to his manner as he pulled her warm cloak from the couch and drew it over her shoulders. He slipped on his coat and then his own cloak. That austere posture of the aristocrat had returned. Zofia felt that he had nearly allowed the moment between them to go too far.
A few minutes later, they settled into the carriage and Randal took the horses at a slow trot back to the castle.
“I'm sorry,” Zofia said when they were almost there.
“For what, dear heart?” Saint Germain asked gently.
“You went to such trouble. I—”
