by Gigi Pandian
“I’ve gotta warn you,” Tobias said, “I always hated Latin, so I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to help you with this book. I learned alchemy from deciphering the riddles in the pictures, not from solving coded Latin.”
“Even better. The text states that the answers are in the pictures. And the illustrations inside aren’t like any alchemy I’ve ever seen. I recently figured out that the woodcut illustrations showing cathedral ruins make up one coherent cathedral when ashes are spread onto the pages to make them blend together. But it’s a generic cathedral, so I can’t figure out what it means.”
“I think you misspoke, Zoe. You mean acid, not ashes, right?”
I shook my head, then I spread the book open on the angled scriptorium desk and stood back and watched as Tobias slowly turned the faded pages. Only, the pages weren’t quite as faded as I remembered them.
“I see what you mean,” he said, startling me. “These illustrations. Are you sure this is truly old? It doesn’t have the scent of an old book.”
“It’s the strangest thing,” I said. “At first, I thought I was imagining it. But now I’m sure it’s not my imagination. The scent of the book keeps getting sweeter.”
Tobias’s breath caught.
“What is it?” I asked. “You’ve encountered something like that before?”
“I’ve read about codes that involve all of the senses, but I’ve never come across one.”
“I think I know why you’ve never seen one before.” I hesitated, still feeling hesitant to speak the words aloud. “This book is backward alchemy.”
Tobias gave a low whistle and quickly closed the book. “That’s why you’ve been so evasive since I got here. That’s what you didn’t want to tell me.”
“You know about it?”
“Only that you should steer clear of it.” He stepped away from the book and crossed his arms. “The death rotation. You sure about Dorian?” He paused and ran an anxious hand across his face. “I mean, if this book is what gave him life—”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything. Whatever he is, he’s a good soul. Unlike the intent of the backward alchemists who made this book, Robert-Houdin’s intent was pure. Dorian is an innocent victim.”
“His intent,” Tobias repeated. “You think that’s what kept Dorian from being corrupted?”
“It’s not working for his body, though, since it’s reverting to stone.”
“You know,” Tobias said slowly, “you might not be able to save him.”
I reached for my locket and steadied my breathing. “I have to try.”
Tobias relaxed his arms and stepped slowly back toward the desk. “I’ll do what I can to help you two, but … ” He hesitated briefly, then opened the book again and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Zoe. Even though I enjoy codes, I’m primarily a spiritual alchemist. I only practice my own form of alchemy, and I don’t know anyone who works with this type of whacked alchemy.”
“Normally I’d say that was a good thing.”
“Back up a sec.” He looked at the book as if seeing it for the first time. “Why is this happening now? What changed?”
“That’s what we can’t figure out. We think it’s happening to other things too. Several works of art made of gold have been crumbling in European museums.”
“You mean the gold thefts in the papers earlier this year?”
“They weren’t thefts. The culprits were reported to be cheeky thieves who left gold dust in place of the items they stole, but it happened at the same time Dorian began to return to stone. I think it’s related.”
“Damn. But you don’t know why?”
I shook my head.
“Then we’d better get to work.”
For the next several hours, Tobias and I went through the book’s woodcut illustrations.
His interest in puzzle codes led us to a coded reference I hadn’t picked up on—the placement of the flying bees relative to the planets in the different illustrations.
“The bees,” Tobias said. “If you take all the images together, looking at which planets are represented in each image, it’s as if they’re telling you to follow a path.”
“The ladder of planets,” I said. “I thought of that already, but it doesn’t lead anywhere. The Tea of Ashes I’m creating for Dorian isn’t like any other transformation I’ve done. Beginning the process under a certain planet doesn’t increase its strength.”
“You’re looking at this too literally, Zoe.”
“That’s always been one of my problems with alchemy,” I grumbled. “What did you have in mind?”
“The planets have forces that pull different metals to them. Codes convey ideas without being literal about the example.”
“Right. Like how the Language of Birds only symbolically involves birds, and hundreds of different dragon symbols have nothing to do with finding a real dragon.”
“Exactly. A planetary pull is a strong one, controlling massive oceans through the tides, even keeping us glued to the ground instead of flying off into the universe.”
“But you just said this didn’t have to do with planets.” I forced myself not to tug at my hair in frustration.
Tobias heard the defeat in my voice. “Let go of literal thinking, Zoe,” he said softly.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, visualizing the melded illustrations of death and resurrection, the ruined cathedral now whole. “The cathedral,” I said, my eyes popping open.
Tobias grinned. “That’s the planet.”
“It’s trying to pull the book toward it.”
“You’ve gotta find this cathedral.”
“I don’t see any identifying markings,” I said, “but the book dates back at least to the sixteenth century, so it’s not a modern cathedral.”
Tobias sighed. “Most of them aren’t, so that doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“Thanks for your optimism.”
Tobias held up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Dorian was originally a carving meant for Notre Dame in Paris,” I said, then shook my head. “But the book came into his possession in Blois.”
“Is there a Blois cathedral?”
“I’m pretty sure there is. But there have got to be hundreds of cathedrals in France alone. There’s got to be something else … ”
My cell phone rang.
“You’re not answering the door,” Brixton said on the other end of the line. “Dorian says you’ve got him held hostage in the attic and you’re starving him to death. How come you didn’t tell me he got out?”
I winced. “I’m so sorry, Brixton. So much is going on that I didn’t stop and think. He’s only been back for a few hours. How did you find out? Don’t tell me it’s on the news.”
“Nah, Dorian emailed me. He’s on your laptop in the attic.”
Of course he was.
“I think your ‘B’ key is broken. He kept spelling Rixton.”
“You can let yourself in. I’m in the basement and I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a second.” I hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” Tobias asked.
“The only other person who knows who I really am.”
Dorian refused to stay in the attic. He claimed it was safe enough to be inside with the curtains drawn. With Tobias and Brixton at the house, he insisted on cooking all of us a celebratory welcome-home dinner.
“The police must show you a warrant if they wish to come inside, no?” he asked, his arms crossed and his snout flaring.
“Yes, but—”
“My legs are functioning well enough for me to make it upstairs before you let them in. If they come for me, I will be gone before they find me.”
I gave up arguing with the gargoyle and let him cook a gourmet dinner for the four of us. I didn’t have much food in the
kitchen, having been preoccupied by other things, but Dorian created a feast out of the staples in the cabinet and the greens he sent Brixton to harvest from the backyard potager.
While Brixton was outside, I considered telling Dorian about the revelation Tobias and I had about the cathedral. But without a solution, I decided against it. I’d at least let him enjoy this evening.
Dorian had been giving Brixton cooking lessons, and he thought it would be a great lesson for Brixton to see how to create a feast when a pantry was nearly bare, so he invited us all to join him in “his” kitchen as he cooked.
“Now that Dorian is back,” Brixton said when he returned to the kitchen with a basket full of assorted greens from the garden, “and you’ve got T helping you with the book, we can help Peter clear his father’s name, right?”
There were so many things wrong with that sentence that I didn’t know where to start.
“Dorian is on the lam,” Tobias said first. “That’s not a fun place to be.”
“You escaped from jail, too?” Brixton asked with wide eyes. “Wicked.” Only after staring at Tobias with wide-eyed awe for a few seconds did it occur to him that this might not be cool. He cleared his throat and let his eyelids droop into a pose of indifference.
“A jail of sorts,” was all Tobias said on the matter. “But he’ll never be free until the police are no longer searching for him.”
“We must point the police in a different direction,” Dorian said. He drummed his clawed fingertips together.
“Here’s a crazy idea,” I said. “Now that you’re safe at home, we should stay out of the investigation. It doesn’t have to do with us.”
“But Peter’s whole life was ruined,” Brixton protested. “And all because of what people thought of his dad.”
“Helping the magician clear his father’s name is a worthy goal,” Dorian agreed, “but Zoe is correct. This is not our concern.”
“How can you say that?” Brixton asked. “People think his dad is a murderer. It sucks when people don’t understand what’s really going on with your dad.”
“I thought you did not know your father,” Dorian said.
“I mean my stepdad.”
“People do not understand him?” The gargoyle blinked at the boy. Dorian knew a lot about the local community, but he missed out on a lot too.
“He works out of town,” I said gently.
“Doing what?” Dorian asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Brixton mumbled. He looked away.
“Yet you said—”
“Drop it, okay?”
“How about I put on some music,” Tobias suggested. “I think we’ve all had an exhausting day.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” I put on a recording of the Adventures of Ellery Queen radio show. We listened to the 1940s classic detective radio broadcast as Dorian and Brixton cooked.
“Why do their voices sound so pretentious?” Brixton asked.
“It’s not pretentious,” Tobias and I said simultaneously.
“It was the style at the time,” I added.
“Why don’t you talk like that, then?” Brixton said. He stopped stirring.
“Before the days of reality television,” I said, “there was more of a distinction between how actors spoke and how people spoke in real life. I was never an actor.”
“I must insist,” Dorian said, his snout flaring, “that if you remain in the kitchen, you do not distract my young assistant.”
“Amazing,” Tobias murmured as Dorian showed Brixton how to deglaze a pan containing a fragrantly charred mix of shallots and spices using a small amount of broth before adding the lentils and homemade vegetable broth to stew a red lentil curry. I wasn’t entirely certain whether Tobias was amazed that a gargoyle was cooking, that Dorian was creating a gourmet feast from nearly barren shelves, or that a fourteen-year-old boy was enthusiastically helping.
To go with the curry, Dorian made a cashew cream sauce with the last of our raw cashews, speeding up the process of soaking the cashews by plumping them in boiling water. Dorian sautéed minced garlic in olive oil infused with chili peppers, added a splash of water to steam the heaping bunch of nettles Brixton had picked in the garden, and right before turning off the heat he added the arugula greens also from the garden. I normally ate the arugula raw in a salad or added to a smoothie as a zesty kick, but the brief sautéing brought out its peppery flavor.
Dorian gave Brixton the assignment of dipping freshly picked wild treasure blackberries in melted dark chocolate, giving him a coarse sea salt to sprinkle on top. Brixton was once skeptical of how Dorian added salt to just about everything, including desserts, but he’d come around once he tasted the results. A small amount of high quality salt could transform a dish into a heightened version of itself. The salt worked all too well with the chocolate-covered blackberries; Brixton ate more of them than were added to the parchment paper–covered plate that was supposed to go into the fridge to harden while we ate dinner.
I didn’t grow up eating chocolate (I couldn’t imagine what Brixton would think of that), but once I was first offered it in France, there was no going back. Many high-quality chocolates don’t contain any dairy, such as the barely sweetened dark chocolate I preferred.
The sun was beginning to set when Dorian turned off the stove and declared dinner was served. We were eating an early dinner because Brixton had to help his mom clean up at Blue Sky Teas after it closed for the day. Before we sat down at the dining table, I triple-checked that the house was securely locked up and all the curtains drawn.
I was the last one to sit down at the table. I noticed Brixton had taken large helpings of everything except for the nettle mélange.
“You missed this one of the serving dishes,” I said.
“They stung me when I picked them. You guys are crazy to eat those weeds.”
I was reminded of a story about Frederick the Great, the King of Prussia in the mid-1700s. Many of the poor were starving, but they wouldn’t eat a plentiful new food: the potato. Using reverse psychology, the king placed armed guards around the royal potato field. Sure enough, the peasants snuck into the field to steal the potatoes. The French had been similarly tricked into realizing the goodness of the potato by Antoine Parmentier earlier in the century, which is why potato dishes in France often contain the world “Parmentier” in the title.
“I’ll fight you for the rest of the Parmentier nettles, Dorian,” I said.
“There is no potat—ah! Oui. I mean non. This is my celebratory dinner, so I wish to eat all of the nettles. You understand, of course, mon amie.”
“Just a little bit. The curry won’t be the same without them.”
“Hmm,” Dorian grumbled. He wasn’t a bad actor. “I am feeling magnanimous this evening. Please, take the nettles.”
I served a scoop to both myself and Brixton. He didn’t say a word, but he ate every bite.
When Brixton reached across the table to collect our empty plates at the end of the meal, Tobias noticed the callouses on his fingertips.
“You must play that guitar a lot.” Tobias nodded toward the guitar case backpack Brixton had left in the corner.
Brixton shrugged.
“It looks like you’ve got some time before you’ve gotta get back to help your mom. How about we make some music?”
As Tobias sang “Accidental Life” and taught Brixton how to play it on the guitar I almost started to feel optimistic. Dorian clapped along until the claw of his left pinky finger broke off.
“Merde,” he whispered. He scampered after the claw.
Brixton ceased his strumming and Tobias stopped singing. The sound of Dorian’s claws on the hardwood floors echoed through the house.
“You said you were doing better,” Brixton said.
“I am,” Dorian said, holding the broken claw in his hand.
“I’m old enough you don’t all have to lie to me,” Brixton said.
“We’re not—” I began.
A brisk knock sounded at the front door.
“Dorian,” I whispered, “go up to the attic. If you hear anyone coming up besides me, crawl onto the roof. And don’t forget to take the knife with you.”
Thirty-Eight
As Dorian limped up the stairs, I caught snatches of the words he mumbled under his breath, but chose to ignore them.
After I heard the attic door squeak shut, I opened the front door to a familiar face.
“Yo, Max,” Brixton said. He gave the detective a fist bump.
“Sorry to interrupt your … dinner party?” Max said, his gaze floating to the dining table in the open living/dining area.
“This is my old friend, Tobias,” I said. The two men silently appraised each other and shook hands.
“Can I talk to you in private?” Max asked. He was speaking to me, but he kept glancing at Tobias. Was he jealous?
I already had a good idea that Max was here to tell me that my gargoyle statue had been stolen from the evidence lock-up. But I hated how we’d left things, so I invited him in rather than stepping outside for a brief chat. I left Brixton and Tobias playing music in the living room, and took Max through to the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I asked. I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter.
“I wanted to give you the bad news in person.” Max stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his hands and equally unsure how close to stand to me. He shook his head. “It’ll keep. I shouldn’t have come in person. I didn’t think you’d be entertaining. Stupid of me. I’m intruding—”
“You’re not intruding, Max.”
“It’s not a date?”
“With Tobias?” I laughed. He was jealous. “Brixton is here, too, in case you’ve already forgotten.”
“Right. So you and Tobias—”
“He’s a dear old friend. Just like I said. And he’s only in town for a couple of days.”
