The Accidental Alchemist

by Gigi Pandian

  Conspicuously absent was space for alchemical transformations. That was the point. I hadn’t wanted any reminder of practicing alchemy. Getting involved in it had been an accident to begin with. And discovering the Elixir of Life? The biggest accident of all. I hadn’t done it for myself. I had been trying to help my brother and I hadn’t understood what I’d done. But it didn’t matter. It was too late.

  “Zoe?” a young voice called out, pulling me back to the present. “You in there?”

  I opened the door of the trailer. Brixton stood in the tall grass, a backpack on his back. Of course. I had told him to come over after school to weed the garden, which now seemed completely unimportant. Not twenty feet behind him stood the crime scene tape.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” I said, jumping down from the trailer’s front door.

  “The murder,” he said with a shrug. “Yeah, I heard. Everyone heard.”

  “I’m not going to press charges for you letting yourself into my house,” I said. “You don’t have to do any weeding. But what you think you saw—”

  “The gargoyle,” he said matter-of-factly. “Where is he?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. “Why aren’t your friends here?” I asked instead. “Surely they’d want to see a walking, talking gargoyle.”

  He glared at me.

  “They didn’t believe you, huh?” I said. So Dorian had been right about that.

  “I looked up alchemy. Is that how you brought a piece of stone to life?”

  What had I gotten myself into? “Brixton, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here.”

  “We could go inside. So nobody overhears us. That’s what you’re worried about, right?”

  “No. Well, yes. But mainly it’s that you shouldn’t be at a crime scene. I’m sure your mom wouldn’t want you here.”

  “She knows I’m coming over. Can we go inside or what?”

  “You may have noticed the crime scene tape. I can’t even go inside myself.”

  “I meant your trailer. You live here, right? I used to live in one with my mom. Ours wasn’t nearly this nice. It’s starting to rain. You going to let me in?”

  “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

  “I want to see the gargoyle.”

  “He’s not inside.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s not my pet. I don’t have him on a leash—”

  “You mean he’s gone?”

  Two women walking past slowed down as they passed the front gate. With the large yard, they were far enough away they couldn’t hear what we were saying, but Brixton was right. This was a conversation that would be better without prying eyes.

  “Come on in,” I said.

  “Wicked,” he said as he stepped inside, apparently forgetting about Dorian. “Can I see the philosopher’s stone? Is it over here in the corner?” he pulled back the curtain keeping my dried herbs and infused oils in the dark.

  “You did some research.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “What do you think it does?”

  “Makes gold. And makes you immortal.”

  “You think I’m immortal?”

  He gave me a look that only a teenager can. The equivalent of rolling the eyes but without moving a muscle.

  I could have told him that although I’d lived for centuries, I could die almost as easily as anyone else. I had mostly stopped aging, so I wasn’t likely to die of an old-age-related condition, but I could be killed by anything else that would kill a person, such as disease or violence. Therefore I wasn’t exactly immortal. I hadn’t even entirely stopped aging. The white hair that everyone thought was so stylishly dyed was my true hair color.

  Instead of explaining all that to Brixton, I gave him the simple version: “I’m not immortal.”

  “If you don’t have the philosopher’s stone, what about Alkahest?” He looked around the trailer.

  “The universal solvent? Why do you ask about that?” Asking about the famous philosopher’s stone, I understood. But Alkahest? It wasn’t an element popularized in books or movies.

  “It’s the part of alchemy I looked up online that didn’t make any sense at all. If it dissolves everything, then how would you keep it? I mean, wouldn’t it, like burn through anything you tried to keep it in? Wouldn’t it even burn through the earth, destroying the world?”

  “Good point. Maybe that’s why I’ve never encountered it.” The theories asserted about how to make Alkahest were dubious. I’d seen recipes that called for ingredients including blood, sweat, and worms. “Not everything you read online is true, you know.”

  Again with the eye roll.

  “I’m good with plants like these herbs,” I said, pointing at my beloved herb garden. “I can transform them into a lot of things, like the salve I used on your arm. That’s what makes me an alchemist. I don’t make gold. And I don’t bring stone gargoyles to life.”

  “So,” Brixton said, making himself comfortable on the long seat in the living area. “You think the gargoyle did it?”

  “Feet,” I said automatically, knocking his sneakers off the cushions. “Did what?”

  “Killed Charles. Because he didn’t want to be discovered.”

  I stared at Brixton. The kid was right. Dorian took not being discovered seriously. Very seriously. My pulse quickened as Brixton’s words sunk in. I felt my heartbeat so strongly in my ears that I could barely hear what Brixton was saying. It was like that damn story by Poe. Though I wasn’t guilty of murder myself, it might have been done because of me.

  Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I knew why. Because I liked the little creature. A misfit, like me. And he’d helped me in Paris years ago … hadn’t he? How would he have known about that if he hadn’t been there? And he couldn’t go around killing anyone who saw him. He was the one who’d pointed out that nobody would believe Brixton. The gargoyle wouldn’t have turned violent … would he?

  “Earth to Zoe,” Brixton said.

  “It doesn’t fit,” I said, shaking my head.

  Brixton shrugged. “At least you didn’t say oh he’s such a nice guy, he would never have done it. I hate it when they say that on TV.”

  “This isn’t TV.”

  “Are you always this much of a downer?”

  “A man was killed.”

  “Yeah, I liked him.”

  “You knew Charles Macraith?”

  “He came around the teashop. He didn’t talk much, but he used to help me with my homework sometimes.”

  “Teashop?” I wondered if it could be the same place I’d visited when I’d fallen in love with this neighborhood. The welcoming café was one of the main reasons I’d felt so at home here.

  “Yeah, Blue’s teashop. That’s where I know Detective Liu from, too. Hey, are those chili peppers floating in that bottle?” He jumped up and pulled back the half-closed curtain that shaded my nook of herbs. He lifted a glass jar of sesame oil infused with peppers. “Wicked. I love spicy food. Did you make all this stuff? Is that lemon balm and pineapple sage floating in these other bottles?”

  “How on earth did you recognize those?”

  He shrugged. “Blue loves wildcrafting. She taught me about what that meant and about finding plants in their natural habitats. She harvests herbs for her teas and other stuff.”

  I hadn’t met many wildcrafters. Under other circumstances I would have asked him more about it. But now, I had more pressing matters to deal with. “You were telling me about Charles Macraith visiting the teashop.”

  “Yeah, nobody had anything against him.” Brixton set the bottle back on the shelf and looked right at me. “That gargoyle of yours is the only logical explanation for why he’s dead.”

  six

  Brixton offered to live up to his end of the bargain and w
eed the yard, but the rain pelting on the roof of the trailer assured me there wouldn’t be any gardening that day. Brixton had heard the rain too. I wondered if he’d have made such a generous offer if there was any chance I would have taken him up on it. He was a smart kid. I sent him home with a clear conscience, but as I watched him ride off on his bike, I wondered if I had been too trusting.

  I could see the crime scene tape on my porch from the window of the trailer. Also in view was the tarp covering a huge section of my roof. It swayed in the strong winds but looked like it was holding firm. I had no idea where Dorian could be. I didn’t know if I’d lost his alchemy-that-wasn’t-alchemy book or if he’d taken it with him. Brixton’s assumption about Dorian couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be.

  In spite of the rain, I needed to walk and clear my head. I grabbed my silver raincoat and headed out.

  Portlanders weren’t afraid of a little rain. Or even a lot of it. Hawthorne Boulevard was packed. Locals poured out of organic restaurants, coffee shops, and an annex of Powell’s Books. I stopped in a café and ordered an orange and pomegranate salad. It was good but didn’t compete with Dorian’s cooking. I looked out into the nighttime downpour. Where was he?

  That night, I feel asleep to the sound of the wind whispering to the rain, but woke up a few hours later with an irate gargoyle standing over me.

  “Ou est mon livre!?” Dorian screamed. “Where is my book!?”

  The trailer was nearly pitch black. Dorian hadn’t turned on a light, but I knew his voice and smelled his fruity breath close to my face. Could he see in the dark? I sat up abruptly at the thought, accidentally head-butting his snout. I hadn’t realized he was that close to me.

  “Merde,” he mumbled, hopping down from the edge of the bed as I flipped on a light.

  “Where have you been?” I asked as Dorian’s claw snagged the blanket and pulled it to the floor along with him. Luckily I was fully covered by my white cotton nightgown. I’d had it handmade by a seamstress in North Carolina several years ago, based on a pattern from the previous century. Seventeenth-century women had to wear scratchy, heavy, and overall burdensome clothing, but the night clothes from the Victorian era were the most comfortable I’d ever encountered.

  “This city,” Dorian said, rubbing his snout, “she has a different lunar cycle than Paris. I did not realize the sun would rise an hour earlier. I was not yet close to the house when day began.”

  “You had to hide.”

  He nodded and sniffed. “I could not return without being seen.”

  “I’ve been worried. I’m glad you’re safe.” I thought about what Brixton had suggested about Dorian, but pushed it from my mind. Besides the fact that I had already grown quite fond of Dorian, I wasn’t lying to myself that it didn’t make any sense for him to have killed the handyman.

  “I hid in one of the forests. There were many to choose from. I chose one that had wild blueberries and blackberries.”

  “I don’t think they’re technically forests—” I began. I don’t know why I said such an inane thing, except that I wasn’t at my best after being woken up after midnight by a furious creature who smelled like wild berries and could see in the dark.

  “What has happened?” Dorian asked. “When night returned, I found my way back. Mais … there is blood at the door and the bright strips of plastic that say ‘police line do not cross.’ When I went inside—”

  “You crossed the police line?”

  “I thought my book was inside.”

  I groaned and rubbed my eyes.

  “Yet my book was not there,” Dorian continued. “Last night you fell asleep at the table with your head on the pages. I did not wish to disturb you. Dorian Robert-Houdin is a gentleman.”

  I stood up and looked around the trailer. The bedside lamp cast stark shadows, but illuminated the whole interior. The door was closed, as I’d left it.

  Locked.

  “Dorian … How did you get in here?”

  His throat rumbled. I couldn’t tell if he was growling or attempting to imitate an awkward cough. He held up his clawed fingers. “Better than lock picks.”

  “You broke in?”

  “My father was a great magician. He taught me many things.”

  I groaned again and sat back down on the bed. I’m no good at being awake in the middle of the night. When the sun disappears and the plants sleep, I feel myself drawn to sleep as well.

  “Robert-Houdin,” I said in my foggy state. “Wait. That name. Your father was Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin, the famous French stage magician!”

  “Oui, I told you this.”

  “You told me your first name, not his.”

  “There is no other Robert-Houdin. He joined his surname with his wife’s. Quite unheard-of at the time.”

  “He was an alchemist?”

  I knew of the French stage magician who was a huge sensation in the mid-1800s. I had once seen him perform on stage. He was talented, performing feats that seemed like magic to sold-out theater audiences. I had believed, then, that he was simply a skilled stage magician. He was, after all, such a master magician that he was asked by the French government to avert a military crisis in Algeria by showing French magic to be more powerful than that of local tribal leaders. The history books had recorded Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin’s feats as illusions, skillful tricks performed by a master showman. But now I had to wonder—had he used real magic?

  “He was no alchemist,” Dorian said. “Yet he was the one who brought me to life.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “He did not understand what the book was capable of.” He shook his head. “I was meant to be a prop in a stage show. The book is filled with lyrical passages of text. He found them quite theatrical. But he never considered the power in the pages from which he read. I will show you. Where is the book?”

  “Dorian, we need to talk. About a lot of things.”

  “Yes, I agree. I do not see my book. You have put it away?”

  His little black eyes looked at me so expectantly that I hated to tell him what had transpired.

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “The book is gone.”

  “Pardon? I must not understand your English; I am nearly fluent, yet—”

  “The man who was going to fix and secure the house was killed this morning. That was the blood you saw.”

  “Je suis desolé. But what does his death have to do with my book?”

  “When he was killed,” I said slowly, “the house was also burglarized. Your book was one of the things stolen.”

  Dorian’s eyes grew wide. His stony shoulders tensed and his wings flew out from his sides, knocking over my pot of chervil with one wing and scraping a gash into a wood panel with the other. The pot shattered as it hit the floor.

  “You let someone steal my book?” His body shook, adding additional gashes to the wooden wall paneling surrounding him. Even after seeing how his wing had chipped the fireplace, I hadn’t realized just how strong and heavy they were.

  “We’ll get it back. The police are investigating.”

  “You told the police about my alchemy book?”

  “Not about your book in particular. And of course not about you. Or me, for that matter. Many of my rare books were stolen.” My head felt heavy at the reminder of everything that had been lost in the past day. In addition to losing much of my livelihood, I’d lost a book that didn’t belong to me, and a man had lost his life.

  “You knew how valuable my book was. How could you have let this happen?”

  “There was no reason for it to happen!” I said, struggling to keep the heavy feeling in my head from turning into a massive headache. I got myself a small glass of water and added a few drops of peppermint oil to stimulate my senses and wake me up; Dorian glared at me as I did so. “It must have been a crime of opportunity. Charles Macraith
was killed, and the person who killed him saw items that looked valuable and grabbed them. The police think they were in a hurry.”

  “You were not there? How could you not be there?” Dorian stamped his clawed feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum. I would have offered him some tea to calm his nerves except that my kettle was inside the house beyond the crime scene tape.

  “Nobody knew we had valuable books inside the house. There was no reason to think I couldn’t go on a short walk to buy some food before Charles was due at the house. But you’re right. When I couldn’t find you, I shouldn’t have left your valuable book alone. I’m so very sorry, Dorian.”

  Dorian’s wings collapsed back to their usual resting place at his sides. “I understand your desire to buy food,” he said, “yet leaving the book unattended was unwise. Someone had to have known about it.”

  “Someone?” Was there more going on here than he’d told me? “Do you have a particular person in mind?”

  “I do not know! This is why I came to you!” His wings vibrated, but didn’t fly out.

  “Does anyone know you came here to see me and get my help?” I asked.

  “No. It is not possible.”

  “Then how—”

  “I do not know!”

  “Then why do you think this is about your book?” Now that I was a little more awake and coherent, I was beginning to realize that there may have been more going on than a crime of opportunity. “Tell me more about this book.”

  Dorian’s snout flared, but he remained mute.

  “What,” I said, “aren’t you telling me?”

  Dorian’s shoulders slumped. He sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. “I did not lie to you.”

  “I didn’t say you did. But you didn’t tell me everything either.”