The Accidental Alchemist

by Gigi Pandian

  “Zoe, it is done. Crisis averted. There is no sense dwelling on the unfortunate occurrence. That would only distract you from discovering the secrets of my book. I will be your personal gargoyle chef while you translate the pages from my book. That way you will have sufficient time to devote to it.”

  I burst out laughing. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. My very own personal chef. I was laughing so hard a tear trickled down my cheek.

  “Mon amie, you are hysterical.”

  “Dorian, what’s going on?” I leaned back against the counter, my shoulders still shaking but getting hold of myself. “Nothing makes sense.”

  Dorian jumped up to sit on a free section of the counter next to me. “I do not think things make much sense once one has left France.”

  “Maybe that’s it. The last few decades traveling across America have been a blur.”

  “This meal will make you feel better. It is an old recipe from the French countryside. Adapted, of course, for your veganism. But I am nothing if not a gentleman. I had no idea a cassoulet could be so decadent without pig fat.”

  “How did you learn how to cook?”

  “From a chef.”

  “Who was open to teaching a gargoyle?”

  “It is complicated to explain …”

  “If you hadn’t noticed, I have a complicated life.”

  “I think the cassoulet needs more seasoning.” He left his spot next to me and resumed his position on the stepping stool in front of the stove.

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “Give the alchemist a prize.”

  “I can better help you with the alchemy book if I understand your history.”

  He sighed. “He was blind.”

  “A blind chef?”

  “He was not always blind.”

  I waited a few moments, but he didn’t continue.

  “The blind chef,” I prompted.

  “Fine, yes, all right,” he said impatiently, still fussing with spices instead of looking at me. “There was a kitchen fire. This is what blinded him. He saved his staff, but was badly burned and lost his vision. He had been a successful chef who once had much power. He lived alone in a large house, where he was both lonely and angry for losing the adoration he once had. He was a friend of my father’s. My father knew of fame, and he felt sorry for his friend’s predicament. Since the man could not see, I was able to visit him with my father. In spite of the chef’s reputation for being difficult, we got along well. Father was nearing the end of his life and did not know what would become of me. He told his friend I was ‘unemployed’ and that I was wary of people seeing me because I was disfigured. The lonely former chef hired me to be his live-in assistant. He previously had people delivering prepared meals to him. Upon hiring me, he ordered uncooked food to be delivered, and taught me how to cook. I took to it quite well. Before he passed away, he wrote me a reference. I became a chef for other blind people who wanted good food and companionship at home. That is what I have been doing.”

  “That’s lovely,” I said, imagining the gargoyle happily at work in the kitchens of people who had no idea of his visage. “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

  He turned to face me with a wooden spoon in his hand. “You of all people, Zoe Faust, know that speaking of the past brings up unintentional memories we do not wish to remember.”

  eleven

  I woke up to the scent of coffee. Coffee? Why was there coffee in my house? I shot out of bed and promptly shivered. I’d sealed off the broken window as best I could, but painter’s tape wasn’t as robust as the fitted piece of wood. I found my thickest pair of woolen socks and crept downstairs.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked, indicating the large contraption on the kitchen counter.

  “I took the liberty of ordering an espresso maker. It is uncivilized that you do not have one.”

  “How did it get here?”

  “One of the benefits of American impatience is the rapidity of express delivery. C’est très vite.”

  “You have a credit card?”

  “I am cooking for you,” he said, blinking at me, “should I not receive payment of some kind?”

  I sighed and rubbed my temples. “No more taking my credit card without asking, okay?”

  “I did not wish to interrupt you while you studied the pages of my book. I understand alchemists do not like to be interrupted.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true—” I broke off when I saw a French-language newspaper spread out on the table. “You also ordered Le Monde?”

  “Yes, is it not agreeable that they offer this service outside of France?”

  “Was it really urgent enough that you couldn’t ask? Is this how you treated the previous people you cooked for?”

  Dorian sniffed and sipped his mug of espresso. “I was homesick.”

  My mood softened. “Have you ever been outside France before?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well,” I said, feeling my anger dissipating, “just be sure to ask me in the future if you want to charge anything.”

  “I have l’espresso et le journal, what else could I possibly want?”

  ———

  After making myself my usual morning smoothie and watering the portable herb garden I’d moved into the kitchen window box, I set out for a brisk walk to clear my head before working on the pages of Dorian’s book. I walked in the direction of Blue Sky Teas, thinking I’d get a cup of tea to go.

  Bells chimed when I walked through the door, and Blue’s voice called from the back: “Be out in a minute!”

  I walked around the weeping fig tree and looked up at the painted sky. I didn’t feel as comfortable in the teashop as I had before. It wasn’t because of the gossip I knew would be taking place there shortly. It was something else. Something was … off.

  The comforting teashop from the day before had changed. I whipped my head around, searching for the difference. I sniffed the air, wondering if Blue had accidentally burned something she was cooking. That wasn’t it either. I couldn’t place the source of my discomfort. All I knew was that I had to get out of there. I turned and ran out the door. I didn’t stop running until I’d reached my street.

  The exertion made my chest hurt. I stopped to catch my breath. What had happened back there? There was too much going on for me to think. I desperately needed to unravel the secrets of Not Untrue Alchemy to keep Dorian from the awful fate of being trapped in a dead stone body while his mind lived on, yet I hesitated before walking up to the house. My mind was troubled with too many thoughts that would get in the way. What was going on at Blue’s teashop? Had her words about Portland meant she was running from something? What had happened to Charles Macraith? What was Max Liu hiding? Why had someone stolen Dorian’s book? Was the gargoyle capable of more than I thought?

  I turned on my heel and headed the other direction. What I needed was a long walk, far away from the distractions of my house and the teashop. Only then would I be in the right mindset to decipher the riddles of Dorian’s book. I had so few of the pages that I needed all the help I could get.

  In all the places I’ve lived, I’ve found the nearby places where I could walk in nature. Forests, deserts, swamps. It didn’t matter where it was. What mattered was that the natural plant life surrounding me made me feel at ease. I was in my element smelling the scents of fragrant trees of the forest like pine, maple, and hickory. I could watch the plants of swamps interact with the water for hours, from wispy cattails rising from the dark waters to the duckweed floating on the surface. Even the desert begat life. Creation could come from anywhere.

  I hadn’t had much time to explore Portland’s greenery yet. Even when I’d purchased the house, I hadn’t done much exploring. That was the whole point of buying the house! To have time to settle in and explore the area’s many parks, forests, arb
oretums, gardens, and other hidden places I didn’t yet know about. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was hoping that in this city of trees I’d hit a park or something similar before too long.

  Sure enough, after walking a few blocks, I came to a beautiful park blanketed in trees. It turned out to be the Lone Fir Cemetery, which a plaque informed me was the oldest cemetery in Portland, dating back to 1846. What a young city this was. I walked through the serene grounds, letting my mind wander to the trees and the Gothic mausoleum I passed. The gardens and trees didn’t appear to be part of a central plan, which made it all the more charming.

  With my mind clear, I allowed myself to turn back to the events of the present. Only now was I able to identify what I had sensed at Blue’s teashop. It was such an unexpected thing that my conscious mind hadn’t put it together: the odd scent I had detected over Charles Macraith’s dead body was similar to what I’d smelled at Blue Sky Teas.

  I wasn’t being dense or forgetful. The odor had mingled with the scents of the numerous teas in a way that made it difficult to distinguish. But here in a cemetery park full of an assortment of plants, I’d been unconsciously picking apart the mingled fragrances of the trees and winter flowers.

  I had to get back to the teashop.

  The sun was high overhead. I must have been walking for hours, which explained why I’d passed the same trees again and again.

  When I reached Blue Sky Teas, it wasn’t Blue who was behind the counter. Instead, a stunning red-headed woman greeted me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The deep lines and puffiness around her light green eyes didn’t match the rest of her polished appearance.

  “Blue had to leave early today to prepare for a houseguest,” she explained. “Can I help you?”

  Could she? The poisonous scent that I thought I had detected earlier was no longer there. Had Blue taken it with her? For her houseguest?

  I bit back my shock and confusion, instead giving the woman behind the counter a wide smile. “I was supposed to be here earlier to bring her something for her guest,” I said. “I lost track of the day. Do you have her address so I can bring it to her?”

  “Oh, of course. That’s very sweet of you to go out of your way.”

  ———

  I went home to get my truck, not venturing inside the house. I’d deal with Dorian’s wrath later. This was more important.

  Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Blue’s house. The cottage was on the outskirts of Portland, in a less crowded part of the city where houses had acres of land. Blue’s yard, if you could call it that, was an overgrown plot of land that might look like weeds to most people. Technically these were indeed weeds, but these were useful weeds. Even with a brief glance, I identified field mustard, sorrel, and wild onions. I understood why she lived here. It was a wildcrafter’s dream here in her own yard.

  Standing in the wild yard, I hesitated. If I gave myself time to think, I’d convince myself this was a stupid idea. If I thought Blue was going to poison someone, I should call the police. But what could I tell them? I think I maybe smelled something strange, which I can’t identify, and you’ll never be able to detect it yourself, and now it’s gone? No, I had to see if I could find it on my own.

  I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. The knock was met with silence. I tried the doorbell, followed by another knock. Still, nothing.

  An old VW Bug was parked outside, but for all I knew she might have multiple cars. I walked to the closest window and looked inside.

  The first thing I spotted beyond the half-drawn curtains made my body jolt with a mix of relief and anger. On a side table next to the window, nestled in an ornamental woven bowl, sat two of my antique alembics that had been stolen. That had to mean Dorian’s book was nearby too. I was giddy with relief before the anger hit me. I was vexed not only with Blue for taking a life and my possessions, but also with myself for letting my emotions get in the way of thinking she was capable of such things.

  The second thing I saw drained the anger from me, a wave of numbing cold washing over me in its place. Beyond the side table, Blue’s body lay on the floor.

  twelve

  Hospitals and medicine have come a long way in the last few centuries. Plague doctors once wore beaked masks filled with straw and fragrant mint, cloves, myrrh, and rose petals thought to protect them from miasmatic bad air, and used a pointed cane to examine patients without touching them. Their frightening costumes have been immortalized in woodcuts from the seventeenth century, but in person they were even more terrifying. Imagine lying listless with fever, unable to keep down food or water, your body covered in painful boils, only to be visited not by an angelic sympathetic doctor, but by a demonic, faceless figure who poked you with a stick and told you to repent for your sins. It was an image I would never forget.

  I hadn’t been one of the unfortunate souls on the other end of the plague doctor’s stick, but I had seen their work when I used to practice plant alchemy and was more actively engaged in making herbal remedies to heal people. Just as doctors couldn’t stop the plague, healers like me were helpless to save everyone. My work wasn’t enough to save the people I loved.

  That was a long time ago, but hospitals still made me uncomfortable. Contagious people crammed into sickbeds with countless others had given way to the sterile hospitals of the present century. The details didn’t matter. The very fact that sickness and death were such a part of life was something I’d been running from for a long time.

  After seeing Blue sprawled on the floor, I dialed 911. The fire department was the first to arrive. They discovered Blue had a pulse, and the ambulance that arrived minutes later took her to the hospital. As the gurney transported her from the house to the ambulance, I knew what had happened. Wafting up from her body was a mix of scents similar to what I’d sensed earlier. Similar, but not the same. I frowned to myself, wondering what was going on.

  Blue hadn’t regained consciousness and was now in a coma. After the police arrived, Blue’s hospital room was placed under guard. They must have thought the person who tried to kill her might try again.

  I shivered in the sterile atmosphere of the hospital. I knew I should have trusted my instincts. Blue wasn’t responsible for the murder of Charles Macraith. She was a victim herself. Why would she leave stolen items in plain sight in her house? It was as if they were meant to be found—placed there to frame her, by the same person who tried to kill her. Would Dorian’s book be among the items recovered?

  The tea from the hospital’s café consisted of prebagged cardboard boxes of black and green teas, plus one herbal mint blend. I took the scalding paper cup from the café to the waiting room. The scent of modern abrasive chemicals was making me feel sick. I was hoping the mint tea would help calm my stomach.

  A light rain gave the view from the waiting room windows a hazy appearance. It wasn’t falling hard enough to see the raindrops, yet the mist gave the trees outside a surreal sheen, as if I was watching an old movie instead of experiencing it as reality.

  I was caught up in my thoughts and didn’t notice when Max sat down opposite me.

  “You most likely saved her life,” he said, “by finding her when you did.”

  I glanced around. Aside from me and Max, the only other people in the waiting room were two elderly women in the opposite corner. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

  “I look that bad, huh?” He ran his hand through his disheveled black hair as his lips ticked up into a faint smile.

  He didn’t look bad at all. In fact, in his rumpled suit, a barely visible spot of tea spilled on his white dress shirt, and despite his unshaven face, I felt stirrings in me I hadn’t felt in years. His sallow skin, however, suggested that he needed a good meal and a solid chunk of sleep more than what I was thinking about.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “Stable. I don’t know much myself, but I can tel
l you that much.”

  “What’s going on, Max?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “Which involves me—”

  “I wasn’t finished. It’s ongoing, and because Blue is in a coma we can’t question her yet. But we found more of your stolen possessions, hidden at her house.”

  “You found my books?”

  “Books?”

  “Books were among the antiques that were stolen.”

  Max scrolled through the screen on his phone. “Damn.”

  “What is it?”

  “The crew found several of the items you reported, but none of the books.”

  I groaned. I’d been holding out hope that it would be simple to recover Dorian’s book.

  “It’s early in the investigation,” Max said.

  “What’s the guard for? You really think someone is going to try to finish the job?”

  Max studied my face for a moment.

  “What?” I said, hoping I didn’t have a chunk of kale caught between my teeth.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You answer a lot of questions with another question, Detective Liu.”

  He sighed. “You ask a lot of questions, Ms. Faust.”

  “This couldn’t have been an accident, if that’s what you’re getting at. The poison I smelled wasn’t something she would have mixed by accident. Someone gave it to her.”

  “The poison that only you somehow detected.”

  “This again?” Now I was annoyed. “I told you, I’ve studied herbs enough that I’m more sensitive to this type of scent than other people.”

  “I don’t think she ingested it accidentally either.”

  “Oh. You agree with me. Then what are we arguing about?”

  “You’re forgetting something.”

  “What?” I snapped. I was tired of riddles.

  “Blue is a good person.” He paused but held my gaze. “I don’t think she took the poison accidentally—because there’s a good chance she took it on purpose.”