by Gigi Pandian
“Now I’m definitely convinced you’ve been watching too many soap operas. The man I love will be my downfall? Really?” Dorian was certainly a dramatic little gargoyle.
He blinked at me. “This was said in a Gothic novel, not a television program. A young governess with a heart-shaped face visited a gypsy fortune-teller—”
“I get the picture,” I said. “But that’s fiction. This is real life.”
“This means you are going to tell Max about alchemy? And about me?”
“I need to figure out the best way. But yes. I’ll tell him, at least about me.”
Dorian’s gray jaw fell, revealing gray stone teeth. “Temperamental alchemists,” he grumbled.
“He’s a good man, Dorian.”
“If you need me,” he said, shaking his head, “you know where to find me. I will be here in my kitchen.”
Though I’d bought the house, this was certainly his kitchen. I’d lived out of my trailer for more than half a century, so I didn’t need much in terms of a kitchen. One copper pot on a single burner to cook legumes and hearty root vegetables, and a blender to make vegetable soups and smoothies. The kitchen in the Craftsman house hadn’t been updated since the 1950s, but that hadn’t bothered me. I loved the porcelain gas stove and pink fridge. Both were tiny compared to modern standards, but they seemed huge to me. Dorian had other ideas.
“Cilantro—bof!” Dorian muttered from beyond the kitchen’s swinging door. He must have spotted the fresh cilantro I’d picked and placed in a jar of water on the counter. “It is not even supposed to be in season! Sometimes I wish the alchemist was not so good with plants.”
Dorian had been horrified to learn I ate a plant-based vegan diet. We’d found common ground when we’d discovered that we both agreed the most important thing was the quality of the ingredients themselves. He’d learned how to cook French delicacies with only plant-based ingredients. He was more surprised than anyone that it had worked. And I was surprised by how it no longer felt strange to have a gargoyle as my best friend and roommate.
At Max Liu’s door, I rapped with the shiny brass lion-head knocker. I had arrived sooner than I’d expected to, since the Logan Magnus memorial art gallery was closed when I drove by, a black curtain drawn across the windows. Seeing the Nicolas painting would have to wait until the next day.
Max opened his crimson-colored front door. His normally perfect black hair was askew, and his deep brown eyes reflected tenderness and passion back at me.
Simply being with Max gave me a euphoria I couldn’t remember ever having felt before I met him. We could talk about everything and nothing, and enjoyed both chatting for hours and sitting in contemplative silence. And those dark eyes, and the black hair that drove him crazy when it wasn’t perfectly in place …
“Sorry I’m so late,” I said.
I expected him to smile and pull me into a kiss. Instead, he frowned and sneezed. I noticed, then, that his nose was nearly as red as his front door.
“You didn’t get my texts telling you not to come?”
I still hadn’t gotten used to cell phones. I looked at mine and saw I’d missed two texts and a voicemail message.
“I’m glad I missed them,” I said. “This way I can take care of you.” And he could take care of me.
“I don’t want to get you sick, Zoe.”
“I won’t get sick. But I wouldn’t care if I did. Now, let’s see what you’ve got in the kitchen. I’ll bring you some of my own home remedies tomorrow.”
I led the way to the kitchen, and Max leaned against the kitchen doorway while I assessed the contents of the cabinets. I could feel him watching me, but I didn’t expect the words that followed.
“Zoe,” he said, “you lied to me.”
seven
Max’s voice was calm rather than accusing, but I was afraid to look up at him.
Instinctively, my hand went to the locket at my neck. Instead, my fingers found the phoenix charm. Before I could speak, Max waved a newsprint magazine in the air and broke into a grin. “You told me you didn’t like being photographed.”
He tossed me the free weekly Portland newspaper that had come out that day. He’d folded it open to the restaurant section. A quarter of the page was filled with a large photograph taken inside Blue Sky Teas, the neighborhood gathering spot located down the street from my house. Normally I would have been happy for the shop’s owner, Blue, especially after the hardship she’d faced to carve out a life she loved. But this wasn’t the right type of publicity. Blue wasn’t the one in the center of the photograph—I was.
I nearly choked. Not having my image captured was how I’d survived so long. But here I was, prominently featured in the paper nearly every Portlander read. The caption inaccurately read, Pastry chef Zoe Faust cooks up tantalizingly tasty treats at Blue Sky Teas. The Hawthorne District’s favorite cozy teashop serves unexpected flavor combinations in both its teas and pastries.
This couldn’t be happening. Breathe, Zoe.
“Even though you’re not looking at the camera and the photographer caught you mid-blink, you’re every bit as beautiful as you really are. I’d better be careful I don’t attract a rival. Good thing I have a gun.” Max’s smile faltered. “I was joking, Zoe. Cop humor. What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t know this was taken.” Was the photo how the woman at the gallery had recognized me?
Despite always being so careful not to be photographed, I’d let my guard down in Portland. I knew I could never have a normal life, but I’d fooled myself into thinking I could. Because I wanted it so much. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping against all reason that it wasn’t time to move on. Dorian and I could pack our belongings into my Airstream trailer and hit the road. Perhaps we could visit my friend Tobias, the only other true alchemist I knew. It was nearly time for him to move on as well. He’d stayed far too long in Detroit already.
Max stepped across the kitchen and took my hands in his. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
His gentle touch and words made the most acute fear melt away. But he only held my hands for a moment, then backed away into a coughing fit.
“Sit,” I said, leading him to the breakfast nook before I returned to the cabinets. I could worry about myself later. For now, Max needed me. I found sparsely stocked cabinets of teas, herbs, and spices; lemongrass, shallots, and garlic in an earthenware bowl on the counter; and an empty fridge.
“Really?” I said, stepping back so he could see the barren shelves.
Max’s lips curved into a smile. “Can you honestly tell me you’re surprised?”
“No.” I smiled back.
I sautéed the garlic and shallots in olive oil in a small saucepan, then added two cups of water and cayenne, black pepper, turmeric, and a dash of salt.
“Are the wild nettles still growing in your backyard?” I asked.
“You’re lucky I’ve been too busy to pull them out.”
I donned gardening gloves and picked the prickly greens, carefully rinsed them in cold water, then added them to the simmering soup.
“You’re trying to maim me?” He sneezed.
“The heat gets rid of most of the prickliness. And this”—I held up the immersion blender I’d found in a drawer—“gets rid of the rest.”
My style of cooking is to think in terms of principles rather than an ingredient list, which provides a necessary flexibility. I only follow recipes for making herbal remedies, and even then I listen to the plants. Both activities start with high quality ingredients that are on hand, and the simple soup I was making for Max would be perfect not in spite of foregoing a recipe, but because of it. I’d lived through times of rationing and famine. People appreciate what they have so much more than in times of bounty. Nicolas had agreed.
Damn. Why couldn’t I have been content living in the present? Why had I kept grasping at the past, finding the note from N
icolas and working on it until I solved its riddle? The selfish part of me wanted only to look forward. I’d fallen in love with Max and built a life this past year. But now that I knew Nicolas was imprisoned, I couldn’t let him down.
The question was, could I still save Nicolas while preserving the normal life I wanted more than anything here in Portland—at least for a few years?
The breakfast nook in Max’s kitchen looked out over the main living room. The juxtapositions in his house mirrored the two sides of him: the modern rationalist and the old-fashioned traditionalist. The house was sparsely furnished, the living room containing only a white couch and coffee table that rested on the hardwood floors, with nearly floor-to-ceiling artwork covering the two main walls. The canvas prints were scenes of beautiful forests that made it feel almost as if we were outdoors
The only knickknacks in Max’s house were antiques from his grandmother, like her cast-iron teapot. In someone else’s hands, the modern furnishings could have been cold and sterile, but the living room in Max’s home felt like the middle of a serene forest.
Now that I’d done all I could for Max and his illness, my eyes fell to the newsprint weekly and my thoughts turned back to fear. Max must have seen the change come over me.
“So,” he said, “are you going to tell me why you hate being photographed?”
Was I?
eight
I looked at the creases around Max’s eyes as he smiled, and I thought again of the time we’d spent together this year, as well as the dear friends I’d made, including my best friend, who shared the big old house I’d fixed up over the summer. I didn’t want to flee. I wanted to stay and fight for the life I’d built. I also wanted to find out what had happened to my old mentor. Why couldn’t I have it all? I had to tell Max the full extent of my secret.
“I think I know the reason you hate having your picture taken,” Max continued.
“You do?” I croaked.
I’d discussed the principles of alchemy with him before, but it hadn’t gone well. Max’s paternal grandparents had been apothecaries in China before coming to the US, and Max had told me about the things he’d seen his grandmother do when he was a child. He was brilliant at growing and transforming his own tea blends, but beyond that he’d consciously rejected anything he didn’t fully understand. Wanting a rational life was one of the reasons Max had joined the police force. He could help people in a way that made sense. What was he going to tell me now?
“Of course I do,” Max said. “You’re self-conscious that all your hair is white even though you’re so young. And although the photographer didn’t see the parts of your body with scars, I think maybe you’re self-conscious about them too. But you have no reason to be.”
I smiled and kissed his forehead. Max had seen me up close enough to realize my hair was naturally white. I didn’t lie to him about it, and told him it was the result of life. He assumed I meant a trauma, and he wasn’t exactly wrong.
“You should get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll bring you some homemade remedies for your cold tomorrow.”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“You’re too sick to be chivalrous. I’m only parked a block away.”
Max frowned. “A whole block? It’s late, and there’s not usually—” He broke off.
“What?” My eyes narrowed. “What am I missing?
“Logan Magnus.”
“The artist who killed himself?” I didn’t like the sound of Max’s voice. He wasn’t usually so worried.
Max cleared his throat. “There are similarities between his death and other unsolved cases. It’s a far-fetched theory. Probably nothing. But it’s enough to make Detective Vega concerned that it might be murder, not suicide. A copy-cat murder. Those are never good.”
“You believe the theory?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“But your gut—”
“Not mine. Vega’s. I trust her. I’ll reserve judgment until she has all the facts. We’re getting strange tips all over the place. Par for the course, and most of them are probably fake, but … Until this is solved, I want the people I care about to stay safe.”
When I reached home, it was after ten o’clock. Visiting Max had achieved the opposite effect of what I’d desired. I was about as far from relaxed as I could imagine. I hadn’t thought the evening could get more intense. But on top of being accused of murder and deciphering Nicolas’s note, my photo had appeared in the paper and I’d learned that Logan Magnus might not have taken his own life. What I had hoped would be a fun date night had turned into a train wreck.
My body is attuned to nature and planetary cycles, so in spite of the tornado spinning my life out of control, I was ready to sleep. Which I would do as soon as I talked to Dorian, walked through my backyard garden, and locked up the house.
The first task proved impossible. Dorian had already gone out for the night.
Gargoyles don’t need to sleep. At night, Dorian kept busy by working as the pastry chef at Blue Sky Teas, with me as his cover. Since only a few of us knew of Dorian’s existence, it was safest to use me as his front. For my own home cooking I used the same ingredients as the gargoyle chef, but in a much simpler way. Dorian was the one who truly transformed the flavors of ingredients into something new.
When not in my kitchen or Blue’s, his favorite indoor space was my attic. Though initially intended to store my inventory for Elixir, Dorian had taken over the space as his room, because the spacious attic with its sloping ceilings contained the gargoyle’s best escape route. What had originally been a hole in the ceiling was now a proper skylight window that he could easily crack open to leave and enter the house. The skylight was located underneath a Pacific yew tree that shielded the back of the roof from prying eyes.
In addition to baking during the night, Dorian liked to explore the city under cover of darkness. To avoid security cameras, he’d taken to wearing a cloak. Anyone who happened to look at a camera’s grainy three a.m. footage would only see a child who’d snuck out of their house and was running around playing superhero. I was secretly relieved he wasn’t able to fly. Who knew what mischief he’d get up to then.
It was probably for the best that I’d missed him. I wasn’t coherent that late, and I didn’t want to worry Dorian more than was necessary about my photograph appearing in the paper. Instead, I stepped into one of my sanctuaries: the backyard garden.
Looking at the sprawling tendrils of mint, the bushy green tops of carrots and turnips poking through the soil, and the thyme ground cover, I thought about what might be most helpful for Max’s cold. I could make another fresh soup with the ingredients from the yard, and I’d look through the cabinet of tinctures I kept in the house for stronger herbal remedies. Nicolas had always encouraged my aptitude with plants. Unlike Perenelle, he’d wanted me to follow my own interests and aptitudes, not stick to a strict alchemical regimen.
I never felt more alive and at peace than when surrounded by nature, especially plants I’d helped nurture myself. I was teaching my neighbor Brixton, the teenager Dorian called my “unofficial nephew,” how to garden. There’s nothing quite like seeing an angry fourteen-year-old discover pursuits they excel at. Fifteen, I reminded myself. He was growing up so quickly.
I had been barely older than Brixton when I’d found myself fleeing home and becoming Nicolas’s apprentice. In the early eighteenth century it wasn’t easy to find people who ran away, especially those who frequently changed their names to avoid trouble. And more importantly, I’d been running from my past after the tragedy. I hadn’t been looking for anyone. And I hadn’t wanted to be found.
I needed to know what had happened to Nicolas. Was it too late to save him as he’d once saved me?
The orange sky of sunset had long since transformed to the indigo of night, but I left the porch light off. I wasn’t so old-fashioned that I
didn’t use electricity, but I enjoyed watching how the colors of the sky and greenery changed with the movements of the sun and moon.
I was filling my copper watering can with water when my phone rang.
“She’s dead,” the deep voice said.
nine
The voice on the phone was one I knew well. Alchemist and former slave Tobias Freeman.
“Is it Rosa?” I asked him.
“She’s at peace now. I was with her when she passed. She was ready to go. Still … ”
“I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved her. How much you two loved each other for decades.”
“More than half a century.” His voice broke.
“Put me to work. I can help with any—”
“I knew you’d offer. That’s why I took care of it before calling. Don’t feel hurt. I know I could have called on you. But this feeling in my chest. I’d forgotten how much the body can hurt. I knew I’d fall apart. I couldn’t handle sympathy. I wouldn’t have made it through.”
Water spilled over the edge of my watering can and lapped onto my boots. I’d forgotten about the running hose. I shut it off and sat down on the steps of the porch, looking out over the dark garden. The plants were already folding in on themselves in anticipation of the night. It was a subtle movement, but I noticed it.
“I’m glad you’re calling now,” I said. Although I hadn’t found Tobias again until a year ago, I’d come across him in the late 1950s without realizing it. A song called “Accidental Life,” by an artist who called himself the Philosopher, had shot up the charts. That song always made me feel like home, wherever I was. I’d carefully preserved the 8-track for decades. I hadn’t realized it was written by my old friend Tobias, whom I’d known as Toby. We’d met back in the nineteenth century while I was doing my small part to help with the Underground Railroad. Toby had been watching the methods I used to create herbal remedies more carefully than I’d realized, and after I left he discovered the Elixir of Life.
