by Gigi Pandian
“I’m a free man,” he said. “The first time I said those words, it was the most magnificent feeling in the world. But this time … I don’t know that I’ve ever felt such a void.”
“Will you stay in Detroit?”
“Nah. It’s time for me to move on. It’s been too long already. I only stayed and risked it for Rosa.”
“Come to Portland,” I said without thinking. Was I really going to stay? “It’ll be good for you. And you know I have extra room. Even with Dorian, this house feels almost too big after living out of the trailer for so long.”
“I don’t want to impose—”
“You’d be doing me a favor.” To say it would be good for him would make it sound like a burden, when it wouldn’t be at all. “I have my first solid lead on what happened to Nicolas.”
“Flamel?”
“He’s imprisoned and he needs my help. And I could use yours.”
I awoke with the sun, as I always did. Since it was shortly before the autumn equinox, that meant it was shortly before seven o’clock. Blue Sky Teas would be opening soon. I could get tea and breakfast there, and hopefully the art gallery would be open by mid-morning.
I drank a large glass of water with a squeeze of lemon, and after a quick shower walked to the teashop. I felt apprehensive from seeing the article, knowing that all of Portland now believed I was the one baking the great breakfast pastries. But it was also comforting that my oldest friend would be coming to visit. He would be going through a tough time for a while, and I was glad I could help. I also felt hopeful because I loved this time of year, when day and night were in balance and the last of summer crops were being harvested before fall arrived. Summer fruits always tasted the sweetest right before they were about to disappear for another full cycle of the year.
When I reached Hawthorne, a line spilled out onto the sidewalk. A good crowd could always be expected at Blue Sky Teas on a Saturday morning, but nothing like this. I saw through the front windows that the long line snaked around the live weeping fig tree that stood in the center of the cozy space. Blue had created a welcoming gathering spot in both appearance and sustenance. Even before Dorian had begun cooking pastries for the teashop, Blue’s heavenly homemade teas beckoned to people from across Portland.
The setting was as comforting as the teas. A plaque above the orange door read, “There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be diminished by a nice cup of tea—Bernard-Paul Heroux.” Around the weeping fig tree, the eight tables had circular tree-ring tops. To celebrate the approach of autumn, the weeping fig tree was decorated with strands of red, orange, and yellow lights. Beyond the central tree, a series of alchemy-inspired paintings lined one wall. The subject of this set of paintings was plants in lush forests at various stages of growth. Eyes peeked out from the background darkness, and the older trees dipped their leaves into flowers that looked like glass vials, leading to a final transformation that suggested they were about to step out of the forest.
The amateur artist who’d created the paintings that complemented Blue Sky Teas so beautifully was Heather Taylor, the mother of my young friend Brixton. She’d made this series of paintings reminiscent of alchemy after seeing the alchemical items I sold at Elixir. Heather didn’t know alchemy was real, but Brixton was one of the few people who knew my secret—and Dorian’s. It was an accident that he’d seen the gargoyle, but after a shaky start he’d become one of our most trusted friends in Portland.
I spotted Brixton behind the counter. Since he’d turned fifteen that summer, Heather thought it would be good for him to get his first part-time job, where she and “Aunt Blue” could look out for him. His dark curls could use a haircut, and each time I saw him I could have sworn he’d grown another inch.
The eight tables were full, and a handful of people stood with their tea and pastries around a high table near the picture window. One woman stood apart, neither in line nor around a table. At the sight of her, my whole body froze. It was the woman from the art gallery. She must have seen the paper. That’s how she knew to find me here. It was exactly what I’d been afraid of.
Before I could regain my composure, Blue walked over from behind the counter. “Zoe!”
Brixton stayed at the cash register to deal with the long line.
“Did you see the paper?” Blue said with a grin. In her enthusiasm, her silver curls bounced on her shoulders. “Your food is a hit. Are you up for increasing the volume and variety?”
Before I could reply, the woman cut across the shop.
“Let me see it,” she said, pointing a finger in my face. “The necklace,” she continued before I could speak, and now that she was close to me it was clear her voice was shaking. “Let me see it.”
Breathe, Zoe. My hand instinctively moved to cover my locket, even though it was safely underneath my blouse. That must have been why she’d accused me of murder at the gallery. I’d been holding my locket and pendant in my hand, pulled out from under my sweater. But if that’s all it was, then surely it was a mistake.
“I recognized it when I saw you at the gallery,” she said. She stepped so close I could see the faint scar from an old nose ring on her thin nose. She towered over me, her long black wrap dress hanging loosely over a gaunt frame. The woman unnerved me, but I didn’t sense violence from her.
“Is there a problem?” Blue asked. I was struck by the contrast between the two women. Both had naturally beautiful silver-streaked hair, but Blue let her curls run wild and dressed her round body in baggy jeans and soft wool sweaters. The woman from the art gallery had sleek hair and impossibly high heels.
The woman’s thin shoulders fell, the first sign of vulnerability I’d seen in her. “Please … I’ll leave just as soon as you show me your necklace. I just … Please.”
“It’s okay,” I said to Blue. I pulled the chain up, revealing the gold locket and the pewter pendant. If I gave her a closer look, she would see that it wasn’t whatever she thought it was.
But instead of being disappointed, she gasped and nodded. “Where did you get it?” She reached out her hand for the phoenix pendant but Blue pulled me away.
“You need to leave,” Blue said. She spoke more powerfully than I’d ever heard before. It wasn’t volume. It was command. I remembered that the Blue Sky who stood beside me with her shoulders squared used to be a trial lawyer before running away from her old life and opening the teashop in Portland.
The woman from the gallery had spoken quietly, not wanting to raise a scene, but at the sound of Blue’s voice, several customers paused and turned our way.
“If you don’t leave right now,” Blue continued, “I’m calling the police.”
“Please do,” the woman said. “You’ll save me the effort.”
Blue hesitated. She caught my eye for guidance. Why did the strange woman want the police involved? I shook my head. Blue lowered the phone she was holding.
The woman picked up her own phone and began dialing.
“You’re wearing the pendant I made for my husband, Logan Magnus,” she said. “He was wearing it the night he was murdered.”
ten
1597, Prague, Bohemia
The night moon was rising over Prague castle as Philippe Hayden crushed the ochre that would serve well as the yellow and vermillion of a sunset.
The artist continued to be amazed by the fact that intent was unnecessary to transform colors. Patience, yes, but painters did not need the purity of intent that was necessary in alchemy. Tyrian Purple came out the same whether or not you chose to focus your intent on the rotten shellfish and urine needed to create the color. It was probably better not to focus too much on the unappealing methods needed to create many pigments. An alchemical transformation would only work if alchemists put their energy—their very essence—into the process as well.
Leaving the paint to set in its tempera binder, Philippe pulled a b
lack cloak over thin shoulders and flipped the hood over short auburn hair, then locked the door before walking up Golden Lane. Along with the moon, a few strong stars had pushed their way through the gray night sky. Thankfully, it was enough light that one didn’t need a lantern. The alchemist did not wish to be detected.
Golden Lane was located inside the outer walls of Prague Castle, but beneath an open sky. Smooth stones lined the narrow alleyway. It couldn’t be said that Rudolf II spared any expense on his castle. Rudolf was not only the Holy Roman Emperor, but also King of Bohemia, King of Hungary and Croatia, and Archduke of Austria.
Repairs had already begun on the house Philippe was looking for: the house of the alchemist who had disappeared the previous day. If the court gossip was to be believed, the devil himself had come for the alchemist and pulled him straight through the roof, leaving brimstone soot behind. How else could a person have disappeared without a trace? Of course, as Philippe and the other alchemists knew, the intense heat required for alchemical experiments often resulted in unexpected explosions. Black ash smelling of sulfur would be left behind. And if you destroyed the dwelling in which you’d been living for free … well, it was best to leave secretly.
What Philippe wished to know was whether the unfortunate man who’d caused the explosion had discovered true alchemy. If so, Philippe wished to save any notes he had left behind. It was late enough in the night that nobody would detect an unlawful entry into the man’s rooms.
The workmen who’d begun fixing the roof the previous afternoon had not bothered to lock the door. As Philippe stepped across the threshold, it was evident why. The contents of the rooms had been reduced to a charred heap of scraps. Glass vessels had shattered, wooden tables had splintered into unsalvageable shards, and the air smelled of brimstone even now. In the dim moonlight and hellish surroundings, it was easy to imagine the devil appearing.
Pushing aside irrational thoughts, Philippe looked methodically through the ashes. A cut from a broken jar of mercury was worth it. Underneath the shards of glass were two bound books. Their outer bindings had been damaged, but the inner pages revealed the truth about the missing man. He was a doctor seeking medicines. Not an alchemist. The painter smiled and tucked the books under the cloak, in hopes of returning them one day. It was a shame so much deception was necessary in Rudolf’s court.
Philippe stepped silently out the door, but stopped almost immediately, aware of not being alone.
One of the castle’s peacocks strutted across the stone walkway, his colorful feathers tucked away. Castle residents gave Rudolf’s strange creatures wide berth, not wishing to anger the inscrutable man who ruled the kingdom.
Philippe chuckled, amused that the animal had caused the fright, and could not help but step closer to the majestic creature. In the moonlight, the colors of its feathers looked almost translucent, like the swirling colors mixing together during an alchemical process.
The peacock heard the sound before Philippe did. The creature cocked its head and scuttled away. Philippe turned toward the sound—a loose stone?—in time to see the edge of a dark cape flutter around the corner.
Had someone been following Philippe Hayden?
eleven
Dorian had stumbled upon the phoenix charm washed up on the edge of the Willamette River on one of his nighttime walks a couple of weeks ago. The beautiful design was evocative of alchemy—a rough lightning bolt behind a phoenix rising from flames, symbolizing rebirth. Viewed head-on, the lightning bolt and flames seemed to be consuming the bird; but from above, she was winning, fighting her way past the elements that fit so perfectly around her. A loop was hidden behind the top of the lightning bolt, which was what enabled the tiny sculpture to be worn as a pendant necklace.
At least, that was the story Dorian told about where he got it. He wouldn’t have stolen it, and he definitely wouldn’t have killed anyone. The question was, would he have lied to me about where he found it? If I trusted what he told me, he must have found it where Logan Magnus’s killer had tossed it, perhaps trying to get rid of evidence in the river
The woman accusing me had attempted to shield her face from the cameras after her husband’s untimely death, but now I knew who she was. She was an artist in her own right. Welder Isabella Magnus.
Underneath the weeping fig tree at Blue Sky Teas, the implications sank in that I was wearing the charm of a dead man. A police officer stepped into the teashop.
“It would be easiest to talk down at the station, ma’am,” he said. “If you’ll come this way with me.”
I tried not to look as panicked as I felt. I wouldn’t have a chance to consult Dorian about where along the waterfront he’d found the pendant.
“Hey,” Brixton called, rushing out from behind the counter. “Where are you taking Zoe?”
“It’s okay, Brix,” I said, as Blue held on to his shoulders. He was impetuous, and I could tell his Converse-clad feet were itching to rush forward.
“She’ll be back soon, honey,” Blue said.
I hated being at the police station without the security of Max at my side. But Logan Magnus’s questionable death wasn’t assigned to him. Max was friends with many of his fellow detectives, but I’d learned detectives didn’t like it when you stuck your nose into another cop’s case.
The phoenix pendant was taken from me, and I was ushered into a room with a noisy vent overhead. It looked to be a cross between an interrogation and a meeting room. A plainclothes officer introduced herself as Detective Vega—the detective Max had mentioned was working the Logan Magnus case. She was about Max’s age, around forty, and wore her long chestnut hair pulled into a pony tail. While her hair was casual, she was dressed formally and stylishly in a sage-green tailored suit.
She sat down across from me and smiled. “Tell me about where you found the pendant.”
“I’m sorry I don’t remember more than that it was along the edge of the river,” I said. It wasn’t helping that in addition to not knowing exactly where along the waterfront Dorian had found the phoenix charm, I was light-headed because I hadn’t yet eaten breakfast.
“How can you not remember where you found the pendant? It’s quite memorable.” Her demeanor remained friendly, but her face registered surprise.
“I walk all over the city. It’s been a couple of weeks since I found it, and I’ve gone on a lot of walks since then.”
“We could go on a walk.” She leaned across the table. “You can take me on your route. That should trigger your memory.”
“I really don’t remember—”
“All right. Then let’s talk about your online business. Elixir, is it?”
I felt the skin on my forearms prickle and glanced up at the clanking vent. “Why are you asking me about Elixir?”
“Just making conversation to try to spark your memory. You sell antiques. You must come across works of art like that pendant, and paintings by artists like Logan Magnus—perhaps some of them have turned out to be forgeries?”
“Forgeries? Why are you asking me about—”
A curt rap sounded on the interior window. A flash of annoyance crossed Detective Vega’s face, but she stood and opened the door. A young officer stood in the doorway.
“I’m in the middle of talking to a witness,” Detective Vega said.
“I wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important,” the officer said. “There’s been a disturbance at Ms. Faust’s house. Someone was trying to break in.”
Detective Vega swore, covering my own gasp.
“Don’t worry,” the officer said. “We caught him.”
My heart thudded, but I remained silent. There was no good answer I could give. My secret alchemy lab was in the basement. I’d taken steps to protect it, but people who meant me ill had broken in before. I didn’t think the men I’d recently defeated would come back to Portland. I also didn’t think they’d arrested a gar
goyle; the officer’s face was too calm for that. That left …
“Oh God,” I said. “Please tell me it’s not Tobias.”
The officer’s neck and cheeks slowly transformed from a light tan to beet red. He cleared his throat. “You know him?”
“He’s a close friend,” I said. “Not a burglar.” I hadn’t thought Tobias would take a red-eye and arrive so quickly, so I hadn’t told Dorian to expect him, nor waited at home myself to let him in. “Didn’t he tell you he knew me?”
“Well, yes. But a neighbor reported a suspicious character looking in your windows, so we brought him in. I saw you in the paper, so I know you’re like a local celebrity, so lots of people would know your name … ”
“We’ll get this straightened out,” Detective Vega said, seeing the anger fuming on my face.
As horrible as the situation was, it could also be my out.
“I’ll take you to the general area where I think I found the phoenix pendant,” I said, “after I make sure Tobias is all right. I’m sure you’re right that I’ll remember more once I’m there. But right now I need to get my friend situated. At home.”
Detective Vega gave a sharp glance at the young officer but nodded. They’d screwed up, and they needed my help. I was led to a waiting area and told Tobias would be brought out.
Someone must have alerted Max to the fact that I was there. After I’d been sitting in a lumpy waiting room chair for ten minutes he appeared, looking physically better but still with tired, guarded eyes. “The nettle soup helped,” he said with a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry for the screw-up with your friend.”
“His wife just died, Max. That’s why he came for a visit.”
Max swore, but his second apology was cut short by the appearance of Tobias himself.
Broad-shouldered and muscular, Tobias Freeman had physically transformed himself since I first met him. I hadn’t been a full-fledged conductor on the Underground Railroad, but I’d helped treat men and women who were injured or ill. Tobias had been both, a scrawny young man nearly starved to death with the skin on his back so torn up I didn’t know if he’d survive. When I’d found my friend again this past year, I had barely recognized him—except for his hazel eyes that had always reminded me of gold. Today those eyes were weary.
