by Gigi Pandian
“Is there a problem?” Tobias asked in a calm but wary voice that told me he’d uttered the words more times than he cared to count.
“Were you following us?” I asked. My voice carried, and several heads turned our way.
“Why don’t we go outside?” Detective Vega said.
“She didn’t have to follow me,” Tobias said, putting his hand on mine. “We told Max we’d be here. And Detective, you can say anything to me in front of Zoe.”
Max …
Detective Vega shot me an annoyed glance before nodding. She spoke more softly now, but her voice left no doubt about its authority. “I need to ask you about your whereabouts when Mr. Magnus was killed, Mr. Freeman—and also about your fraudulent identification.”
I watched her inquisitive eyes study Tobias’s reaction. She thought he was involved in the murder of Logan Magnus. Something in his convoluted past must have raised her suspicions, but it was my fault for bringing Tobias here.
Not only was my mentor being held captive, with my only clue to his whereabouts having vanished, but now my oldest friend was under suspicion for the murder of the man who’d owned the painting that could tell me where to find Nicolas.
Pressing my hand to the smooth, cool glass of the gallery’s front window, I watched helplessly as Tobias went with the detective.
sixteen
1597, Prague, Bohemia
His face pressed to the rough, cold stone, Edward Kelley could barely believe his eyes. It was his ears that had been sliced for fraud, and his hands broken for disloyalty, but there was nothing wrong with his vision. And he wasn’t intoxicated. Was he? He thought back. No, he was certain he wasn’t intoxicated.
Edward knew the castle grounds better than most. He’d found many of its hidden secrets, including the purposefully loose stones that enabled him to secretly look into many alchemists’ rooms. This was one of the ways in which he was able to ensure favor with patrons: by gaining a breadth of knowledge about alchemy, which he’d always believed was a fraud—until today.
Through the narrow opening, Edward watched as Philippe lifted a glass vial from a flame and twirled the container in a rhythmic, clockwise motion. The liquid bubbled, and changed from a dull gray to bright yellow.
Philippe tilted the liquid vial over the table, but instead of the wet mess Edward expected to see splash across the wooden surface, flakes of gold appeared.
Edward gasped, then quickly covered his mouth. His heart beat furiously. He’d never been discovered while spying before. He needn’t have worried. Philippe was far too focused on his work to pay any attention to the faint sounds of the man spying on him. Edward had suspected the painter was hiding a big secret. But this? He had not expected this.
Philippe Hayden wasn’t only an artist who painted alchemical scenes. The man was a true alchemist. Alchemy was real.
Philippe grinned as the flakes of gold appeared. With art and alchemy comingling so easily now, each process became more natural. Other artists at Prague Castle painted only what they imagined alchemy to look like, not alchemy as it truly was.
To be fair, the challenge for artists was not only their ignorance of alchemical processes, but also their dependence on patrons. And those patrons had specific ideas about what they wanted hanging on their walls.
Whatever negative opinions could be formed about Rudolf II’s birthright or his moods, it was indisputably true that he was a great patron of science and the arts. He brought natural philosophers to his court to practice astronomy, alchemists to make gold for his kingdom, and artists to celebrate his reign. His curated Kunstkammer collection was one of the greatest libraries in the world.
As much as Philippe wished to return home to France, there was an important task to complete under Rudolf’s roof. And it was so close …
seventeen
I think of myself as a realistic optimist. It’s how I’ve survived for over 340 years in relatively good physical and mental health. It was why I hadn’t truly believed Tobias would be arrested. But at the police station, I wasn’t allowed to see him and nobody could tell me how long he would be held.
My palms sweating, I knew where I had to go. I drove to Blue Sky Teas. Given that she used to be an attorney, Blue would be the best person to go to for help. She’d reinvented herself here in Portland after escaping a life that had been abusive in multiple ways. But she’d had to break the law to escape. Her old name was Brenda Skyler, and she’d changed it to that of the woman we knew and loved, Blue Sky.
The teashop was crowded once again, a long line snaking around the weeping fig tree and not a free seat to be seen at the tree-ring tables. And as Dorian had anticipated, the glass counter of treats was nearly empty. I couldn’t catch Blue’s eye because of the crowd, so I waited impatiently in the line.
“You look terrible, Zoe,” Blue said once I reached the counter. “Did you catch Max’s cold? Let me make you your friend’s cayenne tea.”
“Tobias has been arrested,” I whispered.
Her eyes grew wide.
“Or at least he’s being questioned,” I added. “Nobody will tell me anything.”
“Give me one second,” she said, and disappeared into the back room.
“Hey.” The muffled sound of a young voice came from the back room. “My break isn’t over yet. Oh, hey Zoe.” Brixton appeared behind the counter with Blue.
“Sorry, Brix,” I said. “I need to borrow Blue. It’s important.”
“No problem. I get overtime for this, right?”
Blue tousled his hair and he scowled at her.
“Come with me,” she said, and led me to a back room opposite the kitchen.
Whereas the front of the cafe had high walls that stretched to a ceiling painted blue like the sky, including wisps of white clouds, I doubted anyone over six feet tall could have stood comfortably in Blue’s backroom office. But like the cafe, the office had a cozy feel. Blue had made the boxy little room a comforting sanctuary, with a tiny desk that had space for a laptop and a reclining cushioned chair with a reading lamp and a side table with coasters. A large corkboard covered one wall, filled with photographs she’d taken of friends and of plants from her wildcrafting.
“If you’re willing,” I said slowly, “I need some informal legal advice. For what to do about Tobias. He has some things in his past that would be better if they didn’t come out. But I swear it’s nothing bad. Just … complicated.”
Blue nodded. “First, what are they accusing him of?”
“Detective Vega mentioned a fake ID. But the thing that worries me the most is that it’s the detective looking into Logan Magnus’s death. She said she had questions for Tobias about the case.”
“I thought the poor man killed himself.”
“The detective doesn’t think so.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea. “Better for thinking.” She smiled as she inhaled the scent of her spicy cinnamon chai.
“How can I help Tobias? Should I get him a lawyer? I know you don’t practice law here, but do you know someone I can call?”
“If your friend is arrested, he’d be allowed a phone call. Who would he call?”
“Probably me.”
“And he hasn’t called?”
Why couldn’t I get used to these damn things? I hadn’t thought to check. I pulled my cell phone from my bag, but I hadn’t missed any calls. I tried calling Tobias, but his phone went directly to voicemail. So he was most likely still talking to someone at the station.
Blue reached over and took my hands. “They’re probably just talking with him. The police won’t arrest someone unless they’ve got good evidence. That was the problem in my case, that there was too much false evidence against me. But unless someone has set up your friend, anything ‘suspicious’ doesn’t mean much.”
“Then why do I feel so wretched? And so helpless.”
“Because he’s your friend. And because I’ve always known you were an old soul. Even though you’re young, you understand the importance of old friends. How did you two meet? No, let me guess. Was he one of your teachers? He has that vibe.”
“That he does. But no. We met in a small playhouse production for a play about the Underground Railroad.” It was the cover story we’d come up with. A lie is always best when it’s as close to the truth as possible. “We lost touch until I saw a picture of him online last year.”
I’d found Tobias because I was trying to locate another true alchemist and saw a familiar face. I hadn’t known that the young man I’d met when he was an escaped slave had become an alchemist. If he hadn’t been photographed as a speaker at a spiritual alchemy conference, I never would have found him again. The discipline of spiritual alchemy uses the same principles I use to transform plants into purified essences for healing. In practice it means looking inward to find your flaws and transform them, to become a better person and more accepting of the world. It was how alchemy survived publicly in the last century.
“Those unexpected reunions are the best,” said Blue. “As much as I hate that our identities are everywhere for the world to see, there are silver linings if we’re open to them.”
“I’m glad you’re getting more business at the teashop thanks to that article.”
She took my hands in hers and said, “Don’t worry about keeping up with demand. We’ll be fine. Focus on taking care of your friend.”
When we emerged from the back room, Brixton’s mom was helping him behind the counter. At the sight of me, Heather squealed happily, set down the pumpkin muffin she was holding with metal tongs, and enveloped me in a hug. Even though I saw her several times a week, this was her standard form of greeting. Half of her long blonde hair hung down her back, the other half was braided with daisy chains encircling the top of her head. Her white sundress, covered by a short jean jacket on top, swished around my legs as she hugged me.
Brixton had been born when Heather was sixteen. In many ways she’d grown up quickly, but also she had missed her youth, so at thirty-one she often acted more like an adolescent than her son did at fifteen.
“You dropped this customer’s muffin, Mom,” Brixton said, retrieving a fresh muffin for a man with a handlebar mustache and aviator glasses.
“No coffee?” the man said. “You’re serious? This place only serves tea?”
“Tell me what kind of coffee you like,” Blue said, taking Brixton’s place behind the counter, “as well as why you like it, and I promise I’ll find the perfect tea for you.”
“Zoe,” Heather said as she took my hand and led me to a table that had just opened up near the weeping fig tree, “you’re looking really stressed out. Come with me to an essential oils workshop later today. I know you already know all about herbalism, but it might get you out of your funk. It’s with a group of women participating in the upcoming Autumn Equinox Fair. I know you’ve got a table at the fair, so it would be nice for you to meet some of the others. Since you’re a little younger than me, I hope you don’t mind that I feel like a bit of a big sister to you.” She beamed at me.
“Thank you for the offer,” I said, amused that someone nearly 300 years younger would think of me as a little sister, “but I need to help a friend today.”
eighteen
Before going back to the Logan Magnus gallery, I had a stop to make first. Tobias was in the most immediate danger, but someone else I cared about might have been as well.
I found Dorian in the attic, reading a 1970s issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“Garage sale.” He closed the newsprint magazine. “Do not worry. Since someone lost their library card privileges, Brixton bought me a box of these old magazines. They are très bon. Have you read them?”
“Many of them, yes. But I don’t have time to reminisce right now. Tobias is in trouble.” I filled Dorian in on what had happened.
“Not to worry,” Dorian said. “You should recall, I have broken out of police custody before. I can help Monsieur Freeman do the same.”
“Nobody is breaking anyone out of jail,” I hissed. “And I think being mistaken for a statue and held in an evidence room is different than being locked up in jail.”
Dorian narrowed his eyes. “If you did not wish my assistance, why did you tell me this?”
“I wanted to warn you. The police might come back with a search warrant. If that happens you’ll need to go out through your skylight window even though it’s daytime. Have your cloak at hand so you’ll be prepared.”
The sky crackled with thunder and lighting as I drove to the gallery. Outside, the storm was still a few miles away. But inside the memorial exhibit, light from the tall, off-white candles flickered wildly, making it look as if a storm was raging inside.
I headed straight for the desk at the back of the gallery but was greeted by an empty chair. The woman who’d been there earlier was nowhere in sight.
I looked up at the self-portrait of Logan Magnus. It was representational rather than stylistic, showing a close likeness. Dressed in white, the figure sat cross-legged with a paintbrush in one hand and a candle in the other. His eyes held a vibrancy and also … was it a trick of the light, or did they also hold a deep sadness?
I’d learned a great deal from the people I’d met throughout my life, but one thing I knew I’d never be able to understand was what it felt like to grow up under public scrutiny, on the edges of the spotlight of a famous parent. I had been nobody special in Salem Village, which my parents made sure I remembered. Only when I was thirteen did my skills with plants begin to attract attention. But what must it have been like to grow up as a darling of the art world from the time you could walk? I’d witnessed Lawrence Magnus’s fame while traveling around in my Airstream and selling antiques at flea markets. Mass produced prints of his modern art paintings were quite popular for a time before he was forgotten in favor of the next art trend. Logan’s career had started slowly, but in the past two decades his fame had far surpassed his father’s.
I stepped closer to the hypnotic self-portrait. The background of the painting was black at first glance, but even in the candle-lit room it was possible to see that the color of the darkness was made not with black ink, but through a combination of colors that mixed into black yet also swirled in the shadows with hints of images. Both Philippe Hayden and Logan Magnus knew how to use color to dramatic effect.
Subdued voices spoke around me. As before, the candle-lit atmosphere demanded reverence and respect. It was more effective than a sign requesting quiet.
“It’s like the early Renaissance,” an elderly woman near me said softly to her friend. “This is how art looked by candlelight. The gold leaf is what makes the colors dance like that.”
“Since when do you know about art history?” her friend asked. “I thought I knew all of your secrets.”
She held up a half-sheet of paper. “Picked this up at the door. It has the obituary of Logan Magnus on one side and his artist statement on the other.”
I smiled at the women, wondering if they’d been friends all their lives.
Dozens of people filled the narrow gallery. I made my way back to The River of Flames, where the largest crowd was gathered. There I saw the young woman with the tear-stained face I’d spoken to earlier that afternoon. She wasn’t looking at the painting but surveying the crowd, as if she was searching for someone.
Her eyes still red from crying, she raised an eyebrow at me. “I hope your friend is all right.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I said. “I’m Zoe. And I’m sorry for the disturbance we caused earlier today.”
“I’m Cleo,” she said. “Cleo Magnus.”
I cringed
. This was Logan Magnus’s daughter.
“And now I’m even more sorry for the disruption we caused,” I said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Though if one more person tells me my dad will live on through his art, I’ll scream.”
“You should go ahead and scream. It can be very therapeutic.”
She smiled. A genuine, happy smile, though it looked like it could turn to tears at any point. “I should probably try it tonight after I lock up. Nothing else has worked.”
I hated to ask her about the painting again, now that I knew she was the grieving daughter. But I didn’t have time to be polite. That painting could lead me to Nicolas.
“When I was here earlier I mentioned the painting of the man with intense eyes that was in the window yesterday. I know you said it was a mistake and not one of your father’s, but I’d still love to see it.”
“I’m sorry,” Cleo said, “but it should never have been shown publicly. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“You still can,” I said. “Can you tell me … is it a Philippe Hayden?”
Her smile was back. “You can tell too? It is. At least I believe it is. I’m an art dealer, and I found it myself for Dad. It’s called The Alchemist. The artist wasn’t identified, but I know it’s a Hayden. So does Dad. He loves it.” Her smile disappeared. “I mean, loved it … ”
The Alchemist.
“You have a good eye,” I said, “realizing that it was a Philippe Hayden. That painting means a lot to me. It—”
“It’s not for sale,” she snapped. “And this is a memorial to my father, not an art sale.”
“I only want to see it. It stirred a memory from when I was young. I know the timing is bad, but that’s why it would mean a lot to me.”
“You say you know the painting?” Her unnerving, penetrating stare was back. I could tell she was a keen observer but had also cultivated the look because she knew how it affected people.
“I think I do. From a long time ago.”
