The Alchemist's Illusion

by Gigi Pandian

  I stumbled backward, disoriented under the Gothic arches and unable to remember the way to the door. I rushed past the easel with the half-finished painting. That’s when the real disorientation hit. It was the scent that did it. I was transported back to 1692, when the hysteria began. When I had to flee Salem Village after I was accused of being a witch. Ergot.

  The fungus, found in moldy rye bread, caused hallucinations and odd behavior such as paranoia. Only later did I learn that ergot poisoning was why people on both sides had been acting so strangely in Salem, where my former friends had accused me of witchcraft simply for being good with plants.

  The scent wasn’t strong, but as a plant alchemist I was especially attuned to scents. Especially this one. I could never forget the tart, astringent smell, because ergot had ruined my life. That wasn’t something you forgot, no matter how long it had been.

  Ergot was the type of hallucinogenic poison that could render a person open to a suggestion to swallow toxic paint. And Isabella had this poison in her studio.

  The painting of Nicolas was gone, and with it my hope for finding him. But this new insight was even worse. Unease wrapped its way around me as I realized I could be in the presence of Logan Magnus’s killer.

  twenty-two

  1597, Prague, Bohemia

  Edward stepped back from his hiding spot. He needed a few moments to compose himself after realizing he was in the presence of a man far more powerful than he’d expected. Edward was normally calm under pressure, but this turned his worldview upside down: Alchemy was real, and Philippe Hayden was a true alchemist.

  So that was what had called the funny little man to Bohemia. Clearly Philippe preferred solitude to company, but Prague Castle was bursting with people. Edward himself didn’t mind the stench, which seemed blissfully fresh compared to the fragrances he’d experienced while locked up in foul dungeons. And he didn’t mind the crowds. He knew he was a natural charmer. He could read people’s expressions more clearly than words and reflect their desires back to them, endearing himself to them and acquiring patronages across the land.

  Yes, he claimed to be an alchemist and scryer with the ability to speak with angels. But Edward didn’t actually believe in either of those things. He simply told people what they wished to hear. After finding a small quantity of gold in a mine, he had realized he could live off that gold for a much longer period of time if he got patrons to support an alchemy lab. In his lab, he would “create” a small amount of gold for the patron, which bought him at least another year of work. And writing words that were supposedly dictated by an angel made him seem more trustworthy. People were so gullible. But now … had he been proven wrong by a dirty little Frenchman?

  Edward knew he would be removed from Rudolf II’s court if he did not continue to show results. But what if he were to become a real alchemist? He stepped forward again and watched the artist at work. A plan formed in his mind for how to solve all of his problems.

  The following day, Edward Kelley knocked on the door of Philippe Hayden’s rooms, confident his plan would be a success.

  When the artist opened the door, Edward showed him the scroll clutched in his gloved hands. “You have been given a great honor, Monsieur Hayden. We have an audience with the Emperor.”

  Philippe frowned. “I have not yet completed my latest painting.”

  Edward smiled his most radiant smile. He had unusually nice teeth, and he used them to good effect. “Have I told you of my daughter? She is the light of my life.”

  Philippe’s stiff stance relaxed. Good.

  “Yes,” Philippe answered. “You’ve spoken of her fondly. I would be pleased to paint her portrait if given the opportunity.”

  “It would be a great honor. I wish to see her again soon, and if I’m not mistaken, you wish to return to your family as well. Do I recall that you have a wife waiting for you in France?”

  Philippe gave a noncommittal tilt of his head. “I should get back to work on this canvas before my paints dry.”

  “I apologize for the bad timing, but we do not wish to disappoint our patron, do we?”

  “He understands the artistic process more than most. A little more time—”

  Edward leered at the small man as he strode up to where the artist stood at his easel. It was time to change tactics. “Did I not mention that it is not art the Emperor is interested in seeing today? Rudolf was quite interested when I conveyed the message that you would be able to give a live demonstration for how to create gold.”

  The painter stood perfectly still. He was outwardly calm, but Edward could see the man’s hands shaking. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  Tucking the scroll into his coat, Edward walked to the wall and tapped on the uneven stones. “When I remove a stone from this outer wall, I can see everything you do.” He shrugged. “I know your secret.”

  Philippe’s eyes widened, yet he remained silent.

  “I know,” Edward continued, “that you can transmute lead into gold. It is no use trying to hide the truth.”

  “Why would I hide the truth?” Philippe said. “We are all alchemists, are we not?” He gave Edward a thin-lipped, defiant smile.

  “Of course,” Edward replied. “So it will not be a problem for you to perform your transformations in front of me and the Emperor.”

  “You know it’s not so simple.”

  “Such a shame. We know what the Emperor does with people who lie to him.”

  Philippe narrowed his eyes at Edward. He remained still, yet his gaze flitted toward the door.

  Good. Very good. Edward smiled, knowing he’d won. Philippe was looking for a way to escape. And Edward would give him exactly that.

  twenty-three

  I rushed down the driveway looking for my escape, not caring that it was pouring now. The rain obscured my view and propelled me further into 1692. Running blindly through the fields, then running desperately to escape.

  I should have paid more attention. I slipped and went sprawling on the sloping concrete. I felt scrapes cutting across the palm of my hand and my knee, but a bit of broken skin and blood was nothing compared to the lightning bolt of pain that shot through my left ankle.

  I had salves at home that would help. Now I just had to get there. I stood and limped toward my truck. With each passing step, a bigger stab of pain pulsed through my ankle.

  I dropped my keys as I attempted to unlock the door of my truck. I finally got the door open, but it was a fruitless effort. I knew I couldn’t drive. The truck was a stick shift, and the old kind of manual transmission that required a lot of force. I needed my left foot. I closed my eyes and tried to think how to get out of there, but I couldn’t stop wondering about Isabella. If she was guilty of the crime as I now suspected, that would give her a good reason to accuse me of the crime, to turn suspicion away from herself.

  I’d been assuming it was Isabella who had pushed Detective Vega to look into Logan’s suicide as murder—but what if it was the reverse? If Isabella’s plan to have her husband’s death written off as the suicide of a temperamental artist had been ruined by the detective’s suspicions because Logan’s death was similar to other murders, Isabella would need a scapegoat, and I had offered myself up as the perfect person to blame. I was new in town, without an established past, ran an online business, and had Logan’s phoenix pendant.

  How did the painting of Nicolas fit in? Had it truly been sent away for authentication?

  I sat in the bucket seat gripping the steering wheel. Rain streamed down the car windows. I didn’t want to stay on the Magnus property any longer than necessary, but I couldn’t drive. On the incline of the hill, I realized it might work to ease off the brake and coast down to the street. From there I could call someone to come and get me.

  I kept my 1942 Chevy truck in good shape, and as close to its original condition as possible. But in Portland, modern
windshield wipers were one thing I’d invested in. After a few more deep breaths, I started the engine and turned on the wipers.

  And screamed.

  A handsome man stood in front of the large green hood of the truck. He held an oversize black umbrella in his hand, which kept him dry. He walked up to the driver’s-side door and knocked on the window. The knuckles of his hand were swollen with what looked like arthritis. My fear evaporated as I thought about which salve might help him.

  “I’m sorry to have frightened you,” he said with an English accent as I rolled down the window a few inches. “And I’m terribly sorry about Isabella,” he continued. “I heard her screaming and went to see what was amiss. That’s when she told me what had happened. Please forgive her. She’s grieving. I came after you and saw the nasty spill you took. I can’t leave you like this. Let me get you some ice for your injuries.”

  I hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Isabella went to lie down. I promise she won’t scream at you anymore.”

  It wasn’t the screaming I was worried about. With the poison on the grounds, someone else in that house was most likely a killer. But what choice did I have? Tobias and Dorian knew where I was, so they’d know where to look if something happened to me. I rolled up the squeaky window and opened the car door.

  “I’m not sure I can make it back to the house.”

  “Take my elbow. I’m Ward. Ward Talbot. We half-met at the gallery yesterday.”

  “Zoe,” I said as I accepted his arm. “Zoe Faust.”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “No. Antiques dealer by day, herbalist and cook by night.”

  “Shame. With your style and that name, I could sell your art in a heartbeat.”

  “You’re an art dealer?”

  “Your day job’s less-talented cousin.” The laugh that followed made him sound even more like an upper-class Brit. The wavy hair that fell to his shoulders was the one rebellious feature on his otherwise formal yet charming face. In the darkness of the gallery, I hadn’t gotten a good look at him.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry. Almost to the door now.”

  Isabella’s daughter, Cleo, appeared in the doorway and took the umbrella from Ward. She held a bag of ice in her other hand. It was only as I stepped through the doorway that I noticed this wasn’t the Castle itself, but the smaller house off to the side where Logan had grown up.

  “I apologize about Mom,” Cleo said. She was perfectly put together today, in black clothing cut at severe angles that felt incongruous with her quiet, tentative voice, like a dubbed movie gone wrong. “And it looks like I’ll need more than one bag of ice.”

  “I should be well enough to get going in a few minutes,” I said as Ward helped me onto the couch. “I already texted my boyfriend to come get me.”

  That didn’t get a reaction out of either of them. A good sign.

  “Sorry Mom freaked you out so bad,” Cleo said.

  “Isabella is an incredibly talented artist,” Ward said, “but like Logan, she’s … ” He looked at Cleo and lowered his eyes.

  “It’s okay,” she said, squeezing his hand. “If you were going to say Mom isn’t especially stable, you’re right. And when she gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her. She told us you were lying to her about a portrait of your brother who passed away.”

  “I came over to apologize for finding your father’s phoenix charm,” I said, “and all I did was make things worse.”

  “Did you get her to show you the painting before she kicked you out?” Cleo asked.

  “Wait … ” I said. “You mean you didn’t send it away for authentication?”

  Cleo and Ward exchanged a glance. “Did you?” she asked Ward.

  “Of course not.” He rushed from the room.

  I gasped. “You mean the painting is missing?”

  “Mom can be spacey,” Cleo said, “especially now. I’d better check.”

  Before I could reply, she’d disappeared from the room, leaving me alone with my fear that I would never see the painting again.

  While I waited for Cleo and Ward to return, I tried to ground myself by focusing on the pain of my swollen ankle. I looked around at the art that adorned the living room. Sculptures were placed among the books on the built-in bookshelves, and three six-foot paintings of birds adorned the walls, with smaller canvases between them. I didn’t recognize the pieces, but they were beautiful and fit together. The newest painting depicted roses. I could still smell the lingering scent of varnish.

  One of Isabella’s sculptures had a place of honor in front of the fireplace. I wondered what animal shadow it would cast on the floor when the fire was lit. On the mantle above it was a photo of a smiling Ward and Cleo. He must have been at least twenty years older than she was, but they clearly loved each other. I could see the need for each other in their eyes.

  Cleo was the first to return, with Ward a few steps behind her. She picked up a red throw pillow from a voluminous chair by the fireplace. The bright, comfy chair fit into the cozy room, which struck me as so unlike the modern interior of the main house. Ward stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said softly and kissed the top of her head. He stood there for a few moments, rocking back and forth, giving her the time she needed.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “My ex,” Cleo said. “Another ‘joke’ of his, I imagine.”

  “Archer didn’t take our marriage well,” Ward said to me. “But this is ridiculous. We should tell the police—”

  “No police.” Cleo’s shout echoed through the room.

  Ward and I stared at her in stunned silence.

  “Give him a chance to call me back,” Cleo continued, her voice nearly a whisper now.

  “You can’t keep blaming yourself,” Ward said. “Who wouldn’t want to fight for you? But I wonder how much of his anger is ego.” Ward turned from Cleo to me. “He walks around with paint-blotched skin on purpose, so people will know he’s an artist.”

  “Ward, don’t,” Cleo said.

  “What? It’s true. He has red all over his fingers because it stands out the most and doesn’t make him look like he’s simply dirty, even though red rarely shows up in his paintings.”

  “Archer … ” I said. The memory of the young man with paint-stained hands who’d asked if I was okay came back to me. “Is he in his twenties, with long blond hair?”

  “You know him?” Cleo asked. “But you said—”

  “I think I saw him at the gallery a few days ago. I didn’t know his name, but remember the paint on his hands.”

  “I knew we should have gotten a better security presence,” Ward said.

  “For all his faults,” Cleo said, “he’s not a thief.” She looked at her phone.

  “Then why isn’t he calling you back?” Ward asked. “I’m telling you, we should call the police.”

  “At least give him a few minutes,” she said.

  Ward looked as if he wanted to press her, but held his tongue.

  “That painting made Dad so happy,” Cleo said to me. “I was searching everywhere for a worthy fiftieth birthday present for him. He’d fallen in love with paintings that depicted alchemy and transformation, after seeing a local artist’s work last spring and buying one of her works.”

  I wondered why Heather hadn’t mentioned this. But then I knew. Heather didn’t care about celebrity. She’d been giddy the first time a few of her pieces had sold, but the fame of the buyer wouldn’t have mattered to her.

  “Where did you find this painting of—” I stopped myself before saying Nicolas’s name.

  “An auction house. Listed as The Alchemist by an unknown painter. No provenance beyond that it had been in the California family’s care for generations. It—” Cleo broke off and answered
her buzzing phone. “This isn’t funny, Archer,” she hissed. “Especially now, after what happened to Dad.”

  Holding the phone, she walked into the other room. Ward followed. I heard raised voices, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. But when the two came back into the room, the words on Cleo’s lips were clear. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like to report a stolen painting. A painting and the ownership papers that went with it.”

  twenty-four

  Max came to pick me up. His jeep had automatic transmission, so I could drive it with my working right foot while he drove my truck. Ward found a bandage that Cleo used to wrap my ankle. And once I reached home I could make myself a poultice of garlic and olive oil for swelling, and then a rub of frankincense and peppermint oils for the pain.

  Max and Ward helped me to the jeep. But after Ward said farewell and left to return to the house, Max remained standing at the side of the road with me, the driver’s-side door open.

  “I know there’s gotta be a good reason you’re at the home of the man you were falsely accused of murdering, covered in blood, at the same time a burglary was reported at the house.”

  “You heard about the stolen painting? And I’m not covered in blood. I came to apologize. It went horribly wrong.”

  “I can see that.”

  I hesitated before saying more. I didn’t know how sensitive the speaker system at the gate was. I had to tell Max about the ergot I’d smelled in the studio, but not here.

  “Why aren’t you walking to your car?” I asked him. “I’m getting soaking wet. Again.” The rain had let up, but it was still sprinkling.

  “Your friend Tobias, is he staying with you?”

  “For a little while, yeah. I thought you two had bonded. You’re not jealous, are you?” I joked. Tobias was a handsome guy, but no. After what we’d been through together, he was like a little brother to me.

  But Max didn’t laugh. “I know more about him now. About his … proclivities.”

  “Proclivities? What’s that supposed to mean? That he likes the spiciest food of anyone you’ll ever meet—”