by Gigi Pandian
“Hey Zoe,” Ethan said, heaving an even heavier backpack onto the coffee table. “Good to met you, Tobias.”
Ethan was the newest addition to Brixton’s group of friends, his parents having moved to Portland a little over a year ago, before his freshman year of high school. He used to dress as though trying to emulate James Dean, with jeans and a white T-shirt and black leather jacket. This fall he’d switched to a Victorian style and wore a long black coat that fell below his knees.
“I really appreciate you bringing the books,” I said. “Please help yourself to snacks before you go.”
“We can stay and help,” Veronica said.
“That’s generous,” Tobias said, “but Zoe and I have got it covered.”
“Really, we’d like to help,” Ethan said. “Brixton told us about this crazy idea of your stepdad’s.”
Brixton raised his eyebrows at me in a theatrical manner. He was trying to convey something, but what that something was, I had no idea. He’d said he would tell his friends a cover story similar to the one I’d already told to Cleo: that my stepdad had once owned a similar painting, so it would mean a lot to me to see it again. It was as close to the truth as we could get. So what was “this crazy idea”?
“I know Brix wasn’t supposed to tell us, Ms. Faust,” Veronica said, “but we didn’t understand the urgency until he did. I was going to study this afternoon, but then he told us what we’d be looking for.”
“What you’d be looking for?” I repeated.
“The clues,” Veronica said. “The clues to the treasure.”
Brixton coughed. His wavy black hair fell over his eyes and he looked away.
“Don’t worry,” Ethan said. “We know it’s confidential. That your stepdad had a theory about clues to a treasure being hidden in this Alchemist painting.”
“It’s so romantic,” Veronica said as the boys helped themselves to apple-stuffed pastries. “A secret message in a missing centuries-old painting…”
I smiled at her. She was at an age where she thought everything was romantic. When she’d learned about my French friend who didn’t like to be seen because of his deformity, she began to see him as a tragic figure from literature, which was of course very romantic.
“Looks like you should get some of the apple fritters before Brixton and Ethan have devoured them,” I said to her. “And Brixton—you forgot one of your gardening responsibilities. Come outside with me for a minute.”
“Shouldn’t you stay inside with your injured leg?” Brixton asked.
“You can help support me.”
Ethan clicked his tongue at his friend as Brixton helped me through the kitchen and into the backyard.
“What on earth—?” I began once we’d reached the back porch.
“Veronica was going to do homework instead of coming to the library,” Brixton said, “and Ethan wanted to watch a movie. Anyway, it was the only way I could convince them to help.”
“By telling them there’s a clue to a treasure?”
Brixton rolled his eyes. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re looking for Nicolas, and there’s a clue to where he is inside that painting. You know, you’ve got a total mom-look on your face right now. What? It’s a good idea, Zoe.” He paused and grinned. “Now Ethan feels like he’s in this classic ’80s movie Max recommended to us. Admit it, you and Tobias couldn’t read all those books as quickly without us. If you want to find your mentor, you need our help.”
I resisted the impulse to tousle his hair.
Back inside, Brixton and Ethan spread books out at the dining table with Tobias, and Veronica sat on the floor in front of where I was sitting with my foot up on the couch.
“We’re looking for a painting called The Alchemist, which you might find by name in an index, or look at the images in the books to see if you spot a portrait of a man in the foreground and shelves with small glass bottles behind him.”
“Do you know what the clue looks like, Ms. Faust?” Veronica asked.
“If Zoe could tell us that,” Ethan said, “it wouldn’t be a clue, right?”
“It’s a great question, Veronica,” I said. “Philippe Hayden liked visual codes.” I flipped through one of the art books and showed her a full-page photo of a narrow bottle that had words on it that were visible only when it was viewed nearly flat.
“That’s so cool.” She took the book and grinned. “I think I saw something like this at a science museum exhibit.”
“Why aren’t there any photos of Philippe Hayden in these books on him?” Brixton asked, flipping through an art history book on Renaissance artists.
“Um, because there were no cameras then,” Ethan said.
Brixton rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant. There are no portraits of Philippe.”
“I’m not sure how famous he was during his lifetime,” I said. “So he might not have had a formal portrait done of himself, and any self-portraits he did might have been lost to history. Lots of artists didn’t become famous until they were long dead. Like Van Gogh.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
For half an hour, we read in silence. The hardback coffee-table books and dog-eared art history paperback textbooks were filled with memorable paintings that drew the viewer in, even as small reproductions. How many brilliant artists hadn’t been discovered or had their masterpieces remembered after their deaths? Given that some unattributed works of art made their way into books, I was hoping that this would be the case with Philippe Hayden masterpieces that hadn’t been attributed to him. After all, someone had believed The Alchemist was worth saving, even though it hadn’t been attributed to Hayden. It had to be represented here somewhere.
Veronica was the first one to move. At first I thought she was taking a stretch break, but she placed two books side by side on the coffee table.
“This is a strange type of optical illusion,” she said. “I know this painting isn’t the one you’re looking for, but this Hayden painting called Roses with Bees is photographed in this book and described in the other. But the descriptions don’t match. In the really old book, the one that has just a description, it says there’s a stack of gold on the table next to the flowers.”
“A clue to the treasure?” Ethan said. “A code meaning the boring painting of flowers leads to a hoard of gold even though there’s no gold in the painting?” He picked up the book with the description.
“Or an optical illusion,” I said, taking the book with the photograph. “Maybe we can only see the gold from a certain angle.” I looked more carefully at the painting, tilting the book again. The perspective didn’t reveal anything. I shook my head.
Roses with Bees didn’t look like one of Hayden’s alchemical paintings. The only thing related to alchemy was the bees, which were symbolic in alchemical art—especially in backward alchemy. After the year I’d had, I hated bees. Bees had been drawn to the backward alchemy book that had initially brought Dorian to life. As the book had aged, it had aged backward, emanating the sweet scents of honey and cloves instead of the putrid smells of mold and decay.
The book itself changed through alchemy … I looked more closely at the Roses with Bees painting. There was no hidden perspective, but there was an imperfection where the stack of gold should have been.
“Good catch, Veronica,” Tobias was saying.
Her stomach grumbled and she blushed. “I guess scholarly work makes me hungry. Are there more chocolate chip and pumpkin muffins?”
I slammed the book shut so hard that Veronica and Ethan both jumped. Brixton scowled at me. I couldn’t have seen what I thought I saw, could I?
“Tobias can pack up some muffins for all of you,” I said. “You’ve done more than enough for today. I didn’t realize how late it was. This isn’t the painting we’re after, but these books are a great start.”
&nb
sp; Everyone stared at me but complied.
“Why’d you want to get rid of them?” Tobias asked after sending the confused kids home with their backpacks filled with food and locking the door.
“Get Dorian.”
“I am coming!” the French voice called from above. A moment later he appeared on the stairs. “Did you save me any food?”
“We sent you to the attic with enough food for two,” Tobias said.
“I was bored and lonely,” the gargoyle said. “But I believe Zoe is unwell. Look at her. Does she have an illness? You studied les médicines, you can diagnose her. She is too pale, even for her usual palor.” He turned to me. “Mon amie, can you hear me?”
“The gold,” I whispered. My voice shook. “Don’t you see? The gold!”
“Zoe cannot make gold,” Dorian said to Tobias, his horns scrunched with concern. “She is hallucinating.”
“I’m not hallucinating,” I said. “There was once a stack of gold in this painting, Roses with Bees, but now it’s gone.”
“You spotted another forgery?” Tobias asked.
“No,” I said. “Something worse. The Alchemist doesn’t contain a clue to where Nicolas is being imprisoned. He was trying to tell me he’s imprisoned inside the painting.”
twenty-seven
1597, Prague, Bohemia
Philippe licked the edge of a thin-tipped squirrel-hair brush and began painting a stack of gold coins onto the sunlit side table in the painting of the alchemy lab. The narrow bristles were needed to paint the delicate lines for the perspective shift that served as a second layer of the painting.
No, this painting was lacking depth.
It was difficult to focus after Edward’s visit. Although Edward had explained to the Emperor that he’d been mistaken about Philippe’s ability to produce gold in public, now Philippe was forced to not only produce more gold in private, but to tutor the charlatan Edward Kelley in true alchemy! He did not wish to hide the secrets of alchemy from anyone worthy, but Edward was not worthy. The saving grace was that unworthy people did not come easily to alchemy. Edward would have to work harder than he ever had in his ill-spirited life.
Philippe smiled at the thought and returned to the painting. It was not the best idea to work while in a foul mood and without the right planetary alignments, but after Edward’s coercion, time was short. One had to act now.
With focused pure intent, a fresh brush was dipped into the gold leaf and gum, and then Philippe looked at the gold nuggets on the table, carefully replicating the image. Lost in the work, the painter paid no attention to the passing of time. Hours passed, or perhaps an entire day.
Thirsty, with a rumbling stomach, and exhausted nearly to the point of collapse, Philippe set down the paintbrush and picked up a cup of water with shaking hands, nearly knocking over the small table with the pile of gold. Or rather, the table that once held gold.
The painter blinked. Was this a hallucination from fatigue? No. It was real. This was truly happening. The pieces of true gold had been transformed from their place on the table—into the image in the painting.
After many years’ work in alchemy labs and artist workshops, Philippe had theorized that this was possible but hadn’t truly believed it would work. Not until coming to Prague Castle, with the energy of creativity and alchemy all around. How many years had it been, wondering if such a transformation was feasible? And here it was!
Philippe dropped the clay cup of water. It shattered into dull gray shards that scattered across the floor as the artist ran a shaking hand through short curly hair, now standing on end as if it had been struck by lightning. A great silence descended over the room, as if the whole world had ceased in both motion and the passage of time. This was a discovery of a new form of alchemy—one that combined it with art.
Alchemical Painting.
twenty-eight
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong,” I said. I tried to stand, but my ankle wasn’t having it. Tobias helped ease me back down onto the sofa.
“Mon Dieu.” Dorian flapped his wings, knocking over a pile of books. But he didn’t seem to notice. “Monsieur Flamel is trapped inside the painting. This is terrible. Terrible! I cannot bear the thought.” He tucked his wings around his body.
“It’s all right, Dorian,” Tobias said in a soothing voice. “If that’s what’s happened to him, we’ll find him and figure out how to get him out.”
Dorian’s lower lip quivered. “But he has been trapped in the painting for centuries. All those years … ” He rocked back and forth.
“Uh, Zoe,” Tobias said softly. “Does he do this sometimes?”
“Dorian,” I said, standing with all my weight on my right leg and putting my hands on the gargoyle’s shoulders. “Your situation wasn’t the same. You were reverting to stone but still wide awake. We don’t know that’s what’s happened to Nicolas.” I hoped my voice conveyed a confidence I didn’t feel.
Dorian looked up at me with his watery black eyes. “I could not bear it for a good man to suffer such a fate.”
“We don’t know what it’s like to be trapped in a painting.”
“Or,” Tobias cut in, “if that’s where he is at all.”
“I don’t know. But if you’d seen that painting. The way he looked at me … it was like he saw me.” I shivered. “I thought at the time it was just the skill of a talented artist. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me before that he was inside the painting.”
“Because he might not be,” Tobias said. “It’s a nice theory, but it’s just that: a theory.”
“It was him, Tobias.” I could barely contain my excitement, and I felt my voice shaking as I spoke. “As someone who practices both spiritual and physical alchemy, you know better than anyone how alchemy is about transformation. Philippe Hayden painted alchemical secrets into artwork. Real alchemy, not like most artistic representations of alchemy. Don’t you see? He was an alchemist. One more skilled than us. Philippe Hayden figured out how to use his intent and alchemical ingredients to move objects like gold into paintings.”
“And then people,” Tobias murmured. “Sounds dangerous.”
I gasped. “I wonder if Philippe Hayden was the person Nicolas wanted help fighting, if he was the one who trapped Nicolas into one of his own paintings.”
“Monsieur Hayden was not a backward alchemist,” Dorian said. He seemed to have snapped out of his catatonic state. “Those were stupid, stupid men. They could never have painted a masterpiece.”
“Nicolas was always fearful of losing his humanity as he grew older,” I said. “It was something he warned me of. ” I groaned. “If Philippe Hayden was an alchemist who lived for centuries, that would explain why the experts disagree about which of his works are real. Because they don’t know that Hayden was painting for hundreds of years.”
“Zoe,” Tobias said quietly, “if this Philippe Hayden is an alchemist, and a brilliant artist who knows how to trap people in paintings, he’d be a dangerous, dangerous man.”
“I know.”
Tobias spoke slowly, and so softly I could barely hear him. “Do we know for sure that Logan Magnus is dead?”
Dorian clicked his tongue. “Yes, yes, this is all very dramatic and you two should cowrite a Gothic novel that will make lots of money so you can buy me many truffles and other delicacies. But this does not work in reality. The police have a body. They know he died of poison.”
“And Logan Magnus grew up in the public eye because of his artist father,” I said. “There are lots of photos of him growing up.”
“That’s what I always thought,” I said. “But what if he switched identities with Logan Magnus because they looked so much alike? Even without plastic surgery, Hayden could have altered his appearance with tricks that play on what people expect, the way stage magicians do. And the man who died could have been the real son.”
But I knew I was grasping at straws.
“A trick that fooled all his family and friends?” Tobias said.
“Logan was an only child,” I said, “and his father died a long time ago.” Dorian looked as if he was about to suffer an apoplexy, so I quickly continued. “I know, I know. I don’t believe it either. I don’t think Logan Magnus is Philippe Hayden. There’s too much we don’t know. I keep coming back to the fact that Nicolas wanted my help with something. He wanted me to stop someone. Was it Philippe Hayden?”
Dorian scampered to the kitchen and came back with the translated note we’d deciphered.
“I might not survive,” he read, “but if I do, I will be imprisoned … I am not afraid to die. But I fear for the world if I do not complete this important task. I must prevent … You must … stop them … You will find … in the Philippe Hayden painting.”
“‘Them,’” I repeated, “What were ‘they’ doing that Nicolas thought needed to be stopped? Oh no … ”
“What are you pondering?” Dorian asked. “Tobias, I believe our friend might be in need of smelling salts.”
“I’m not swooning,” I snapped. “We’ve been forgetting Perenelle. But Philippe Hayden and Perenelle Flamel together … Two people make a ‘them.’” My heart was racing so fast I could barely breathe. I shook my head. “No, I can’t believe Perenelle would hurt Nicolas.”
“And I can’t believe,” Tobias added, “that the great Nick Flamel would say he fears for the world because of an affair his wife is having. That’s beyond overdramatic. I don’t buy it.”
“She loved Nicolas way too much to have an affair. I don’t think that was her relationship with Philippe. But what if she was advising Philippe to do something dangerous with his art? Or helping him herself.”
“Such as teaching alchemy to a painter,” Dorian said.
“Perenelle loved art. While Nicolas would write the steps of alchemical processes, Perenelle preferred to sketch them. She never learned to paint, but with her interest in art … ”
