by Gigi Pandian
As soon as I walked into the house, I smelled the intermingled scents of sweet and savory but couldn’t place the fragrances. The kitchen was empty, and a note from Dorian was on the counter. The gargoyle wrote that he and Tobias had eaten all the stuffed sweet potatoes and blackberry papillote, but he’d made me a small jackfruit and mushroom pizza that he’d left in the oven so I could reheat it for a late lunch. He knew me well. I have a tendency to single-mindedly focus on what I’m working on—a blessing and a curse for an alchemist—so I sometimes forgot to eat. But Dorian’s note had no trace of admonition.
I peeked into the cool oven. The sweet scents of jackfruit meat and cashew cheese wafted out, cut with the sharp scent of red pepper. The crispy cornmeal crust looked delicious. I turned on the oven. While it heated, I stepped into the backyard garden. The cold rains of the week were making the arugula and mustard greens tougher, so I guessed Dorian would want to gently cook them instead of using them raw in a salad as I usually did. I picked some of the smaller arugula leaves to add to the pizza.
When I came back inside, Dorian was in the kitchen shaking his head. “If you reheat it at this low temperature, you will have a soggy pizza. Is that what you want?”
I gave the gargoyle a hug. “Don’t ever change, Dorian.”
He patted my shoulder with a wing. “Why so sentimental this afternoon? Has something else occurred?”
“Nothing. That’s the problem.”
“You are troubled.”
I studied the gargoyle as he peeked into the oven. “You’re uneasy as well.”
“Of course. Monsieur Freeman is behaving strangely—”
“Not you too. I trust Tobias completely. That’s not why I’m worried.”
“I will leave you to your pizza. It must cook for seven more minutes. I will be upstairs. I was reading an excellent Gothic novel.”
I watered the herbs in the kitchen’s window box planters while I waited for the pizza to finish crisping. I sat down at the dining table with a slice of steaming pizza, but before I could take a bite, fists banged on the door.
I hadn’t been expecting Brixton, but glancing out the window on the way to the door, I saw his bike lying askew in the driveway. He’d been working weekends at the teashop but still coming over to my house two afternoons a week to learn about gardening. Had I lost track of days?
I opened the door and Brixton blew past me. “He in the attic?” he asked, already halfway up the stairs. “Dorian!”
“What did he do?” My ankle protested as I tried to follow him up the stairs. I winced and sat down on the step.
Brixton turned back and helped me up. “He roped Veronica into helping him do research—”
“That was my fault,” I said. “Checking out those library books was my idea, but it’s harmless.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Art history library research is cool. But now? He’s having her track down antique alchemy books kept in Europe. He’s looking for that backward alchemy book that brought him to life—the one that almost got me killed.”
My hands tightened around the bannister. “He wouldn’t … ”
Anger shone in Brixton’s eyes. “He did.”
“Dorian!” It was my turn to yell. I limped up the stairs and called his name again. “What’s this about the book—”
Dorian flung open the small attic door and looked down at us from the steep second set of steps leading to the attic. “I have not defaced more library books. I admit, it was not solely my own willpower that prevented it from occurring, as you have also not brought me more books, but I would like to think I would have the fortitude—”
“Dorian,” I snapped, “you asked Veronica to help you find your backward alchemy book.” I groaned. I should have known he was up to something when he’d subscribed to so many newspapers from across Europe. If he’d just been homesick, he would have simply continued the subscription to Le Monde he’d begun earlier in the year.
“How could you tell her you exist?” Brixton said. “You were the one who made me swear not to tell anyone. And now she says she’s working with you—”
“If you two would calm yourselves,” Dorian said, “I will explain everything.” He beckoned us into the attic.
I took the steps carefully, which was probably for the best so I didn’t rush into strangling the gargoyle.
“Veronica,” Dorian said once we were in the attic, “has always wished to meet Zoe’s ‘French friend’ who is shy because of his deformity. She feels bad that only Brixton has met me. I called and asked for her help to track down a special alchemy book I wished to find for Zoe for Christmas.”
“But that book and the guys who stole it are dangerous,” Brixton said. His cheeks flushed. “If they find out she’s helping look for the book … ” He swallowed hard. “Veronica will be in danger.” His hands balled into fists.
Dorian’s black eyes grew wide. “There is no danger. She is behind a computer.”
“Are you stupid?” Brixton screamed. “Is this because you’re not human? Someone who cares about their friends and knew anything about the world would never—”
“Brix,” I said, “how about we go out into the garden. I want to show you something.”
He shrugged off my hand and rolled his eyes. “I’m not eight years old. I’m not taking a time-out.”
“I’m older than your great-great-grandparents, and I still take time in nature to collect my thoughts. I need to step outside for a few minutes too. It’s the only way we’ll think clearly, not in anger.”
“Whatever.”
“Go out back and I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” I watched him stomp down the stairs, wondering if he’d be waiting for me in the backyard or not.
“I believe,” Dorian said, “young Brixton is in love with his best friend.”
“You might be right, but his worry is justified nonetheless. You know they’re dangerous, Dorian.”
Dorian scowled at me. “Alchemists! First you say it is not necessary to find the book as it is not dangerous, then you say it is so dangerous we cannot enlist the help of children.”
“It’s not the book that’s dangerous. It’s those who have it. That’s why we should leave it alone. They can’t do any damage.” I hoped. “But if they think someone is looking for them … ”
“D’accord. You may have a point.”
The phone rang. I’d plugged an antique black candlestick phone into a new jack in the attic so that Dorian could telephone without leaving the room. I picked it up, along with the separate earpiece receiver that fit in the palm of my hand.
“I’m trying to track down Mr. Freeman,” Detective Vega said. I could hear the hum of the station behind her. That was a good sign. She wasn’t at the front door.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Just some follow-up questions.”
“He’s not here right now, but I can give you his cell number.”
“We have it,” she said, frustration evident in her voice. “He’s not answering. Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up.” A pause, but she didn’t hang up. “Zoe?”
The sound of concern in her voice threw me. “I’m still here.”
Dorian gave me a quizzical look and came to stand beside me to hear.
“It’s just … ” Detective Vega’s voice softened. “Be careful. Your friend Tobias … He might not be the man you think he is.”
I gripped the receiver. If she was still concerned about Tobias’s sketchy past, she might stay focused on him instead of looking for the true culprit. “He and I go way back. I know he can be eccentric—”
“Tobias Freeman arrived in Portland before he told you he did,” the detective said. “Before that morning he was arrested at your house. We’ve confirmed it now. He was here two weeks ago—at the time Logan Magnus was killed.”
; forty
“You must be mistaken,” I said.
Dorian gaped at me, watching as I gripped the phone.
“I’m not, Zoe,” the detective said. “Watch your back, okay?”
“If you’re honestly worried that my dear friend might have killed Logan Magnus,” I said, “shouldn’t I know what I’m up against? You really think Tobias is … what? A serial killer?”
A long sigh came across the phone line. “No. Not a serial killer. A copycat.”
“Of what? I keep up with the news and haven’t seen anything similar for him to copy.” Since Dorian now subscribed to several newspapers from across the world, I read those too. “I haven’t seen anything about people dying from ingesting toxic paint. Or is this one of those things where you need a mathematician to see random patterns—”
“Not a mathematician. A historian. He’s copying crimes that began in the early 1600s.”
Before Tobias and I were born. Oh no … Not before Perenelle was.
“I’ve always been interested in solving crimes,” Detective Vega continued. “In college I double-majored in history and criminal justice. The parts of history that intrigued me most were the cases detectives never managed to solve. I remember one night at the library looking at old newspaper archives—this was before they were digitized to read from a smartphone—and making the connection that in different places and times in Europe, people died from swallowing large quantities of toxic paints. They never had any marks on their bodies from having fought back. Why not? It had to have been incredibly painful to swallow so much noxious paint. If someone wanted to kill themselves, there were plenty of easier ways. I don’t know how it was done … ”
“But you thought they’d all been murdered.”
“Don’t make me regret telling you my theory,” Detective Vega continued. “But I couldn’t in good conscience not. You might be in danger if Tobias Freeman is copying these crimes. I could tell from our conversation that he’s a history buff too. The guys at the station don’t believe me, but there’s something to this. I can feel it. Call me if you see Tobias Freeman again.”
I stood staring at the black lacquered phone before returning the earpiece to its cradle. Was Detective Vega lying to me about Tobias arriving in town two weeks earlier than he’d appeared to? The police lied to people to see what their deception would shake loose. She had to be doing that … Didn’t she?
“Dorian, do you know where Tobias went?”
The gargoyle glared at me, clearly still angry and thinking that Brixton and I had overreacted about his enlisting the help of teenagers to track down the backward alchemy book that had brought him to life. “You did not ask me to keep your friend captive.”
“He’s your friend too.”
“Unless he is a murderer.” Dorian crossed his arms and sniffed. “Then I will rescind my friendship.”
“Have a little faith. There’s got to be a mistake.”
I left the attic and went to Tobias’s room. I didn’t have to knock. The door was wide open. So was the closet. And it was empty. His clothes and his bag were gone.
Brixton and I worked in the garden in silence as I worried about Tobias and Brixton fumed about Dorian. Had Tobias lied to me? I had the strongest impression that the detective believed what she’d told me.
I reminded Brixton how much of a sprawling plant he should trim. The right amount of pruning would cause a plant to thrive, but too much and it would wither and die. In his anger, his snips were overly enthusiastic and he cut back more of the pea shoots than I would have liked, but they were hearty plants, plus it was good for his wellbeing so I let him hack away.
“How could Dorian betray me?” Brixton said finally, echoing my thoughts about Tobias.
“He didn’t mean to. He misjudged the situation. I don’t want you, Ethan, or Veronica anywhere near that book. I’ll have Dorian tell Veronica he found another perfect Christmas gift for me so she should stop searching.”
“Should we ask Max to have someone watch V’s house? I mean, what if someone tries to hurt her?”
As so often these days, I stifled the overwhelming urge to tousle his hair. “She’s not in danger, but I’ll keep an eye on her.”
We worked in the garden in companionable silence for the next hour, stopping as the sun dipped low in the sky. I drove Brixton home with his bike in the back of my truck.
“You don’t have to wait,” he called over his shoulder as he walked his bike up the driveway to the little house.
Of course I’ll wait, I thought to myself. Brixton headed to the garage to put away his bike. Keeping one hand on the handle bar, he knelt to lift the garage door. The sound of rusty hinges squealed as the cracked wooden door swung upward, revealing darkness inside. In the moonlight, I could make out the outlines of the bike falling onto the concrete driveway and heard Brixton cry out as he ran forward.
I jumped out of the car, wincing at the pain in my ankle but pushing forward.
Brixton hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, so I didn’t see what had happened until I was almost upon them. Brixton sat on his knees, cradling his mom in his arms. A trickle of blood ran down the side of Heather’s temple.
She wasn’t moving.
forty-one
I’m a healer who hates hospitals. My fate was sealed the moment I’d encountered a doctor during the plague outbreak that killed my brother. The unnerving visage of a beaked mask covering an anonymous doctor’s face did little to assure the sick or those of us who cared for the dying. The terrifying mask was worn as a precaution against disease, with the extended beak filled with straw mixed with rose petals, cloves, mint, and other herbs and fragrances thought to clean the miasma in the air.
Modern hospitals worked miracles compared to the fearful doctors who’d poked patients with sticks from afar, but my involuntary reaction of unease remained the same.
Brixton had ridden to the hospital with his mom in the ambulance. I’d followed in my truck. I was glad to have the space away from the teenager. I didn’t want him to see how worried I was. It wasn’t only the fact that his mom had been attacked—it was what I’d noticed before the ambulance arrived. Though a palette of fresh paint had fallen next to Heather, the easel in front of her was empty. The person who’d attacked her had stolen the painting she was working on. This attack was related to the Logan Magnus case.
It took me a while to find where at the hospital they’d taken Heather, but I knew I’d found the right place when I saw Detective Vega in the waiting room. I wasn’t the only one who’d seen the connection.
“Is Heather all right?” I asked her.
“She will be. What are you doing here?” the detective asked, looking at my grass-stained knees. I hadn’t changed after working in the garden with Brixton.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Her brown hair was down, and she was wearing an elegant red dress with three-inch heels.
“This isn’t a job with regular hours.” Detective Vega sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear, which sparkled with silver earrings in the shape of Celtic crosses. “Did the Taylor boy call you?”
I shook my head. “I was with him when we found her. Why did you get pulled out of your evening out? You think it’s related to Logan Magnus?”
“Or the art forger who got away. I’m getting notifications of local crimes related to art. Her son told the investigating officer her most recent painting was gone, and I remembered her name from the Magnus investigation. He owned one of her paintings.”
“Who was it that attacked her?”
“I haven’t been able to see Ms. Taylor yet. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on that.”
As I waited in the sterile waiting room, my nerves got the best of me. I imagined everyone was staring at me. It was only the fact that hospitals made me nervous, I knew, but I still didn’t like it.
&nbs
p; The sight of Brixton was a welcome one.
“Mom’s awake,” he said.
“I didn’t see him,” Heather was telling the detective when we got to her room. “I assume it was a guy. It was someone strong. I was working on my latest painting and all of a sudden a gloved hand was covering my mouth and nose. The smell of the cloth … I tried not to breathe, but I had to, you know?”
“This was a commissioned painting?” the detective asked casually.
“What?” Heather crinkled her nose. “No. I always paint what inspires me.”
“Never copies?”
Heather laughed. “Why would I do that?”
I couldn’t imagine that Heather had anything to do with the art forger, and it wasn’t only because I was biased on account of our friendship. I could see her optimistic naiveté leading to her being tricked, but I couldn’t imagine her creative spirit being confined to copying the style of another artist. Why had Heather been attacked and one of her paintings stolen?
While the detective finished questioning Heather, I went into the hallway and called Dorian, asking him to stay home until I returned. We’d developed a special pattern of rings so he’d know if he should answer the phone. Only Brixton and I knew the pattern. I didn’t tell Dorian what had happened or where I was, because I knew I’d never get him off the phone, but he agreed to wait—as long as I didn’t take too long.
Then I called Tobias. He picked up on the first ring.
“You were in Portland before Saturday morning.” I wasn’t asking a question.
“What?”
“You heard me. Detective Vega told me.”
Silence followed.
“Tobias?” I said softly, feeling a cold loneliness encase me. My oldest friend … “Did you lie to me about when you arrived?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does—”
“I was distraught after Rosa’s death. You can understand that, right? After the funeral, I needed to get out of Detroit. I hopped on a plane. To Portland.”
“But I’ve been in town this whole month.” The sterile light blue walls of the hospital felt like they were collapsing around me. “You never rang my doorbell.”
