Alchemy of Glass

by Barbara Barnett

  An idea. A test of sorts, but a risk. He needed to ride to the Borders, yet how could leave the shop—the only medical care in the district—shuttered for nearly a week? Perhaps if she would disguise herself. “Dress as a boy. Your hair—”

  “Shorn. I have thought of it already.”

  Then there were the consequences to be paid should she be discovered—by Tremayne. By Bell. By anybody at all. If she should be unmasked, it would ruin them both. It was madness to attempt the ruse. But what choice had he? He had to risk it.

  She had been a clever, quick, and kind assistant these past days, untroubled by hard labor; tending to the ill—even as she, herself, recovered her health. “My lady, what do you know of nursing?”

  “I’ve a keen interest in the sciences and I would do whatever you asked of me.”

  “I cannot afford to keep you, and certainly not as you have been accustomed.”

  “You need pay me nothing but place a roof over my head and provide me food enough to keep me modestly nourished.”

  Gaelan blanched. Had she any idea of the danger . . . ? “I cannot keep you here indefinitely; this you must know. It would be at best unseemly, and at worst . . . I cannot fathom what your residing under my roof would do to your—”

  “My what? My reputation? Again, you enquire of that? Indeed, it is far too late for me to be considering that, of all things.”

  “Let us not talk of it again today . . .” He paused, considering the ride ahead. “I tell you what. I must away for several days. I would be most grateful should you mind the shop for me.”

  Caitrin pursed her lips into a tight line, nodding gravely. “I see . . . . Of course . . . I mean . . . My hair. I should chop it off now?”

  The breathy glee in her voice suggested she was ignorant of the hazards that lay ahead on the road about to be traveled. “Yes. Immediately, as I must be off, and very soon. Cover it with a lad’s cap. Breeches and a blouse. A leather apron will do to . . . mask your rather . . .” Gaelan watched the blush redden her countenance. “I mean to say—”

  “No matter. You are quite right. And so I shall . . . disguise myself.”

  He mulled other options. Gaelan was not an impulsive man, and this was the very definition of impulsivity. He could ask Mrs. Mills, but she’d enough to worry about at the Owl, nursing the sick. He would make certain Mrs. Mills and Caitrin had plenty of the elixirs on hand to distribute amongst the ailing. Enough for a week. Enough at least to forestall death until his return.

  Gaelan wrote out instructions, which products were for which conditions, how to tend the elixirs brewing in the laboratory, and whom to contact in the case of an emergency—the apothecary in Regents Park, a good, capable man and a former apprentice of his, who would do, if needed, anything for Gaelan.

  “I shall return quick as I might. The roads should be good, given the weather, and I shall hire the swiftest steed in the stables. Not rest a moment until I return. When this is all past, I shall teach you glass-making—if you are, by then, not bored, or weary of an apprentice’s life. Do you understand what I am asking of you? For the next week?”

  Caitrin nodded tightly. “I do, and I shall do all in my power to serve you ably these days. It is not past my understanding what you are entrusting to me.”

  The book. “And, my lady . . . or should I say . . . my boy . . . take from my bookshelf any that might amuse you when not at work in the shop—but for that unusual volume you so admired the other day. I have replaced it in a secure location. So please do not search for it.”

  “Of course not. As you said the other day—” She had about her that hurt look again.

  “I do not mean to—”

  “It is of no matter. Now fly! And be back safely soon as you might!”

  Protected as Dernwode House had been, hidden away in the hills, barely visible to passersby, the monastery now was but a ruin. A broken building here, a piece of stone archway there, remnant statues, fragments strewn about a gone-to-seed field good only for pastureland.

  Gaelan had little time for wistful remembrance. He had been exhausted even before three days’ ride with little respite. Now he was completely spent. He’d changed horses twice, paying the stablemen a tidy sum for their speediest steeds. And now he would return, hoping for clear weather and better horses that would carry him back to London in time. Before too many more lay dead in their homes.

  Gaelan well knew how to locate Dernwode’s hidden gardens even among the ruins. The stones, embedded deep in the clay, overgrown by tall grasses, formed a spiral, indelible centuries later.

  Removing large leather pouches from the horse’s saddle, he gathered quantities of each herb, removing entire plants of each variety to cultivate in his laboratory. The ingredient he needed for the sudor anglicus treatment was grown indoors, in the damp dark of the cellarium.

  Carefully, Gaelan descended the steep stone stairs. He pictured the strange plant, its odd flowers, twisted and pale, as if seeking sunlight that did not exist below ground. He’d never in all his days seen anything of its like.

  He plucked the small patch bare, surprised the strange plant had not overtaken the entire stone stairway. He placed everything carefully in his bag and climbed through the mustiness of the stairway, and into the light.

  A skin of water and he would be ready to return to London. He wandered the edges of the garden. Despite his haste, Gaelan could not help but to take a moment to take in the place he’d called his home for years so long ago. Even now, hundreds of years hence, he saw them, but only in his mind’s eye. His tutors, magicians with glass and chemicals, medicines and the strange alchemy of healing. His family when he’d had none other.

  A last look around; he would not return to Dernwode again. Within the silence of this singular place, as much graveyard as garden, Gaelan could hear the hum of the Quhawme Brethren, their constant debate echoing through more than two centuries; the passion of their learning, their teaching, the sparkle in their eyes upon a new discovery within the secrecy of the hidden buildings, now all gone.

  He did not notice the tears until he stood again; his hands were wetted with them. A final pang threaded through his chest before he mounted and rode hard back to London.

  The hour was late by the time Gaelan arrived in Smithfield. The street was empty as he dismounted and returned the horse to the stables. His stomach clenched as he considered what he might find as he opened the apothecary door.

  “Mr. Erceldoune. Welcome home.”

  Tremayne. Gaelan would know the slick, silky voice even in the dark. The strike of flint and Gaelan’s office was flooded with candle light. Lyle Tremayne had made himself comfortable in Gaelan’s chair, as if in wait for an unsuspecting prey. Caitrin! Was that why he was here? Had he . . . ?

  “Mr. Tremayne.” Gaelan stilled his hands, trembling both from the fear that ill had befallen Caitrin and from the anger at Tremayne’s intrusion into his private domain. “How . . . ? Did my new apprentice let you in, and freely? I’d given no instruction . . . I shall have his head and send him back swiftly to—”

  “Now, now . . . Let us not be so hasty. I’ve barely met . . . him. Carter, is it? No, I quite let myself in, wondering where you’d got off to . . . after your grand success here in Smithfield. The residents hereabouts think you to be some sort of grand savior, sent by God himself to deliver them from the plague whilst the rest of London perishes. Some of them, anyway . . . And I got to wondering how you managed it when the greatest minds in London are baffled still.”

  There were many more dead than living, and whatever success he might have had was minimal. Perhaps the elixirs worked better than he thought they would. “How did you get in here?”

  “Oh, me? No magician, me. No, sir. I owned this building—the entire corner in fact, until I sold it to you.” Tremayne produced a key, setting it on Gaelan’s desk.

  “You?” That was a surprise. He thought he’d purchased the property from the apothecary who’d served Smithfield before him. �
�And yet you retain the keys? Hardly seems fair, eh?”

  Tremayne shrugged. “Never know when a set of keys comes in handy. Who knows if you might fall into trouble? Be locked in with . . . no way to get out.”

  There was raw threat in Tremayne’s tone—and his words. He would hire a locksmith first thing, change every lock, and install bolts. Gaelan did not much fancy the notion of Tremayne poking about in his work.

  Tremayne laughed, slapping his hands on his thighs. “You don’t think I’d tell you I had the key if I didn’t intend to give it back. I’m no fool, and I think you know that. No. It is in thanks for what you’ve done these past days. For my Betts. A good girl. Like you’d sprinkled some sort of fairy dust. Some would call it magic—if you believe in such things.”

  A chill snaked its way up Gaelan’s spine. “Do you?” Gaelan could hear the hesitation in his own voice. What was Tremayne up to?

  Tremayne moved to Gaelan’s bookshelves, taking the candlestick with him. “Quite an odd assortment. Old books. What good are they to a supposed man of medicine? Alchemy, perchance? Ah, you see? I knew it! Magic—a sorcerer’s receipt! Are they for sale?”

  “No . . . no. Nothing like that, I assure you. Just the writings of ages past—men of science, not purveyors of magical cures.”

  “Well, Mr. Erceldoune, I shall be on my way. On behalf of us all—as the civic leader of your new home in London.” He placed a key tied to a leather band on the counter and left. “And that Carter fellow—your apprentice—quite a young one. A pretty boy, methinks. The girls’ll swoon, and he’ll make you rich for all the young ladies he brings to your shop. Pretty indeed. For a boy.”

  Gaelan pondered the ruffian; he fancied himself royalty of Smith-field, able to designate friend and foe with the drop of a word, or a pilfered key. Undoubtedly there were copies of the keys to all the rooms and doors of the apothecary. Yes. The locksmith at first light.

  In the street and here, this night, Tremayne seemed nearly gracious—kind, even. But he wore a veil of chaos that foretold nothing but grief and trouble. Gaelan had more secrets locked in the apothecary than he wished to share—with anyone, much less Tremayne. And Tremayne suspected . . . something; Gaelan was certain of it.

  There had not been another moment to tarry, and despite the lack of sleep, Gaelan set to work immediately. Caitrin was asleep on the settee in the flat, dressed in breeches and wearing the leather apron, and he debated whether to awaken her and be updated on the disease, how she’d fared running the shop these past days. She looked too peaceful to disturb.

  Gaelan kindled the blue-white phosphorus light globes all about the laboratory, dreading the task of cleaning dozens of glass implements and vessels. But the counters were pristine, polished to a deep shine. The glassware was just as he’d left it, but cleaned to a sparkle, as if was the fairy folk had enchanted the place, knowing the night ahead would be a horror. He knew better. The only fairy princess to grace the third floor had been Caitrin.

  Clever girl. A sketch of the distillation setup sat upon the counter, a perfect drawing of every tube, every flask and cylinder in its correct place. She would have drawn it before dismantling it to clean. Brilliant! He would thank her on the morrow.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he set to work, and by morning’s first light Gaelan had distilled enough of the medicine to treat the entire district if need be. The glass tube of a second injecting device cooled on the counter along with its metal housing and fine syringe. He would be ready—for anything. And once all was settled in Smith-field, he would be well situated to offer his services in other sections of London.

  “You’ve returned. Welcome home, Mr. Erceldoune.”

  “Caitrin!” She’d taken him by surprise. He had so much to say to her, yet her presence left him suddenly bereft of speech. “I . . . you . . . brilliant . . . .” He could only gesture, but the act fell short, he knew, for the benches had once again given way to entropy, but for the small neatly labeled bottles of medicine.

  “I will set to clean it immediately, sir. I trust you found things in proper order upon your return?”

  “That I did, and had you not the great good sense to . . . I am indebted to you, my lady.” He bowed deeply. “Do not trouble yourself with the laboratory just yet. Please, return to the flat and dress for the day . . . as my apprentice. There is time later to see to the cleaning. I will put up the kettle in the shop. Join me when you are ready. I wish to hear of the past six days. But first . . . anything urgent I must attend to?”

  “Only that a note from Dr. Bell . . . from Simon . . . was delivered just yesterday by messenger. He will visit this morning. Ten o’clock, the letter said. I feared that I would have to either meet him . . . or decline. I am very glad you are home to greet him yourself. I do not know what I should have done had he—”

  “And what of Tremayne. Has he come round? Has he—?”

  “I have seen him lurking about outside, at least I assume it was him. For few others would fit the description you gave me. He chills me to the base of my spine.”

  “He is of little matter. Much pretense, even more bombast. Yes, he might do the both of us both great harm, and we are better for staying clear of him best we can.”

  Caitrin smiled, crinkling her eyes at the corners.

  “What is it so amuses you, especially regards Mr. Lyle Tremayne?”

  “It is not that, Mr. Erceldoune, but your use of ‘we’ that lightens my spirit. Will you accept me, then, as your apprentice?”

  It was not intended. Yes, she was good, and yes, she would make an able, smart assistant. Perhaps a partner at some juncture. Yet there were far too many obstacles. Too many . . . considerations. No. It could not be, for all he wished it might.

  “Go. Dress. We shall talk after I am assured that all is well in Smithfield. Perhaps this very night.”

  CHICAGO, THE FUTURE, TIME INDETERMINATE

  CHAPTER 36

  In the distance, up on a high ridge, the forest swayed. Gaelan listened, the contours of Navy Pier in his head. A familiar rhythm. They were up against the lake. Context.

  A woman sat herself opposite him, drinking tea from a dainty, enameled bone cup.

  “Who are you?”

  “I heard you’d returned to us. Fine. I’ll get right to the point. To some, I am known as Airmid, but it was a long time ago, by your timekeeping. Mostly here, I’m called Arie. I find it a bit pretentious to live the legend, don’t you think? Let’s sit and chat a bit. My office will do.”

  She set down the cup and ushered Gaelan through a small stand of lacy willow trees, their branches fringed with long velvety leaves. They came to an area behind an arched curtain of glass beads to a silvered table and delicate chairs. “This is my home. And my office. Have a seat.”

  Airmid. Airmid?

  A million questions spun through Gaelan’s brain, but his voice was caught, knotted in his throat. Airmid?

  He had begun to accept the reality of his situation, its possibility. But this? Airmid. Creator of his ouroboros book—the source of anguish and wonder for him and all those in his family who’d come before him. Hundreds of years. In fucking Chicago? In the fucking future? The left side of his brain screamed in protest, muffled by the glittering labyrinthine spider’s web suffocating all logical thought.

  He tried to push through it. Focus. Something mundane. Ordinary. The chairs would do. From a distance, they’d appeared uniquely beautiful. They shimmered in the diffuse greenish light filtered through the dense stand of trees. Ah, but the reality was different, the effect created by the lighting. An illusion of beauty. The chairs, like the table, were chipped and repaired with silver duct tape. The glass beads, tiny shards of fractured bottles: cobalt, amber, red, green, clear. More illusion.

  She was not Airmid, not that Airmid, of whom Gaelan had dreamed for centuries. Whose song had kept him sane in his darkest hours at Bedlam, her voice a lullaby. A comforting presence when it was the last thing he wanted. An illusion. One he had to
break through.

  Finally, he spoke. “You are keeping me from my task.”

  “Your curiosity is keeping you from your task, I think. Which is what, Mr. Erceldoune? To complete your suicide pact with Simon Bell?”

  She could not know about Simon. About the poison . . . The pendulum swung the other way as logic fought back, fiercely battling his acceptance of this altered reality. The figment of a shattered psyche. “What else do you know about me?”

  “More than you might think. You are quite the . . . Quite famous. Your turn. Tell me what you want to know. About . . . here? Out there. Anything.”

  Delusion or not, he was curious. She was right about that. “What is my role in this absurdist play?”

  She sighed. “Interesting. You’re not interested in what . . . happened . . . to Chicago? The world?”

  He lied, “Not really.”

  “Never pegged you as a narcissist, but then again . . . This more than about you. You’re a bit player with a decidedly considerable impact. Your story is yet to be fully told in this—as you put it—absurdist play. Nor ours. But our fate is tied up with yours, and I will explain, if only you will have patience. We have been waiting—and patiently—for quite some time. Decades. Hoping you would come. And I will do more than tell. I will show you.”

  The lush greenery, the impossibly beautiful streams. The manner in which they moved, lithe, graceful, almost like human butterflies, but with wings on their feet. Conan Doyle’s fairies. Folie à deux.

  “Go on. Start where you must.”

  “Power and hubris, always destructive in combination, even when arisen from the best of intentions. And with the sort of dominion over life and death we possessed, there could have been only one possible ending. Catastrophe. Which we aim . . . hope . . . pray . . . to . . . reverse. That is—”