“Methuselah?” I said, frowning. “I do not know the fellow.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Have you never read a Bible, Victor?”
“I can’t keep all the names straight.”
“Methuselah,” Elizabeth said, “lived a very, very long time.”
“How long?”
“Nine hundred and sixty-nine years,” Henry answered, still looking at the tome before him.
“Read on,” I said impatiently.
“‘And so,’” Henry continued, “‘after many years of failed attempts have I at last this Elixir of Life perfected, and herewith have transcribed it, in the manner of Paracelsus, for all the ages.’”
I lunged across the table and snatched the book from Henry. “Elixir of Life! This is just the thing we seek. Where is the recipe?”
I had the book before me now, my eyes trying to find the right place. I saw the Latin text, found the words “Vita Elixir,” but afterward came such a language that I had never set eyes upon.
“What is this?” I demanded, jabbing at the vellum page.
Henry stood and leaned over the tome. “If you hadn’t snatched it away, I might have had a better look. As it is, I do not know.”
“Elizabeth?” I said. “Can you make sense of this?”
She moved her stool closer. “It is not Aramaic,” she said. “Nor Sanskrit.”
It was a strange-looking thing, to be sure, all curves and angles and sudden flourishes. It went on for ten pages.
“Gibberish,” I muttered, and flipped ahead, trying to find some kind of glossary or key to its translation.
“You are too hasty, Victor,” said Elizabeth. “As always.”
She sounded just like Konrad then, and I shot her a resentful scowl.
“Go back,” she said. “Is there not a clue in what came before?”
“What do you mean?”
Carefully she turned back the pages. “Here. He wrote, ‘I have transcribed it in the manner of Paracelsus.’ What is Paracelsus?”
“Or who?” I said.
I was almost sure I’d seen that word on the spine of a book. I stood and hurried back to the shelves, my eyes scouring the bindings.
If not for the sharp shadow cast by my candle, I would have missed it, for the gold of the tooled letters had flaked away altogether, leaving only a series of indentations.
Paracelsus.
And then, farther down on the spine, again almost without color, the title in German, The Archidoxes of Magic.
“Paracelsus,” I said, dragging the volume from the shelf and giving it a triumphant shake above my head. Immediately I wished I hadn’t, for a shower of sooty fragments rained down upon me.
“Carefully, Victor!” Elizabeth said, rushing over and taking the book in her own hands. Sheepishly, I let her have it.
She carried it back to the table, and now I could see that this book had obviously been burned. A big triangular section of the cover was charred and crumbling.
“You think Agrippa’s strange letters were invented by Paracelsus?” I asked Elizabeth.
“Let us hope,” she said.
“Why would it be burned?” Henry asked.
“Father said it was all thought witchcraft,” I said. “No doubt it was gathered up by the Church or the townspeople and thrown into a bonfire.”
“But Wilhelm Frankenstein rescued it,” said Elizabeth.
“You Frankensteins are so enlightened,” said Henry with a nervous chuckle, and we glanced about, as though that long-dead person might still be here in the Dark Library with us, watching.
Very gently Elizabeth opened the cover. The frontispiece was a portrait of a man, but his features were hard to make out, for the page was half burned. Only a skeletal trace of his stout face remained. Either he was wearing a strange, angled hat, or his skull was of a most bizarre and deformed shape. His eyes, strangely, were still clear. They were shrewd and confiding, and seemed to be looking out at us, intensely.
I watched Elizabeth, and could see that the disturbing image had the same effect on her, for her lips trembled a bit.
“It’s like a man who’s been terribly burned, and only a ghost of his former self survives,” she whispered.
“It is Paracelsus, though, no question,” said Henry, pointing to the bottom of the portrait, where, like words painted upon a wooden sign, it read:
FAMOSO DOCTOR PARACELSVS
The doctor’s body had not been so damaged by the fire. With a shudder I saw that one of Paracelsus’s hands rested over the edge of his own portrait, his fingers curled over the top of the little sign bearing his name. It was just part of the painting, of course, but it made it seem like he could simply step out of the picture.
If he so wanted.
I swallowed back my unease.
“He was a German physician,” said Elizabeth, reading the tiny print beneath the portrait. “Also an astrologer and alchemist.”
I began, with great care, turning pages. It was an agonizing, heartbreaking business, for many of them had been fused together by the flames, and just the action of turning them tore them free and sent silky bits of ash floating up.
On many pages it was really only the lower half, near the binding, that was even legible.
“We are destroying the book even as we examine it,” said Henry miserably.
Again and again I carefully turned pages.
Until I found it.
“Is that it?” I asked excitedly. At the very bottom of the page was one of the strange characters we’d seen in Agrippa’s Occulta Philosophia.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, nodding back at me. “It’s very distinctive.”
“We will have our translation, then!” I said. “Surely if Dr. Paracelsus invented this language, he must lay out its translation in the common alphabet.”
But when I tried to turn the page, I could not. It had been completely fused by fire into a thick papery clump.
“Stop, stop!” said Elizabeth. “You’ll tear it!”
It was all I could do to keep myself from hurling the book across the chamber. As if sensing my rage, Elizabeth took hold of my hand and pointed at the open book.
“Look there,” she said.
Above the strange character was written something in Greek. I squinted but could not make sense of it.”
“The Alphabet of the Magi,” Elizabeth translated.
“But its key is lost to us,” I moaned. “The book is unreadable!”
“We know the alphabet’s name at least,” Elizabeth said.
I nodded and took a breath. “And now we must find someone who can translate it for us. We must find ourselves an alchemist.”
I slept but a few hours and, after breakfast, went downstairs to the servants’ quarters. I waited in the hallway outside the kitchen until Maria turned the corner and saw me. Her face lit up.
“Konrad?” she said, with such joy that I felt guilty to disappoint her—and then disgruntled, too, for Konrad had always been her favorite when we were little.
“It is Victor, Maria,” I said, coming more into the light.
“Victor, forgive me. You gave me a start. For a moment I thought it was your brother, up and about—” She stopped herself. “Is everything all right upstairs? Does your mother need me?”
“No, no, all is well,” I said. “I am sorry to bother you, Maria, but there is something I wanted to ask you.” I waited as Sasha, one of the kitchen staff, passed by in the hall, giving us a curious look. In a lowered voice I said, “Of a rather confidential nature.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Come into my office.”
As housekeeper she had a comfortable suite of rooms, some of which looked out toward the lake. She led me into her small office, where all the business accounts of the household were carefully maintained. She was a meticulous woman, and I’d often heard my mother say that we would all be utterly helpless without her.
“What is it you wanted to speak to me about, Victor?” she asked, closing t
he door. She should have called me young master, but she had raised me from a yowling whelp, and it would have felt odd to be called master by her.
“I am very worried about Konrad,” I began cautiously.
She nodded, and I was not surprised to see her eyes moisten.
“I worry that the doctors do not know how to cure him,” I said, watching her, “and I wonder if perhaps there are healers with different skills who might be more successful.”
She said nothing, but her eyes would not meet mine.
“Do you know of any such people, Maria?”
She took a breath. “I do not.”
I sat back, discouraged, tried to think of another subtle line of questioning, and couldn’t.
“But I heard you talking to Mother,” I blurted out, “about some fellow you know of, an alchemist.”
“You little villain! Eavesdropping!” she said, and I suddenly felt five years old again, and caught out at some mischief.
“Who was it you were talking about?” I persisted.
“I promised your mother I would not speak of it.”
“To Father,” I said. “She asked you not to speak of it to Father. But you can tell me, Maria.”
She glared at me, then looked away. “You must promise me you will not speak of this to your parents,” she said. “And I do this only because I am so worried about your brother.”
“Of course,” I said.
“I put little faith in these doctors. Some cannot even cut hair straight, much less deliver a baby without killing the mother.” She sighed. “There was an incident a good many years ago; you and Konrad were just newborns. One of the city’s generals had a daughter, no more than six, who sickened suddenly. The general spared no expense. He summoned the finest physicians of Europe. All of them said the girl was beyond hope and would die before the winter was through. But the girl’s mother could not bear the thought, and sought out an apothecary right here in Geneva. Some said he was a gifted healer. Some said he was an alchemist. Some said he trafficked with the devil. But the mother did not care about any of that. She went to him and he prepared a medicine, and he saved that little girl.”
Maria’s voice trembled. I took my handkerchief and passed it to her, and counted five seconds while she dabbed her eyes, but I was too impatient to wait any longer.
“His name,” I said urgently. “What was the fellow’s name?”
“Julius Polidori.”
I had never heard of him, which was odd. Geneva, though an important city, was no vast metropolis like Paris or London, and my father’s position made him aware of anyone of prominence.
“And is he still in the city?” I asked Maria.
“I don’t know, Victor. But I think maybe you should find out.”
I smiled at her. “I will. I most surely will.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ALCHEMIST
THE NEXT MORNING, AS KONRAD SLUMBERED, HENRY, Elizabeth, and I traveled to Geneva with Father in the carriage. Father had business to attend to at the Palais de Justice, and the three of us had convinced him that we should spend the day studying the history of our great republic by exploring its oldest buildings and monuments: Saint Peter’s, the Magdalen Church, the town hall. It was to be part of our schooling. Father, of course, was delighted at our keenness, and happy, too, to see us temporarily removed from the château and all its gloom.
As we approached Geneva along the south lake road, I admired the high ramparts that surrounded the city in the shape of a protective star. There were only five gated entrances, locked every night at ten o’clock, and the portcullises were not raised until five in the morning. The guards were under the strictest instructions never to deviate from this schedule, even if ordered by the magistrates themselves. Our city had seen many wars and sieges, and these current times, my father often said, were uncertain ones.
We stabled the horses and carriage at our city house, for we kept a small staff there even in the summer when we were mostly at the château. Father bade us farewell, and we agreed to meet at two in the afternoon for the drive home.
“To the town hall, then,” I said after Father had disappeared from view. We had discussed our strategy the night before, and we agreed that the town hall seemed the most sensible place to begin our search. The land registry office would have records of all the city’s property owners.
But when we asked the fussy town hall clerk to check, he found no entry for a Polidori.
“All this tells us is that he doesn’t own property,” I said outside in the square.
“He may well take rented rooms,” said Elizabeth.
“As a great many do,” added Henry.
Our next step was to ask at the various apothecary shops. If this fellow was as famous as Maria had said, others would have heard of him. But several young apprentices just shook their heads and claimed no knowledge of him.
An older fellow looked at us gravely over the top of his spectacles and said, “I have not heard that foul name mentioned in many years. I know nothing of his whereabouts, nor care to know.”
Our search had started near the center of the city, but slowly we were moving away from the elegant flowered fountains and airy public squares. The cobbled streets narrowed. There were fewer gentlemen about, and more sailors and laborers and women dressed in coarser fashion. I didn’t like the looks a couple of wharf hands gave us as we passed in the lanes.
I was beginning to despair, for we had asked now at some half dozen establishments, and no one had been able to tell us anything helpful about Julius Polidori.
“We are idiots,” said Henry suddenly.
I turned to see him looking into a greasy window where a row of typesetters sat hunched over tables, their blackened fingers plucking individual letters from trays.
“The Geneva Gazette,” said Henry. “This story of Maria’s—surely it would have been written up.”
“It must have been,” said Elizabeth eagerly. “The child of a general! Of course it would have been the talk of the town. Victor, did Maria give you an exact date?”
“She said it was the year of my birth, that it was winter.”
“Now we must hope that the newspaper keeps a proper archive,” said Henry.
I was not hopeful when we entered the offices, for the place was in a chaos of activity and noise and ink. At first it seemed no one would have a second to spare for us, but Elizabeth picked out the kindliest-looking young gentleman she could find. She walked to him and very prettily told him we had been set a historical assignment by our tutor, and would it be possible to look at some past issues of the newspaper.
It was quite remarkable, how helpful the fellow was. He gave us all candles and escorted us down to a cellar, and then my heart truly sank, for I saw tower after tower of newspaper, stacked to the very ceiling.
“It is like a city of paper,” I murmured to Elizabeth.
“Will it be difficult to find the period we seek?” she asked the young fellow.
“Not at all, miss, not at all.” He promptly led us to a particular tower, thrust his hand into it, and, like a magician, pulled out a wad of old newspapers.
“I believe these will suit you,” he said, beaming at Elizabeth. Elizabeth beamed back.
“Thank you so much, sir. You’ve been so kind.”
“If you need any further assistance, I shall be upstairs,” he said. He gave his name, bowed, and disappeared.
“He could not have been more helpful had he been on puppet strings,” Henry said in amazement.
Elizabeth blushed modestly. We each took several papers and in the light of our candles searched through them.
It seemed hardly any time at all before Elizabeth exclaimed, “I have it here! Here is the story …” She read aloud hurriedly, and then jumped ahead until she came to what we sought. “Julius Polidori, of Wollstonekraft Alley …”
“It is not five minutes’ walk from here,” I said with a grin.
The alley stank of urine—and worse
. The few shops had a defeated look about them, tattered awnings and grimy windows with dusty displays that probably hadn’t been changed for years.
“This must be the place, here,” said Henry. The windows were shuttered, but over the door hung a wooden sign. Flaking paint showed an apothecary’s mortar and pestle.
“It does not look promising,” said Elizabeth drily.
In the door was a small, dirty window, but it was too dark inside to make out much more than the shadows of shelves. The place looked all but abandoned, but when I turned the knob, the door swung open and a small bell clanged.
I entered with Henry and Elizabeth. “Good morning!” I called out.
Mingled with the fragrance of a hundred different herbs was dust and a powerful smell of cat. At one time the shop must have been more prosperous, for the shelves were of rich dark wood. On our left was an entire wall of drawers, each fancily labeled.
“Hello?” I called out again.
Henry drew open one drawer, and then another. “Empty,” he said. He looked all about him, wide eyed, perhaps recording every detail for some horrifying poem or play he would later concoct.
Directly before us was a long counter, behind which were shelves filled with elaborate mixing vessels. It did not look like anything had been mixed there in quite some time. In the middle of the shelves was a glass-paned door. I saw a flicker of light, and then a shadow growing larger.
Quite suddenly the door swung open and a man in a wheel-chair propelled himself into the shop. His legs were wizened, the fabric of his breeches loose and flapping. He seemed no more than fifty, and though his upper body was powerfully built, the man’s face had a gaunt and defeated look to it. His wig rested crookedly, and was many years out of fashion. But it was his eyes that most gave him the look of defeat. They contained not a spark of light or hope.
“How may I help you?” He seemed surprised when he saw us. No doubt he didn’t get many customers as well dressed as us in his shop—if he got any customers at all.
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