“I need to go,” I said, standing up abruptly.
“Of course. You’ve taken too much time with me already.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s . . .”
“Please. Don’t explain. I’ve enjoyed our chat.”
“I’ll come back, I promise.”
“Please do not,” he said, gesturing for me to go through the arched entrance to his cave.
I didn’t think I’d heard him correctly. “Do not come back?”
Holding a candle aloft, he led me back into the tunnels. “Do not come. Do not speak of me. Forget about this day. Please,” he said.
“But why?” I was hurt. “Is it because I’m leaving? Am I rude?”
“No, no.” He shook his shaggy head, smiling.
“Don’t you like me?”
He clasped his hands together. “I like you very much, little one. But without doubt you will tell your friends about the charming old man who lives in the carrières surrounded by lovely antiques, and one day an enterprising young fellow will pay me a visit and kill me for my old clock. Do you understand?”
“I do.” I bristled. “But I’m not like that. I can keep a secret.” Hattie would have had a good laugh over that, since in Whitfield I was famous for being a class A blabbermouth. But this was different. His life depended on my silence. “I promise you, I’ll never tell.”
He looked skeptical. “Perhaps so, perhaps not,” he said philosophically. “Either way, I have enjoyed your company.”
“Please,” I pleaded. “Don’t say I can’t come back. I have no other friends here. Even my boyfriend, Peter . . . well, he’s too busy to spend much time with me. And I’ve hardly said two words to those awful women in the house, except for Marie-Therèse, who’s really old. . . . Oh.” I put my hand over my lips.
“And I am not?” he asked jocularly.
“Just let me come back.” Because I have to get this book back to you before you realize I’ve taken it.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I will let you know.”
“How? I mean, okay. That is, I won’t forget about you.”
“Excellent,” he said. “To be remembered kindly is the greatest sort of immortality.” He pointed to a crack of light ahead. “Go through there.”
It was then that I realized we hadn’t been walking the way I’d come. He’d taken me in a whole different direction, and the distance from his cave to this exit had been much shorter than the other way.
“Wait,” I said, stopping suddenly. “My name is Katy,” I said. “Katy Ainsworth.”
“Ah. I shall remember. Katy Ainsworth, student chef at the Clef d’Or, amant of the woefully insensitive Peter, enemy of the evil Joelle, and sometime confidante of Madame Marie-Therèse, despite the lady’s advanced years. Have I got it right?”
I blushed. “Peter isn’t really that insensitive,” I said.
“I am happy to hear it. As for me, the name I was given at birth is no longer of any importance. You may call me by my chosen name, Azrael.”
“Azrael?”
“An ancient name which is translated as ‘whom God helps.’ He bowed in a courtly manner. “At your service, mademoiselle.”
CHAPTER
•
SEVENTEEN
Azrael . . . What a strange name.
His route out of the carrières led me to the ruins of an ancient stone building on the outskirts of a pocket park near the Rue des mes Perdues. Ecstatic that my walk home was miles shorter than the trek leading from the river, I entered the house in a great mood.
Which was immediately soured by the sight of Joelle, Annabelle, and Sophie in the main salon room. They were sitting on one of the long couches with their feet tucked beneath them, giggling and whispering as they watched me.
“You ran away from us!” Joelle called out with mock concern.
Marie-Therèse was also there, or else I would have ignored them and gone immediately upstairs to my room. But the old lady held her arms out to me, so I had to enter the salon and go to her, out of politeness. “My dear, are you all right?” she asked, giving Joelle a dirty look.
“Yes, poor thing,” Joelle said. “All alone in the sewers!”
“Ick,” Sophie said.
“Mon Dieu, the smell!” Annabelle stage-whispered, and the three of them laughed like that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
It took all the self-control I could muster not to run up and punch them both in their overly made-up faces, but I forced myself to smile and tell Marie-Therèse that I felt great. And then I turned to Joelle and said, “Sorry, I guess I got lost for a minute, but I found my way out again. No problem.”
“How resourceful you are,” Joelle said, barely concealing her glee. “But it was such a long way away. You must be exhausted.”
Marie-Therèse made an exasperated sound. “I’ll bring a cup of tea up to your room,” she said, and left, staring daggers at the gorgons on the sofa.
So they don’t know about the other exit, I realized. And they didn’t know about Azrael.
Good.
I nodded to them by way of farewell. They didn’t speak. Sophie wrinkled her nose so I’d get the message that I smelled like a sewer.
Yeah, and you smell like a rat, I thought, heading upstairs.
• • •
The first thing I did when I got to my room was to take Azrael’s dismembered book from the waistband of my pants and lay the pages on my bed. A couple of them were creased, but at least none were torn. The problem was that the pages weren’t numbered. Plus the text was in Old French, which meant I had to read each page carefully to figure out which came next.
I remembered the beginning: the guy’s name and when he was born, or something. I shuffled through the pages until I found the opening passage beneath the heading
Paris, A.D. 1172
The Gift
He was born Jean-Loup de Villeneuve, third son of the Duc du Capet, in the year 1155 under the rule of Louis VII.
If he had been the firstborn son, Jean-Loup would have inherited his family’s vast estate. His mother had been born a Capet, first cousin to King Louis the Seventh, and had been raised within the fortifications of the royal chatelet. But it was his brother, a brainless bully, who was slotted to become the next duke.
The second son, a pious coward, had been groomed for the clergy from childhood. The Church had received a fortune from the de Villeneuve family to ensure that the boy would be elected archbishop before his twentieth birthday.
That left Jean-Loup, the third son of the de Villeneuves, with two choices: He could become a soldier, or he could enter the University of Paris for a six- to twelve-year stint at the School of Arts before committing to further study in medicine, law, or theology.
The choice was easy. Jean-Loup had always loved reading, and the prospect of a life of learning filled him with joy, despite the hardships of student life. Most of the classrooms at the acclaimed University of Paris—one of the first in all Europe—were no more than stone chambers with a single chair for the professor’s use. Students sat for hours on piles of hay, with only their own body heat for warmth. Meals and lodgings were not provided, and many a student spent his nights wandering the streets searching for garbage to eat and a place out of the elements to sleep.
Nevertheless, in his first year, when Jean-Loup was seventeen, he proved himself a worthy scholar in all the required fields: grammar, arithmetic, geometry, and music. In his second year, he studied rhetoric, dialectics, astronomy, and alchemy, the theory behind turning base metal into gold.
This class seemed like a puzzling choice to be included in the university’s illustrious roster because no one at the school actually made gold, or was even expected to. Instead, the alchemy classes were devoted to studying fourth- or fifth-hand translated accounts of the efforts of alchemists in ancient Egypt, China, and India, which had also failed to produce gold. Although the class was wildly popular among students, Jean-Loup concluded that the course was more in
the area of philosophy than science, with a dollop of wishful thinking thrown in. It also attracted more than one charlatan who tried to impress the professors by producing gold through sleight of hand. These students were summarily dismissed as pranksters who had shown disrespect for the somber tone of the university.
Alas, this was how Jean-Loup de Villeneuve came to discover the great rare gift that had begun mankind’s pursuit of alchemy in the first place.
• • •
“An ancient text from Egypt, translated into Greek as The Unknowableness of Magic, states that alchemy, like all other forms of magic, cannot be achieved unless the practitioner is himself a magician with a proclivity for making gold.” The professor, the venerable Anselm of Paris, smiled to show his polite disdain for the misguided views of the barbarian Egyptians as he set down the worthless book. His students followed suit, smirking in imitation of men of the world.
“However, as we of modern sensibilities are aware,” he went on urbanely, “alchemy does not fall under the realm of magic. Magicians are sorcerers, evil beings who are put on earth to do the bidding of Satan, and can be defeated only by death or the pious works of the true Church. Alchemy is science.” He raised his index finger in the air for emphasis. “Therefore, those who study and practice alchemy are not magicians”—he crossed himself at the utterance—“but rather, men of intellect.”
“Too bad,” whispered Jean-Loup’s seatmate, Alphonse Patou. He was twirling a dénier, a silver coin worth one-twelfth of a sou, in his fingers. “I was hoping to turn this into next month’s rent.”
“Do I detect levity in my classroom?” Professor Anselm hissed. Alphonse froze.
“Monsieur Patou?”
“N-no,” Alphonse replied. “No levity.” He was in the process of pocketing the coin when Anselm held out his palm impatiently. With a sigh, the student placed the dénier—his last—in the professor’s hand.
“Good heavens, I don’t believe your coin even has the worth of a common silver dénier,” the professor said. There were many counterfeit coins circulating in Paris. “My guess is zinc.”
“Figures,” Alphonse said. “I have the luck of a convict.”
“You would do well to take it to the authorities.”
“Yes, Professor,” Alphonse said with a sigh.
“But your wretched coin will serve my purpose,” Anselm said. “Now, according to our Egyptian friend,” the professor went on, nodding at the discarded book, “one ought to be able to produce gold just by thinking about it. Allow me to demonstrate.” He closed his hand around the coin, then shut his eyes tightly. “I am at this moment concentrating very diligently on turning Monsieur Patou’s dénier into a gleaming golden nugget, and I would appreciate it if you would all do the same.”
The students laughed. They all loved Professor Anselm for his humor and egalitarian ways, but they knew not to go too far. He was, after all, a professor and, as such, in the employ of the Church.
He made a show of grunting and pretending to wipe sweat off his brow. “Oh, how I have concentrated!” he exclaimed to the guffaws of his students. “Have you? Go on now, focus!”
Dutifully, the students closed their eyes and murmured exhortations that the coin be turned into gold. Like Alphonse and most of the other students at the university, Jean-Loup de Villeneuve was virtually penniless, despite the exalted position of his family. A university education was costly—perhaps too costly, many parents felt, to waste on a younger son. And so, while listening to his stomach rumbling against the drone of the class’s efforts to concentrate, he began to fantasize about the optimistic Egyptian writer and his preposterous assertion that one could turn lead—or a zinc dénier—into gold just by willing it.
It’s gold, it’s gold, it’s gold, Jean-Loup sang inwardly. What the hell, it was worth a try. The coin in the professor’s hand is gold. Whatever I touch is gold. I am King Midas!
His eyelids drooped, and his breathing became even and deep. Before me, all base metals will be elevated, just as base personalities are elevated in the presence of holiness. I am the pope of déniers! All I need do—
“Are you with us, Monsieur de Villeneuve?”
Jean-Loup startled awake with a snort. The other students laughed. “Uh . . .”
“Pay attention!” Professor Anselm admonished exasperatedly. “For the benefit of any other scholars who may have preferred sleeping to heeding our experiment, we are attempting to transform a humble dénier into pure gold through magic.” He opened his hand. “But alack, it is still only a dénier.” The corners of his mouth turned down comically. “And why, might I ask, has this humble dénier behaved so disappointingly toward a don of our great university?”
“Because we have no philosopher’s stone!” someone shouted from the back row.
Anselm pointed at the student. “Exactly!” He held up the coin. “In order to turn this into gold, a catalyst must be used. In this case, that catalyst, the philosopher’s stone, has been lost to mankind for a thousand years. Until it is found, or until a substitute can be invented, we can only theorize about the elements that transform metals. Those theories are what constitute the science of alchemy.”
Dramatically, he tossed the coin high in the air toward its original owner. Alphonse grabbed at it and missed, but Jean-Loup caught it just as it entered the bed of straw he was sitting on.
“Ah,” said Anselm, “I see that Mr. de Villeneuve has managed to stay awake long enough to retrieve our counterfeit dénier. Perhaps Mr. Patou will allow him to keep the treasure as reward.”
Alphonse bowed toward his friend. “By all means,” he said. “Be my guest, Jean-Loup.” The students applauded.
“I thank you.” Jean-Loup bowed in return. On his way back up, he stuck the coin between his teeth and wiggled his eyebrows, expecting a laugh. But all he got was a shocked look from Alphonse and a few nervous titters from the students around them.
“What?” Jean-Loup quickly spat out the coin. “Is there something . . .” But the words dried up in his throat as he gazed at the coin. “Oh, my Lord,” he whispered.
The dénier had turned to gold.
“How dare you insult me in this way,” Professor Anselm hissed as he walked slowly over to him.
“No! I didn’t . . . I mean, it wasn’t . . .”
“Get out of my classroom at once,” the professor said.
“But—”
“Charlatan! Fraud!” The professor was shaking so violently that his robe trembled. “Your name will be stricken from the university’s records. You will never be permitted to return.”
“Professor, I swear . . .”
“Go play your tricks at the fair. You might make a good living duping innocent working people there. But not here, at the greatest seat of knowledge in the world.”
“Please—”
“Goat! Scoundrel!” Anselm picked up his walking stick and brandished it overhead as he strode toward Jean-Loup. “Get out, I say! Get out!”
Jean-Loup rose from his place in the straw and headed for the door.
“I do not know why I bother to attempt instruction to such cretins,” Professor Anselm decreed as the young student exited. With a sigh, he went on. “Now, what is the result of melting copper with zinc?”
“Brass,” Jean-Loup said softly from the other side of the classroom door—a door he would never again be permitted to enter. Because of this, he thought, holding the golden coin up to the light.
Thus began Jean-Loup de Villeneuve’s long, long journey toward discovering the truth about magic and the unfortunate creatures who are blessed with it.
CHAPTER
•
EIGHTEEN
KT—
Can you meet me after work today? The Dome Café, 5 PM. Please! I miss you.
Peter
Madame Rossine, Chef Durant’s secretary, handed me the note with an air of barely restrained rage. “This came via messenger,” she said huffily. “We do not appreciate personal messages here
, mademoiselle.”
“Er . . . okay.”
“I brought it to you only because the person who delivered it said that it was an emergency.” She waited while I read the sealed card. “Is there a response?”
I tried to conceal the joy I felt. “Please tell . . . er, the messenger . . . that I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded crisply and walked away.
Peter! He wanted to see me! We hadn’t really spoken since the night I’d been with Belmondo. Maybe he’d forgotten about that. Maybe everything could go back to the way things used to be before the dinner party.
I attacked my coquilles Saint Jacques with so much gusto that Chef Durant actually complimented me on how neatly I cleaned my scallops. Score! I checked my watch. 3:27. I cleaned my station, packed up my scallops, took off my apron, and said good-bye to the chef. I could barely keep from running out the door.
• • •
I was early, but that was okay. Spending an hour at an outdoor café in Paris on a beautiful July day was no hardship. Besides, I’d brought along chapter two. The book had been slowgoing at first, but I was gradually getting better at reading Old French. Also, it was beyond weird that Jean-Loup had been an alchemist. I mean, I’d never given alchemy a moment’s thought until I’d found out about Peter. I hadn’t been sure it even existed. And now here was a whole book about someone just like my boyfriend, except that he’d lived almost nine hundred years ago.
Sometimes life is just too strange, non?
1181
The Goldsmith
With his expulsion from the university, Jean-Loup was disinherited by his family, who considered his “prank” to be a gross show of disrespect.
For a time he wandered, getting work wherever he could—as a private tutor for the children of the nobility, or as a scribe, writing letters and drawing up legal documents for the illiterate. He did not exercise the strange ability that he had discovered in Professor Anselm’s classroom. If that talent were discovered, he knew, he would be executed as a sorcerer.
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