The Lady Alchemist

by Samantha Vitale

  “As Lady Alchemist, Sepha will be an honorary Court Alchemist and will be entitled to the benefits and responsibilities thereof. As such, she will be leaving Three Mills on the very next train and traveling to the Institute of Alchemical Discipline, where she will join the rest of Tirenia’s finest alchemists!”

  Sepha’s head jerked toward the Magistrate. She was going where?

  A smile began to tease the corners of Sepha’s lips.

  “What of the gold?” cried a bold-voiced man near the back of the crowd.

  The Magistrate’s smile tautened for a fraction of a second before she turned, smiling jovially toward the crowd. “A portion of it will go toward rebuilding the mill after yesterday’s fateful collapse. The remainder will be taxed, just like anything else, and given to our lovely Lady Alchemist! How is that for fairness?”

  Still grasping Sepha’s hand, the Magistrate raised both arms high in the air, her mouth stretched in a wide, victorious smile. Sepha snuck a covert look at Father. He stood frozen, as if his wildest dreams had just been snatched away.

  He thought he would get the gold!

  Sepha finally allowed herself to laugh. She had lived. She was rich. She was leaving. And some small measure of justice had, for once, been served.

  After the Magistrate’s speech, Sepha returned to the sunny courtroom antechamber which, to her surprise, was not empty. The Military Alchemist and the Magistrate’s Court Alchemist—Thuban, was it?—stood side by side, in the attitude of people who wished they were alone and had decided to pretend they were.

  In the corner, the Magistrate’s homunculus and an unfamiliar homunculus stood mute and still. Exactly how homunculi were supposed to act. Sepha found their presence somehow reassuring. A welcome reminder that, although that undead magician-homunculus had gone wrong, the rest of the world hadn’t gone wrong along with him.

  The Magistrate, ignoring everyone else, pulled the Military Alchemist to the side for a whispered conversation. Sepha watched them for a moment, then turned toward Thuban, only to find him glaring at her. Without speaking, he took a ring from a large, velvet-lined box and shoved it into her hand. It wasn’t the distinguished golden ring that signified membership in the Court Alchemists’ Guild; instead, it was matte gray, its wide face overlaid with an aggressively plain L.

  “So that you never forget where you came from,” he murmured so the Magistrate couldn’t hear. “So that you never forget what you aren’t.” And he flashed his own ring, with its ornate A, in her face.

  Sepha knew that he was trying to embarrass her, but poor Thuban didn’t know that she’d had years of training in dealing with far worse humiliations. She gave Thuban a small smile and said, “Thanks. It’s lovely.” She slipped it onto her finger, grinning when it fit perfectly.

  Having missed this exchange entirely, the Magistrate and the Military Alchemist approached Thuban and Sepha. Looking at Sepha’s ringed finger, the Magistrate said, “Ah. Good. Now, we need to settle things quickly. I’d like to get out of this backwater and back to Balarat as soon as possible. Now, what do you have planned for yourself once you arrive at the Institute, Lady Alchemist?”

  Sepha blinked. She hadn’t planned out her lie yet. She needed something that sounded reasonable enough, something that would satisfy the Magistrate and help Sepha fulfill her deal with the homunculus …

  “Well,” Sepha said after a hiccup of a moment, “I haven’t had any formal training to speak of, so I would love to—to do some research. Maybe figure out why I can do things that are supposed to be impossible.” Her voice lilted up at the end of her statement, making it sound like a question.

  “An excellent proposition, and one I would have suggested regardless,” said the Magistrate. “I believe you have met Destry,” she went on, motioning to the young Military Alchemist. “She will accompany you to serve as your guide and mentor as you conduct your research.

  “And,” the Magistrate continued, “as one equal in rank to a Court Alchemist, you are entitled to your own homunculus. This one here will be yours now. It is very lucky that we brought a spare.”

  “I—spare?” Sepha stammered, and then glanced again at the unfamiliar homunculus. Her homunculus.

  He was pale, with rumpled blond hair and brown eyes. For a homunculus, he looked rather grim, his mouth fixed in a neutral expression.

  At a loss, Sepha said, “I thought they were all supposed to smile.” She’d barely finished speaking when the corners of the homunculus’s mouth turned upward. His eyes, however, remained impassive.

  “Do I—will I have to feed him?” she asked, more nervous about owning such a creature than the monumental task—tasks—ahead of her.

  “It,” the Magistrate said, frowning, “will look after its own needs.”

  The room fell silent, as if everyone was waiting for Sepha to say something.

  “Thank you,” she said at last, because she thought it was what she was supposed to say. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Nonsense,” the Magistrate said, dismissive but pleased. “I will expect an appointment with you sooner rather than later. Thuban and I are mightily curious to learn how you’ve done such fantastical things.”

  The Magistrate turned to leave but paused on the threshold. “Before I forget, I ought to remind you that Court Alchemist appointments are conditional and are renewed on a yearly basis. Your title shall be handled in the same way. If they—that is to say, you—do not make sufficient progress in their research, or do not complete enough work to earn their keep, their status is negated. In some cases, if Court Alchemists are found to have squandered their time or the government funding appropriated to them, well …” She paused significantly, then continued. “I should be very careful to spend my time wisely, if I were you.” She fitted tight driving gloves onto her hands, jerked her head at her homunculus, and said, with a strange look in her eyes, “Until later!”

  Then she was gone, and Thuban and her homunculus with her.

  Sepha stared at the empty doorway, feeling adrift.

  Before yesterday, her life had been futureless, an endless repetition of identical days, which would only end when she died, or Father did, whichever came first. But then came the Magistrate’s wager, and her life had been scheduled to end abruptly at noon today. And now—now her future was murky. She had one, to be sure; but it was one in which she had as little control as ever.

  A year.

  A year to create a human body, or else she’d have to give up her firstborn child, if it came to that. A year to find out why the rules of alchemy had never quite applied to her. And if she failed or let slip that she hadn’t actually transmuted straw to gold, she would be lost. Imprisoned or, more likely, executed.

  Sepha collapsed into the nearest chair and slumped forward onto her knees. She let her arms dangle at her side so that her hands rested on the plush carpet—red, like the moss beneath the Wicking Willow—and tried not to think. She tried to focus on how it felt to breathe, how her body rose and fell as her lungs moved air in and out.

  Then she heard Destry’s voice. “You’ll be fine.”

  Sepha lifted her head so she could see Destry. With a small smile, Destry said, “It seems like a lot to take in, but you’ll get used to it. I felt the same way when I got my appointment.”

  Somehow, Sepha doubted it.

  The next morning arrived shrouded in mist, as if wanting to catch the nighttime unawares. Wan sunlight leaked through the thick mist and washed the color away from everything it touched. The world was charcoal and dull, and it was the first day of Sepha’s new life.

  Sepha had spent the previous afternoon forcing smiles, shaking hands, and listening to her fellow millers gush about everything they could do with the new mill. Expand their product line. Grow their bank accounts. Hire a dozen alchemists to replace Sepha.

  They were saved. At least some good had come from this disaster.

  When her hand had been wrung purple and he
r cheeks hurt from smiling, Sepha went from shop to shop, spending her hard-won money. She’d bought new clothes, her first in a very long time, and a knapsack big enough to hold them. She’d stolen an hour to visit a particular grave. To explain, and to say goodbye.

  When she’d gotten home, Father had been snoring, dead drunk, in his room.

  All the better for her.

  All the easier for her to pack without him trying to interfere.

  And now it was morning. In a few minutes, she would leave her home for the last time. With her homunculus in tow, Sepha descended the long flights of stairs from her room on the fourth floor, placing her feet carefully to avoid the creaks. She’d almost gotten to the entryway when someone knocked loudly on the front door.

  There was a bellow from Father’s room on the second floor, and he burst into the hallway, letting his door bang against the wall. “What demon from Darkest After is knocking on my door?” he roared as he pounded down the stairs and shoved Sepha out of his way. She tripped over her homunculus and crashed into the wall.

  In the few seconds Sepha spent righting herself and checking her homunculus for injuries, Father threw open the door to find Destry waiting, her gloved fist poised to pound on the door again.

  “And what do you want?” Father snarled, apparently oblivious of Destry’s Court Alchemist ring and Military Alchemist jacket.

  “I’m here to take the Lady Alchemist to the Institute,” Destry said, her voice cold.

  Father glanced back at Sepha, his mouth twisting in rage. It seemed he hadn’t believed she was actually going to leave. His glare pinned her in place, and she huddled against the wall with her homunculus behind her.

  She hated this. Hated that even today, after everything she’d been through, he could still paralyze her with a glance. She couldn’t look away from his fists.

  If she was fire, he doused her. When he was nearby, she was only a shadow, a reflection, an image of the thing but not the thing itself.

  But today was her last day of Father. Today, then never again.

  And it was only that thought that allowed Sepha to straighten, curl her hands into fists of her own, and meet Father’s eyes as he hissed, “So you would shed me like an old skin, would you? Without even a fare-thee-well or a speck of gratitude for the chance to get your claws on all that gold? Without any respect for your mother’s restless spirit?” Sepha swallowed, and he bared his teeth at her before turning back to Destry. “I’ll not have some girl tell me what my daughter will do. She is mine, damn her, and she’ll do what I say! And I say that she will go upstairs and rudding stay there unless she’s needed at the mill, as always!”

  “Sepha will come with me,” Destry said, and her voice went dangerous. “These orders come from the Magistrate herself.”

  “Well, then the Magistrate can get off her ass and—”

  Destry smacked Father so hard his head rebounded against the door jamb. Before Father could do anything but press a hand to his face, Destry said, “You’ll watch your tongue when you talk about the Magistrate. And Sepha is coming with me.” Destry’s ice-blue eyes shifted to the shadows where Sepha stood with her homunculus. “Unless she would like to delay by a day. That much can be allowed, but only if she wishes it.”

  Sepha’s heart lurched as Father swung around to face her. There was a sly grin on his face, a triumphant glint in his eyes. He’d won a day. Which meant he could win more.

  “No!” Sepha said, and it came out too loud. Father’s grin faltered, and Destry’s mouth spread into an approving smile. “No,” Sepha repeated, and her voice hardly shook at all. “I’m leaving today. Right now.” She picked up her knapsack and murmured, “Come,” to her homunculus. Head down, she barreled past Father and into the street with her homunculus and Destry close behind.

  The cool, misty breeze was like life. Like freedom. Like awaking.

  With a tip of her head, Destry turned and walked toward the train station, which was several blocks off. Sepha followed.

  They’d only taken a few steps when Father said, “Wouldn’t stand on any high places, if I were you. She’ll kill you like she killed her mother. Push you straight over the edge.”

  Sepha blinked. Felt the world grow a few degrees colder. And for a moment, she was six years old, playing in the rooftop garden with Mother. Standing with Mother on the rim of the roof, letting the wind tug them this way and that, listening to Mother’s stories about what it was like to be high in the sky with nothing but air holding her up. And then—

  Sepha gritted her teeth against the memory. Not today. She would not remember that today. She sped up, boots pounding against cobblestones, breath shallow in her chest.

  “You’ll send her back before long,” Father shouted after them. His voice echoed down the street. “You’ll find out she’s worthless but for her alchemy, and that’s only any good at my mill. You’ll sicken of her, and you won’t get any pity from me when you do.”

  In front of Sepha, Destry abruptly knelt in the street, pulling an alchem and a small ingot from her holster. One pulse, and a small, deadly knife replaced the ingot.

  In one smooth motion, Destry stood and hurled the knife at Father. It sank into the wooden step between his feet, and he leapt back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

  “That’s enough of that,” Destry said, glaring at the closed door. Then, with a quick breath, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  Sepha hurried after Destry. Rushing to speak before Father’s words could sink in, she said, “I didn’t push her. My mother, she—”

  “I’m sure you didn’t, Sepha,” Destry said, looking at her sidelong. “You don’t need to talk about it.”

  Sepha focused on putting one foot ahead of the other.

  “Is he always like that?” Destry asked, when they’d reached the end of the street.

  Sepha nodded.

  Destry went silent for a few steps, and then said, “Deserved worse than he got, the bastard.”

  Sepha’s lips tugged into a smile.

  It was over. No more Father. It was over.

  Something inside that had been tightly coiled for far too long began to unwind.

  “Do you know much about the Institute?” Destry asked, a few blocks later.

  “I’ve heard some things,” Sepha said. It was an understatement; everyone in Tirenia knew exactly what the Institute was. The Institute wasn’t just a research facility. It was where budding alchemists went to earn their place in the Court Alchemists’ Guild, yes. But it was also where the Military Alchemists were based. It was the center of all government-sanctioned alchemical activity in Tirenia, and Sepha had hardly dared to dream she’d ever see it, let alone belong there.

  “Um,” she said, trying not to sound too eager, “isn’t it rather far from here?”

  “All the way across the country, on the northern coast,” Destry said, clasping her hands behind her back. “Only a few miles away from Balarat, actually.” She paused. “After what I just saw, I should think the distance would be a good thing.”

  “It is,” Sepha said. “Do you think they’ll have what I need at the Institute?” she asked, refusing to let Father sink her buoying spirits.

  Destry nodded. Then, as if something had just occurred to her, she said, “Well. There are the Spirit Alchemists, who are based not far south of here. Depending on how your research goes, we may need to travel to the Sanctuary at some point. It’s a good place to get away from things, if nothing else.”

  Sepha raised her eyebrows. “The Sanctuary?”

  Destry’s lips thinned into a flat smile. “The Sanctuary is what the Spirit Alchemists call their base. If you ask me, their theories are mostly hokum. But they do an entirely different sort of alchemy than you or I do, so they may be able to provide a fresh perspective if you hit a wall in your research. I’ve gone there a few times. My aunt runs the place.”

  “Did they help with your research?” Sepha asked. B
ehind her, her homunculus let his new shoes scuff over the cobblestones. She’d noticed, while shopping yesterday, that he was limping. Upon closer inspection, she’d realized that his cap-toe shoes pinched his feet awfully. She’d bought him new shoes, stressing to the cobbler that they had to be comfortable. He wasn’t limping anymore, which was an improvement.

  “No, not really,” Destry said, her smile turning into a grimace. “The Institute is the best place to start. And I’ll be there. At least for moral support.”

  She gave Sepha a wry smile, which Sepha returned. She doubted that Destry had ever provided moral support to anyone before. But, seeing how Destry hadn’t hesitated to bring swift justice to Father, Sepha could see herself relying very much on whatever support Destry had to offer.

  By the time the clock above the ticket counter chimed six, Destry, Sepha, and Sepha’s homunculus were standing quietly on the wood-planked platform beside the train tracks. Only ten more minutes until the train was scheduled to arrive. Ten more minutes, and Sepha would be out of Three Mills, and out of Father’s reach, for good.

  People began to drift onto the platform in ones and twos. When they noticed Destry’s jacket and well-stocked holsters, they made sure to stand as far away as they could. Ordinary alchemists, whose skills brought steady trade to little nothing-towns like Three Mills, were one thing; Military Alchemists, who’d applied their already unnatural abilities to war and violence, were another thing entirely.

  A quiet, scuffing tread along the wooden planks drew Sepha’s eyes to the end of the platform.

  Ruhen, the man from the Wicking Willow, was walking cautiously toward them. In the strange, snuffed-candle light, he looked even handsomer than before and at least twice as mysterious. The curls which, two days before, had been drenched and unruly were now combed into an orderly side-part. Slung over one shoulder was a knapsack, as if he, too, was starting a journey.