I went to the window and stared out at the busy street. It was well into springtime now, but you wouldn’t know it from the dreary sky or the cold, wet streets of Oxford. I allowed myself to think for just a moment of going back to France, where spring at least came with sunshine and blossoms.
Apple blossoms. Which smelled of Will.
I shook the thought of him from my head. I wouldn’t go back to Normandy, then. I’d go to Paris, to join the revolutionaries—
Just as Will and I had talked of doing.
But I knew I couldn’t leave, even if I had anywhere to go that wasn’t poisoned. Not while Will was still in England with the Stone.
Find it. Find it! What are you waiting for?
I did not argue with her. I wanted nothing but to obey. My pulse sped up, and my breath came fast and shallow. How could I stand here, doing nothing, while the Stone was lost to me? It needed me. When I let myself, I felt it calling me. And I did not know how to answer its call. I did not know how to find Will. I did not know what he might be doing to the Stone.
Something twisted inside me, and I gasped.
A shock followed, thrilling down every limb, every nerve. A wave of fury, revulsion, and pain. I gripped the sill and closed my eyes. I couldn’t breathe.
There was something strange about the pain. I felt it, but as though it were someone else’s. Someone else who was dying.
No. Someone else whom I wanted to kill.
I saw him, somehow. Will lay on the ground, gasping, clutching his nearly stopped heart. The Stone was beside him, pulsing with our rage. It spoke.
Not him. Never him.
The vision faded. The pain went with it, but not the rage.
Will had tried to finish the Stone. He had tried to fuse it to himself.
My Stone.
My heart thundered dangerously, blood crashing in my ears. My knuckles tightened on the sill, but I imagined them as fists, smashing into Will again and again.
We rejected him. The Stone didn’t want him any more than I did. It wanted me. Under my fury, a grim satisfaction welled.
The Stone had nearly killed Will for trying to make it his. It wouldn’t have Will. It didn’t want him. It wanted me.
I started to breathe again. And then I started to think.
The Stone was mine. It had chosen me, and it needed me to become complete. Will could do nothing with it. He knew that now. That meant he would come for me. All I had to do was wait.
I sat back down at the table and my mind went blank. When my father came up from the kitchen with another tea tray, I came back to myself, unsure how long I had been gone. I tried to ignore Vellacott’s worried glances. He asked if I was well, and I nodded without conviction. I was not, and would not be until I had the Stone again.
“Sugar?” asked my father, then shook his head. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t take sugar. I’ll remember next time—”
“No,” I said quietly. “I like sugar. It was Mother who didn’t.”
“Ah.” My father set down the cup he had held out to me, carefully added a lump of sugar, and made a long production of stirring it. When he finally handed it back to me, his eyes glinted with moisture. I sipped my tea and hoped he would manage not to cry. In the two weeks since I had returned to Oxford with him, he had seemed on the verge of some emotional display more than once. I did not think I could bear anything like that without breaking down myself.
“Thea,” he began, then stopped and smiled slightly. “Or perhaps I should call you Theosebeia, since it would make me less likely to repeat it quite as often? It might lessen the danger of making you hate your own name.”
I didn’t understand him at first, then realized he was referring to my rather harsh words at the Graf’s house in London. I frowned and tried to make out whether he was attempting a joke or a reprimand.
“Theosebeia.” This time he sounded distant, as though he weren’t saying my name at all, but invoking a long-past memory. He shook his head. “I still remember how she laughed at me when I said it would be a fine name for a child.”
He smiled past me, and I had a sudden feeling that if I looked over my shoulder my mother might be there.
“You said it would be a fine name?”
“You might well look incredulous!” he said with a small laugh. “I couldn’t believe it, either, when you told me your name. Evidently she didn’t want me to have the slightest hand in your upbringing, and yet she chose a name I had loved and she had scorned. I thought on it constantly, when you fled Oxford. It seemed as though it meant something.”
“Meant something? What?”
“I couldn’t puzzle it out.” He looked at me with a hopeful air, as though I might know.
But I couldn’t puzzle it out, either. My mother had never said anything about my father that indicated any lingering tender feelings, as he evidently hoped. I considered whether she might have been hiding them from me, but found it unlikely. My mother’s affections didn’t linger once she had moved past them. They simply expired.
“She must have liked the name more than she let on. Or else—” Anger bubbled up in me for a moment. “Perhaps she simply didn’t bother to think of a better one.”
“Ah.” Vellacott raised his eyebrows. “But it is a very fine name for an alchemist, you must admit that.”
“It’s a fine name for an alchemist’s pupil, I suppose,” I said. “As far as I know, Theosebeia never did much alchemy of her own. In any event, I am not an alchemist any longer.”
I regretted the words as soon as I said them. I clamped my mouth shut to keep any more such pronouncements from coming out. The low-burning despair in me flared up, as though I had cursed myself. Not an alchemist? Only if I failed to get the Stone back. And I could not fail.
But my father saw none of that. He nodded, agreeing with the curse I had placed on myself.
“I am glad you see it that way, my dear,” he said. “It is much too dangerous for you, that much is clear, despite your immense abilities, and indeed your unparalleled accomplishments—”
He broke off with a look of pain, possibly thinking of how he had failed to benefit in any way from those unparalleled accomplishments. For all he had tried to call it off at the end, he had been as eager as the rest of them to use my alchemical abilities. Indeed, in the beginning he had shown as little concern for the cost to me as any of them. I remembered Bentivoglio’s assault on me, his theft of my mother’s papers. My father had kept those papers. I looked at him again, remembering. He still hadn’t returned them.
“I’ve been thinking.” He looked down at his teacup where his fingers drummed a quick, nervous beat. “That is to say, I’ve made inquiries, for a house in town. Somewhere more suitable than this for you and me to live together. As father and daughter, I mean.”
He glanced up at me quickly, to see if I had taken his meaning. He did not seem to see what he hoped for.
“It would certainly hurt my standing with the masters,” he continued, still tapping his cup and talking rather more rapidly than was his usual manner. “But I do not think they will remove me from my fellowship. It is hard to say, of course. I do not have many examples of such things happening in the past, and how they were dealt with, but I feel confident I can convince them that it is the best course of action. Sadly, I fear I must give up my dream of a department of alchemy, with all that has happened. I could not subject undergraduates to that kind of danger, in any case—”
I did not know how long he might go on in this vein, and decided to stop him. My mother had never been patient with nervous babble. For God’s sake, say what you mean or keep quiet.
So, he wanted to acknowledge me. That was something, perhaps, if I could trust it. But it was not enough.
“I shouldn’t like to be responsible for jeopardizing your standing with the masters,” I said. He opened his mouth to reply, and I hurried on. “In any case, I have not found Oxford much to my taste.”
“But … Thea…” A pained expression twisted
my father’s handsome features. “You cannot go back to France. Where else is there for you now?”
Against my will, I saw myself as he must see me. Without alchemy, what was I? Friendless, motherless, exiled and with no way to provide for myself. I had nothing and no one but him. No wonder, then, that he offered to take me in. He did not want to acknowledge me, but he felt compelled. No father with any conscience at all could turn away such a needy child as he believed me to be—indeed, as I would be, if I did not find the Stone.
I pushed the thought aside. Will was coming for me. He knew he could not use the Stone without me. And once I had the Stone, I would not need my father.
“I will think on it,” I said.
He didn’t ask what there was for me to think on, but the question showed on his face.
“I am grateful for your kindness.” And I knew I should be, though all I could feel was shame to be such an object of pity to a man I barely knew.
18
A letter came one week later, addressed to me, with no return address. I took it from my father, ignoring the unspoken question on his face. I knew the hand, of course, but he didn’t. I took it with unsteady hands and shut myself quickly in my room.
I sat down gently on the edge of the bed, my head down and my arms wrapped around my body like a wounded child. I had lain in this bed impatiently awaiting this letter for days, but now that it had arrived I needed more time. I opened it with trembling hands.
Dear Bee, it said.
It was one page only, in the same beautiful hand that had written to Ada. I swallowed my nausea and read on.
I know. I have no right to call you that, not now. I have no right to beg your forgiveness. I have no right to ask for anything from you.
And yet I must. I must beg for your forgiveness, because without it my life will never mean anything. I can’t leave England knowing you are still here, and hate me.
I lied to you. I had a foolish affair, and I lied to you about it. I should have told you the truth at once. My fear of losing you made me stupid and cowardly. I wish I could make you see how little it meant, and how much you mean and will always mean to me. What woman could ever compare with you? There is no one like you in the whole world. Who has your mind, your talent, your courage? No one. No one in the world. Nothing in the world is worth anything without you, not even the Stone.
Come with me, Bee. We can wield it together. You made it, and you paid the price for it. You should benefit. We will go to France first, to heal your mother. And then—wherever you choose. I will go anywhere in the world if it means I can be with you.
One more chance, Bee. If I fail you again, I’ll hand you the knife to kill me.
I love you. And if you do not love me now, I will make you love me again.
I have booked us passage on a ship leaving from Portsmouth on April twenty-sixth. Come, and meet me on the dock at sunup. I will wait as long as I can. If I must go without you, know that I will live in hope of finding you again one day.
And if you cannot forgive me, tell the Germans. If you cannot forgive me, I may as well let them have their revenge.
Still, your loving
Will
I didn’t cry. My hands shook, so I put down the letter and sank them into the bed. My vision started to blur, so I closed my eyes and drew a breath. I couldn’t let myself feel what I felt. The madness was still too close. I put it away. I made myself think.
So. He thought I did not know that the Stone had rejected him and would do nothing without me. He thought he could fool me with another letter, even after I’d seen how little, how much less than nothing his letters meant. I bit down on my lip and tasted blood, but my vision cleared.
He told you where he would be. He is trusting you with his life.
It was my mother’s voice, but it was the very last observation I would have expected her to make.
Yes, I reasoned. But only because he must. If I do not come, the Stone will not cure him. He knows this is his only chance, whatever the risks.
Do you think you will find one better? she asked. I never did.
I pressed my hands to my ears.
“I’m not you,” I said aloud.
I had to focus. I had to think. I shook my mother from my head.
I wasn’t going anywhere with Will, of course I wasn’t. But he had the Stone. I had to go to him, at least long enough to take it. And then … and then …
And then you’ll believe him. There was scorn in her voice, but insistence as well. Why not? Once you have the Stone, he will be faithful. He would not dare be otherwise.
What good is that? I don’t want forced fidelity.
My darling. Cold laughter. There is no other kind.
I slapped myself. It stopped her laughter, for the moment, but still her words echoed in my head.
You never forgave, I thought. You never forgave any of them even a part of what Will has done.
And suddenly you wish to emulate me?
“I wish to make this decision without you in my head!” I said, and screamed to silence her.
The scream brought me to myself. That, and my father’s voice crying out from the parlor. The doorknob rattled, and I remembered that I had locked it.
“Thea, may I come in?”
His desperate tone belied his calm words.
I stood. I went to the door and hesitated, my hand on the knob. I said nothing.
“Thea, please let me in,” said my father. “I can help you.”
I almost believed it. After all, he was willing to acknowledge me. I leaned my head on the door and thought for a moment of what it would be to become Theosebeia Vellacott, the fellow’s daughter. Not an alchemist. Not an illegitimate, fatherless girl. Perhaps my father would introduce me to the wives and daughters of the other Oxford scholars. Perhaps they, in turn, would introduce me to their sons and brothers. And then …
But there my mind went blank. I could picture nothing further than a dull tea with a pale, faceless young man, and the humiliating knowledge that my only task in life now was to conceal my true self long enough to trick him into marrying me.
And even that was a fantasy. My father might truly wish to provide me with everything in his power, but what was that, really? He couldn’t hide me from Graf Ludwig, who would surely bring me back if his hunt for Will failed. Or from the other hopeful alchemists who would eventually hear what I had done. All it would take was another rich lord without scruples to decide he’d like me to do it again, and I would be locked back in another bedroom, madness beckoning.
And all that, only if I could force myself not to go after the Stone. Which, of course, I could not.
“I’d like to help,” he said in a quieter voice.
And this time, somehow, I believed him.
He wanted to help me. I considered this for a moment and was surprised to find a small seed of warmth trying to take root amid the thorny fears and furies.
I opened the door. His face betrayed alarm at the sight of me.
“Are you well?” he asked anxiously. “You look—Thea, you are not in danger of becoming … ill … again, are you?”
“I do not think so,” I said without confidence.
“Is there something you need?” asked my father. “Have you eaten? Or, perhaps tea?”
I could face the thought of neither, and shook my head.
“You said…” I stared down at the floor. It took me longer than it should have to force out the words. “You said you would like to help.”
“Yes.” My father reached out his hand as if to pat my shoulder, but lowered it before it reached me. A sad laugh escaped him like a sigh. “I would. But I’m not sure how to do it. Perhaps you could tell me?”
I nodded. “Come in.”
I sat on the edge of my bed. My father hovered hesitantly for a moment before sitting beside me. I gathered my thoughts. It took long enough that my father felt compelled to speak.
“I can’t help but think I’ve made a terrible mess o
f things, Thea.” My father knit his long, pale fingers together in his lap and stared at them. “I know you are tired of hearing me make excuses for myself. But I can’t stop thinking of what I did.”
I looked at him sharply. My mind was so focused on my present dilemma that my first thought was some new betrayal. Had he intercepted Will’s letter perhaps, or told Valentin where Will wanted to meet me?
“If I hadn’t turned on Dominic and driven you away, none of this would have happened,” he went on. “Neither of you would have been dragged into Will’s troubles. I hate to think of what you suffered because of me. But you at least recovered. Dominic—”
I winced. The thought of Dominic sent real pain through my body and a twist of panic through my mind.
“I can only hope he will recover, somehow,” said Vellacott. “Like you did.”
I shook my head.
“You—you think not?” My father’s face fell.
“The Stone let me go,” I said. “It chose me. I don’t know why, but it did. That is why I recovered.”
My father stared at me.
“It … chose you?”
I had not put it into words yet, even in my own mind. But I knew it all the same.
“It was in my mother’s papers. In her notes. Alchemistam ultimam lapis elegit. Get them. I’ll show you.”
My father rose hastily and left the room. He returned with my papers and a shamefaced look.
“I should have thought to return them to you sooner—”
“It doesn’t matter now.” I flipped through the papers until I found the one with the warning. I pointed to the scribble in the margins. “There.”
My father bent over it with a frown. “The Stone chooses the last alchemist,” he translated. “And woe to whom it does not accept. What does it mean, the last alchemist?”
“I’m not sure … It’s to do with making the Stone, obviously. Maybe the Stone can only be made once, so whoever makes it is the last alchemist. As for the Stone choosing, I thought it meant you had to be worthy, like Brother Basil said. Virtuous,” I said. “But it isn’t that, not that at all. It simply … chose. It wanted me, and not Dominic or Bentivoglio or my mother. So it let me go.”
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