The Alchemist's Illusion

by Gigi Pandian

  “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m looking to see if there are any news reports of a strange creature sighted.” Tobias broke off and pointed at my phone resting on the dining table. “Your phone is blinking. You’ve got a message.”

  It was a text message from Brixton, letting me know he’d gone to school and that Dorian was safe at his house for the day.

  “Why is Dorian at Brixton’s house?” Tobias asked.

  “Well, they’re friends … ” I said, but there was no reason for Dorian to have taken the risk of going to Brixton’s. No good reason. Not when Brixton was due to come over to our house to work on the garden after school. What were they up to?

  The phone rang. The voice on the other end was a whisper. A whisper with a French accent.

  “Dorian?” I said.

  “Shh!”

  “Um … you’re the one who called.”

  “Yes, yes. Can you drive yet? Because I need you to pick me up at Brixton’s home.”

  “Uh … ”

  “Heather was supposed to be working at the teashop,” he whispered, “but she felt like painting instead, because the muse struck. She is here! It is difficult for me to stay in stone form for long periods of time now. I will be waiting if you pick me up. We will need a distraction. Perhaps a fire alarm?”

  “No fire alarm,” I said quickly. “I’ll make it work to drive. You can assume stone form for a few minutes when I arrive, and we’ll tell Heather that Brixton borrowed my gargoyle statue to draw you for art class and that I’m picking you up.”

  “This is not very believable, no?”

  “Hopefully Heather will be so involved in following her muse that she won’t notice.”

  I hung up.

  “What was that about?” Tobias asked.

  “Apparently I’m a gargoyle soccer mom.”

  thirty-one

  I returned half an hour later, safe but with a sore ankle, and set the satchel containing my “statue” on the living room floor. Dorian climbed out and stretched. He flapped his wings and wriggled his horns.

  “Now that we can talk,” I said, “what were you doing at Brixton’s house?”

  “I do not suppose you would believe I was assisting him with his mathematics?”

  “No.”

  “You are right.” Dorian giggled. “I was helping him with history.”

  “Before dawn?” Tobias said. “What kind of teenager gets up before dawn?”

  Dorian sighed. “You are correct. I had many misshapen pastries last night, so I wished to bring him extras. He is a growing boy, after all. When I was leaving the bag on his window sill, he woke up. We are friends. Alors, we conversed. And then it was too late to come home.”

  I eyed the gargoyle. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “You are such a serious, suspicious person, Zoe Faust. I worry for your blood pressure. You are not immortal, you know.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “Can we get down to business?” Tobias said. “The conspiracy room in the attic.”

  “Ah, so you discovered my research. It is not yet complete, so I hope you heeded my note.”

  “We did,” I said. “Otherwise we would have been up all night trying to figure out your methods rather than considering what you’d actually discovered.”

  “Bon. I will meet you in the attic.”

  “You’re not coming?” Tobias asked him.

  “You don’t know him as well as I do,” I said. “He’s going to the kitchen.”

  “Dorian, buddy,” Tobias said, “isn’t this research more important than cooking? And I’ve already eaten breakfast. I don’t need anything.”

  Dorian stood to his full height of three-and-a-half-feet, plus a few added inches of wings that stretched past his horns. “You know not of which you speak, Monsieur Freeman. If we do not have regular sustenance, our brains cannot function properly. And if we do not take the time to savor—”

  “We’ll meet you in the attic,” I said, hooking my hand around Tobias’s elbow. “You need to pick your battles,” I whispered.

  “I heard that,” Dorian called over his shoulder from the swinging kitchen door. “And yes, this is yet another reason we need food. We must prepare for battle.”

  While Dorian cooked, Tobias and I cleared space in the attic for the three of us to sit around a table. I moved the chess set from its perch, careful not to move the pieces from Dorian and Tobias’s in-progress game, and Tobias hefted the steamer trunk and an ottoman to the table.

  “I can barely see these articles with the lines of red yarn covering so much of the walls,” Tobias said.

  “I have an idea.” I reached for my laptop.

  Dorian arrived in the attic a few minutes after I’d completed my task. He carried an apple-themed tray: freshly cut apples from the farmers’ market next to small dishes of homemade nut butters; mini fresh-baked baguettes filled with thinly sliced apples, figs, and cashew cream; and a pot of jasmine green tea, which I recognized as the batch Max had made.

  “A simple mid-morning snack,” he said, expertly spreading a white tablecloth with one hand while he balanced the tray in the other. “Bof! What is this?”

  “He’s noticed your contribution,” Tobias said.

  I’d printed out two dozen pages of what looked like the most relevant articles on the members of the Magnus household, as well as references to art forgery in Portland, and taped them to the bookshelf. I’d been forced to limit myself to that small number because the printer was running out of ink. No red threads connected the information. They were simply there for us to read.

  Dorian frowned. “This is not how proper investigators make connections.”

  “At least we can read the text and see the photos,” I pointed out. “But we never would have found all of these articles without you.”

  Dorian grinned. “I am quite adept at internet searches. My fr—I mean, I have taught myself many things in this strange new world. I prioritized high quality photographs, as you can see. You are certain none of these people are Perenelle Flamel?”

  I shook my head as I limped across the attic, lifting pieces of yarn to study each face in the hundreds of images on the walls. “None of these people look like anyone I know.”

  “Let’s take it from the top,” Tobias said, pointing at the top left paper. “We’ve got Logan Magnus, the famous Portland artist who grew up the only child of a famous father, who died by swallowing toxic paint—either by his own hand, which is unlikely, or by force.”

  “What’s not on the walls,” I said, “is that Logan had an interest in alchemical artwork and owned Hayden’s painting The Alchemist.”

  “Purchased by Cleo Magnus,” Dorian said, scampering to the section of wall focused on Logan’s daughter. “I have included the auction house in my notes. You see? The auction house is legitimate. I do not believe they are lying about the burglary in which all records of the painting were stolen. There must be a conspiracy afoot. This is why I conducted such thorough research.”

  “Why the red yarn?” Tobias asked.

  “This is how connections are made,” Dorian said, pointing his clawed index finger at the intricate red spiderweb.

  “But you’ve got every single paper connected. How does that help—”

  “I didn’t know Cleo was an artist herself,” I said to preempt an argument. I was reading an old article on Cleo I’d taped to the bookshelf. “Or that she owned a lot of waterfront property that she’s been renting out as art galleries. I thought she was only an art dealer.”

  “Oui. She studied fine art during her college years.”

  “And,” Tobias said, “Ward Talbot, Cleo’s husband, was previously swindled by an art forger. His career as an art dealer was nearly ruined. Damn. That’s gotta sting.”

  “Looks like his English bar
on father got him back on his feet,” I said.

  “Even worse for his ego, I’d expect,” Tobias said. “You think he could have hated art forgers enough to kill one?”

  “We deal in facts here in my attic, Monsieur Freeman,” Dorian said. “Such as the fact that I find no signs that any of these people could be an alchemist. They all have families. This is why I have done such extensive research. I fear that we have no leads on Perenelle Flamel and Philippe Hayden. Wherever they are, they are in the shadows.”

  “The shadows … ” I said. “Archer. He’s the only person who doesn’t have family connections here. And remember, Cleo suspected him of stealing the painting. She thought it was a joke, but—”

  “First instincts are often the right ones,” Tobias said. “Even if we don’t know where they come from.”

  “Archer, Archer … ” Dorian mumbled to himself as he followed incomprehensible lines of yarn. “Ah! Here. ‘Artist Archer.’ A rather self-congratulatory moniker, is it not? This is how he signs his artwork. Therefore I do not know his surname, so there is no way to find his family.”

  “He’s just a kid,” Tobias said, looking at a photo of Archer.

  “I felt the same way when I saw him at the gallery,” I said. “I don’t think he could be as old as Philippe Hayden. Not simply his looks, but the way he carries himself. He’s a twenty-something finding himself. Not a 450-year-old painter.”

  “Unless,” Dorian said, drumming his fingers together, “he is a master of disguise.”

  “We deal with facts in this attic, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” Tobias said, looking at a photo of Archer from a zine. He picked up a sketch of another young man. “This doesn’t look like Archer, but this guy doesn’t have a name.”

  “Ah yes,” Dorian said. “This is the person presumed to be the art forger who fled the city after his studio was raided earlier this year. I found it in relation to my research on art forgery in Portland. He goes by the name Neo, but his real name is unknown.”

  Tobias leaned over the gargoyle to get a better look at the photo. “It’s a rather generic image. Could be almost anyone.”

  “If my olfactory senses are not mistaken,” Dorian said, “you have been eating bacon. You did not find my leftover breakfast options satisfactory? I know bacon is superb, but I have been surprised not to miss it at all after learning how to cook differently—”

  “I went to see a friend,” Tobias said.

  “She’s not a friend,” I said. “You can’t think of her like that.”

  “Zoe, don’t start.”

  “Start what? I’m trying to make sure my dear friend doesn’t get hurt.”

  “Isabella?” Dorian said. “The metal-sculptor wife of Logan Magnus? The beautiful woman we see before us on these very attic walls?”

  “The murder suspect,” I said, “who tried to deflect suspicion off herself by accusing me.”

  “What happened to trusting me?” Tobias asked.

  “It’s one thing to let you accept a gift. It’s another if you two are bosom buddies now.”

  Dorian cleared his throat and flapped his wings. “If you would stop bickering, you would see we must send Tobias undercover at the Castle.”

  Tobias and I stared speechlessly at the gargoyle.

  “Bon,” Dorian said. “I take your silence as agreement. You, Tobias Freeman, will be our mole.”

  Tobias raised an eyebrow at me. “You weren’t kidding about that spy novel.”

  “I will bake fortifications,” Dorian said. “Have you discerned what type of foods are Isabella’s favorite?”

  “None are needed,” Tobias said. “I’ve already made plans to go to the gallery with her later.”

  “You—” I began, but Dorian silenced me with a hand on my arm.

  “Get yourself invited back to the Castle,” Dorian said calmly. If I didn’t know better, I would have said he was practicing his hypnosis voice. His stage magician father had unwisely taught him the basics of mesmerism, which he’d tried to teach Brixton.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Tobias said. “Because whatever I discover will help both Zoe and Isabella. That painting of Nick is somehow tied up in her husband’s murder.”

  It made me uneasy to see how much Tobias trusted Isabella Magnus. But he could make his own decisions. And Nicolas’s fate might depend on what he could learn.

  thirty-two

  It wouldn’t do any good to sit at home and wait for Tobias’s reconnaissance, and I didn’t see what further armchair research I could possibly do, so I went ahead with my plans to go with Max to his mom’s birthday dinner in Astoria. Much like Dorian’s sense that we needed to slow down and eat good food for our minds to operate at full capacity, I knew that being in the presence of nature and loved ones could have the same effect.

  It gave me a shiver to realize how easily I thought of Max as a loved one. But I did. If I got through this mess and rescued Nicolas, I wanted to build a life here in Portland with Max.

  Dorian was in the kitchen cooking. Tobias wasn’t meeting Isabella at the gallery until later, so he kept me company in the attic as I rooted through my Elixir inventory. I had two online orders to fill before leaving for Astoria, one of them an unusually large one.

  My business model was the opposite of what it had been when I was on the road. Then, I’d sold a high volume of small items at flea markets and antique fairs. My postcard bin had been especially successful, featuring World War II trading cards, Victorian food trading cards, and vintage postcards from all over the world that I’d bought when new. Now, since Elixir was focused on selling higher-end items to real collectors, business wasn’t as brisk. Some of my more in-demand items included authentic apothecary shop memorabilia, first edition cookbooks, and quirky pieces of miscellany related to healing. My modest income from the online shop was enough to pay my mortgage and bills, and the money generated from Dorian’s baking for Blue Sky Teas paid for our groceries.

  “Let me know if you need help getting this box to the post office,” Tobias said as we wrapped and lifted two large eighteenth-century oil paintings into a shipping container.

  “I won’t object to you carrying it down the attic stairs.”

  “Eddie O’Kells of Beaverton must be decorating his house,” Tobias said. “This spirit holder and alembic are too old to be used. You do give that disclaimer, right?”

  “They’re popular these days as ornamental display items. I wish I’d saved more of them.”

  I thought briefly about emailing the buyer back to ask if he would like to pick up the items to save on postage, since he didn’t live too far away, but decided against it. Soon I’d be leaving for the birthday party and Tobias to meet up with Isabella. It wouldn’t do for a gargoyle to meet Eddie O’Kells when he picked up his order.

  Thinking of Max’s mom …

  “If only I could make gold,” I grumbled. “Then I could buy something nice for Max’s mom’s sixty-fourth birthday.”

  “I’m sure she’s not expecting anything.”

  “I want to make a good impression.” I ran my hand through my hair. Why was it there were some things in life that made you feel like a self-conscious teenager no matter how old you got? So I was meeting my boyfriend’s mom. Why was I nervous? It was silly. I grinned at Tobias. “How’s your alchemy these days? I’ve got a basement lab set up for my spagyric tinctures, so it’s prepped for working with plants to create herbal medicines. But I don’t have any projects going, so my own spirit won’t mess with anything you do with minerals. You know any secrets to get gold-making down from months to hours?”

  “I’ll be right back.” Tobias walked down the stairs to the spare bedroom I’d given him.

  “I was joking,” I called after him.

  He returned a minute later and set a muslin drawstring bag in my hand. I untied the twine bow that held the small package sh
ut. Peering inside, rough chunks of shimmering rocks caught the light. Gold.

  “I really was joking,” I said. “I can’t take that.”

  “I know you were kidding. And that you don’t need it. But think of it as rent.”

  I looked at the pure gold, the metal that had been held in high esteem above all others. It had never been my favorite, though. Perhaps that’s why I’d always been so bad at creating it. There’s something about impure lead that speaks to me. Lead is the beginning of an alchemical journey; the world is still wide open to possibility when you have a chunk of lead. Even though you haven’t succeeded, you also haven’t yet failed.

  “I didn’t know you were actively practicing physical alchemy,” I said.

  “When Rosa got sick, I wanted to have enough money to take care of her, whatever she needed. We did a round-the-world cruise too.” He chuckled. “The women we met at sea loved the fact that I was taking my elderly mother on a cruise. Rosa hated that. But at the same time she loved that I didn’t give them the time of day. It was a good trip.”

  “I’m glad you did it.”

  “I don’t need this leftover stash. And besides, unlike you, I can make more.” He grinned. “But I was serious—you don’t need it for Max’s mom. Pick her some flowers from your garden.”

  “You’re right. Save the gold for an emergency. I have everything I need right here.” The antique artifacts of Elixir were objects I’d picked out as special items that I hoped would stand the test of time.

  I began collecting after I saw how many people across cultures valued historical objects, and how museums would feature something that was once insignificant but had been given meaning by time. Victorians knew how to do this especially well, bringing back whole fads but ruining them as they did so. The Victorian era is when alchemy got a bad rap, when its true historical applications were skewed to be edgy and cool and look far more like magic than science. That’s when the chemists broke off from the alchemists, and I can’t say I blamed them.

  “I’ll pick out something small from my collection.” I looked over the homey objects from around the world, from the framed frontispiece of a famous book of alchemy that had fallen apart long ago to a set of handcrafted puzzle boxes.