by Gigi Pandian
“As soon as I arrived, I knew I couldn’t see you. I wasn’t ready to see someone who’d understand. I know that doesn’t make any sense … ”
But it did make sense. At least to me. “There’s an isolation you and I have experienced that people who grow old together before they lose someone can’t imagine. It’s not necessarily worse, but it’s different. I understand that.”
“And I wasn’t ready for understanding. I wanted to lash out. I needed to get it out. But I didn’t want to do that with you in the vicinity.”
“So you left.”
“And when I was ready, I called you. But I doubt that reasoning will fly with the detective.”
“So you lied to her when you first spoke with her and told her you weren’t in Portland when Logan Magnus was killed? You didn’t think she’d check?”
“Give me some credit. I told her the truth. But I didn’t count on having the bad luck that the dates would coincide with when that artist died.”
“We’ll figure it out together. But where are you?”
Silence.
“Are you at the Castle with Isabella?”
“I’m fine, Zoe.”
“Watch yourself. Heather has been attacked.”
Tobias swore. “Is she okay? What happened?”
“Someone attacked her in her garage art studio and stole the painting she was working on.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’ll recover.”
“I take it they don’t know who attacked her and stole the painting, or you would have mentioned it right away.”
“No, but the detective is looking for you. It’s probably best not to ignore her for too long. That’ll just make you look more guilty.”
Detective Vega stepped into the hallway as I hung up. “Ms. Taylor asked for you,” she said.
Heather was sitting up in bed, with Brixton in a chair beside her. “Give us a sec, Brix?” she said.
I expected him to object, but he agreed and closed the door behind him.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Oh, sure.” Heather smiled, but it wasn’t her usual bubbly grin. “They want to keep me under observation for the night.” She frowned. “They aren’t sure of all the chemicals used to knock me out. It might have been something bad, you know? Abel is out of town for work … ”
“Do you need me to get a hold of him?”
She squeezed my hand. “I’ve already called him. He’s going to come but he won’t be here until tomorrow.”
“Brix can stay with me tonight.”
After taking Brixton to get his things, it was late when we got back to my house. Dorian hadn’t stayed home as I’d asked. Since he didn’t know what had happened, I couldn’t blame him. He was taking his increased baking responsibilities seriously. But after tucking Brixton into bed—a term I was careful not to use with the teenager as I said good night—I was keenly aware of just how alone I was.
In spite of the late night, I woke up at dawn. Brixton was still asleep, so I crept downstairs.
Tobias hadn’t taken the metal sculpture Isabella had given him. It was a stunning design even without seeing its true form in shadow.
I opened the living room curtains. The light from the rising sun shone into the room from the large windows I rarely opened because of Dorian. I turned the sculpture until it cast a shadow of two crows in flight. As the sunlight filtered into the room, the birds’ wings moved as if they were flying into the distance.
It made me think of the phoenix charm Isabella had made for her husband. The lightning bolts intertwined in the flames looked as though they were flashing from the sky, like a separate piece of the form.
As shadows danced across the floor, I ran my hands over the metal that formed the wings of the crows. It was made of two pieces that had been welded into shape around each other but didn’t quite touch, similar to the structure of the pendant. I hadn’t realized it at the time, because the pewter shapes were so perfectly matched, but the pendant must have been made of two pieces too. That was how Isabella had achieved the detail. I’d never tried to open the pendant. There wasn’t an obvious opening, but I now felt sure there had been two pieces.
Detective Vega had given me her cell phone number, so I called her.
“Faust?” Her voice was sharp. “Zoe Faust? Do you realize what time it is?”
I hadn’t. But as soon as I told her my suspicions about the pendant, she perked up. She was her usual noncommittal self, but she thanked me for the idea.
I hung up the phone and watched the shadow of the crows dance from the walls to a faint shadow on the floor, and then disappear all together as the sun rose higher. Both this sculpture and the pendant were ingenious designs that left different impressions depending on how you viewed them. So similar to the gallery lighting that made Logan Magnus’s art a success …
The last rays of direct sunlight disappeared from the room as it filled with the diffuse brightness of the day. The stark shadows were gone, and the sculpture was again the central piece of art. A signature had been scraped into the base. An ornate letter that looked familiar. I thought at first it was an L, but it was an I. The style was the same as in the paintings displayed in the Logan Magnus memorial gallery.
It was her.
Just as Philippe Hayden was Perenelle Flamel, I was certain Isabella Magnus was the artist who’d created the famous “Logan Magnus” paintings.
forty-two
1597, Prague, Bohemia
Perenelle hadn’t anticipated the violence to come so quickly.
She awoke in the middle of the night with a cold, rough sack sliding over her head. She flailed her arms and legs, but to no avail. He was stronger. A rope pulled the sack tightly against her neck.
“Be still,” the voice said, the acrid scent of his breath accompanying the words. It wasn’t Edward. This was one of the men he kept in his employ, the one with very few teeth. “This is your only warning before I snap that little neck.”
“We both know he doesn’t want me dead,” Perenelle said through the stifling fabric. As he relaxed his grip, she kneed him in a most unpleasant place.
The man grunted in pain but he didn’t let her go. It was small comfort that the noose didn’t tighten around her neck. Instead, a heavy object crashed onto her head. In spite of the darkness from the sack, Perenelle saw flashes of light from a million stars. The bright starbursts were so beautiful, an unexpected thought flashed through her mind: she wished she could find the right pigments to paint them. Then all became darkness.
When she awoke, she found herself in a cell, most angry at herself for underestimating Edward. A cup of foul-smelling beer, a torn stub of stale bread, and an empty bucket were her only company in the room with stone walls and a thick wooden door. The only light came from a narrow slit high above. The fact that she could see told her it was daylight.
The stone bore no identifying mark. She wasn’t sure where she was. But it didn’t matter. By the time someone came to check on her hours later, she had formulated a plan.
“When you’re ready to cooperate,” said the man with few teeth, leering at her from the cracked doorway, “I will send for him.”
“Please, kind sir,” Perenelle said, her voice cracking, “you and Edward have made your point. You have won. I will do as he wishes.” She crumpled into a fit of sobs.
She dared not look up at him, fearing he’d see the malice in her eyes or that the tears were false.
She needn’t have worried. Edward was used to bending people to his will. He easily accepted that he had broken her. He brought her the materials she needed to create gold and paint it into paintings. He would be watching her, to learn the secrets himself. Once he learned the secrets of alchemy, would he kill her or let her go? She wasn’t going to wait and see.
Perenelle’s plan was simple—
she only prayed it would be successful.
The idea was to work Edward to the brink of collapse—alchemy was a painstaking, laborious process, after all. She waited for him to confess he needed a break to rest. Yet he carried on. Why wouldn’t he stop for much-needed sleep? Ah! She knew the answer. Though Edward’s exhaustion showed in his tired eyes and unsteady hands, he would not confess to being weaker than a woman. She hid her irritation and feigned fatigue. The reprimand was a small price to pay to being left alone.
Perenelle had been able to paint the essence of a flower into a painting and physically move it into the painting. Why wouldn’t it be possible to do so with a human being? The heart of alchemy was capturing the true essence of a person (the Elixir of Life), of a plant (apothecary healing powers), or of a mineral (the Philosopher’s Stone, to turn base metals into gold).
The same principles applied here. She’d done it with the gold nuggets and the flower, so it stood to reason she could do it with a man.
She painted a scene, leaving room for a person, then pilfered a cloth from the guard’s pocket when he brought her more foul food. This was not only possible, but child’s play, because he always tried to caress her face. This time it worked to her advantage.
Collecting ashes and dried flowers, she carefully mixed in the grime from the guard’s handkerchief. Next she mixed the powdery pigment with an egg binder.
Pushing away her food, she turned back to her artwork, focusing her intent on the guard. She worked in brisk movements, painting his cape in shadows. She sketched his face in charcoal from the fire—the essence of charcoal helped her capture essences, just as it was essential in alchemy—then painted his features.
She felt the energy as she painted his eyes. It was working. She was nearly done. Just the snarl of his lips to capture his personality and give him life.
She called out to him. He came grudgingly. As he opened the door, she looked from his face to the lips of the painting. They weren’t quite right … With the finishing touch that captured his essence, he disappeared from the room.
Perenelle turned back to the canvas. The malicious eyes painted from soot and soul shone back at her.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, twirled the tip of her brush into a sharp point, and painted her signature P in the corner.
She was free.
forty-three
It wasn’t only the signature I’d seen in Logan Magnus’s artwork that convinced me Isabella was the true genius behind her husband’s work. It was the essence of the artwork. With what I now believed about Isabella Magnus, I called Tobias. I could tell he didn’t want to hear from me, but he didn’t hang up. I told him my suspicion that Isabella was the artist behind her famous husband. He listened, but didn’t say whether or not he believed me.
I roused Brixton so we’d have time to visit his mom at the hospital before school.
I called the hospital first to make sure we could see Heather. The nurses had a request as well, which made me smile. Brixton rolled his eyes when I told him. I shouted up to Dorian that we were leaving, but I didn’t have time to go up to talk with him.
“I’m not any good,” Brixton kept saying as we drove to the hospital. He was sitting in my truck with both his backpack and banjo in front of him.
Heather squealed with delight when we entered her room. She gave Brixton a hug from her bed and squeezed my hand. “Now that Brix is here, I can declare that I’m one hundred percent well.”
“You’re really okay?” Brixton asked, looking at the machines in the room.
She grinned. “Abel will be arriving soon, and they’ll release me when he gets here. Family spaghetti dinner tonight.”
Proud mama Heather had told all the nurses about Brixton’s love of his banjo, so they’d asked if he’d play for the kids’ ward. Apparently a magician had cancelled that week after catching a cold.
Most illnesses were treated with out-patient procedures these days, so it was a small group of kids, and the surly teenager was met with initial skepticism, but by the time we left, they were asking for more songs and Brixton was late for school.
I was exhausted when I got back to the house after dropping Brixton off, but I climbed to the attic nevertheless to tell Dorian what had happened to Heather. By the time we’d had an exhaustive conversation that led nowhere, my energy was depleted. The week was catching up with me. I declined Dorian’s offer of breakfast, over his fierce protestations, and after a glass of water with lemon, crawled into bed and fell asleep immediately.
I woke up with my heart racing. Someone was in the house. Someone besides Dorian. The gargoyle’s feet would make a scampering sound on the hardwood floors, and this was someone heavy, wearing shoes.
A faint knock sounded on my bedroom door. I pulled on a green silk robe and opened the door.
Tobias scratched his neck and looked sheepishly down at me. “Taking naps these days, eh?”
“I didn’t sleep well. I have one dear friend in the hospital and I’ve been fighting with another.”
“One who never should have spoken to you the way he did.”
“What’s the point of friendship if we can’t forgive each other? Join me downstairs for breakfast. We’ve got Aurora apple tarts, MacIntosh apple oatcakes, and green Ginger Gold apples for breakfast smoothies. I hope you’re not sick of apples.”
“Apples are fine,” Tobias said without smiling. He slouched against the hallway wall, a defeated man. Even his hazel eyes that had always shimmered like gold had now dulled to the color of straw.
“What’s going on? You didn’t confront Isabella—”
“No. I didn’t have to. The painting of Nick. I think it’s at the Castle.”
I stared at him. The painting of Nicolas had been there the whole time? “You saw it?”
“Not exactly. I’ll go get Dorian. Meet me downstairs.”
I threw on some clothes, and by the time I made it downstairs three minutes later, Dorian and Tobias were already seated at the dining table with the misshapen pastries that hadn’t made the cut for Blue Sky Teas. Dorian was drinking espresso, and a pot of green tea for me and Tobias was steeping.
“I’m sorry,” Tobias said. “I was fooled by Isabella because I needed someone who understood what I’m going through. But … she’s been acting so erratically. It made me wonder if you were right about her after all. So I opened my eyes and started paying close attention like I usually do. She’s the artist, all right.” He paused. “But she also has to do with this art forgery ring, or whatever it is.”
“But of course!” Dorian said. “This makes sense that she killed her husband. This is how he trusted her enough to swallow toxic paints. A femme fatale. A—”
“Why do you say that?” I asked Tobias, ignoring the gargoyle’s theatrics.
“It started when she showed me her art studio,” Tobias said. “She’s an amazing artist. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t become famous in her own right.”
“Can’t you?” I asked.
“You’re right. It’s not as bad as when Perenelle was trying to be recognized as an artist, but we’ve still got a ways to go. I was honored she showed me her unfinished work. What she didn’t show me on purpose was the additional studio on the estate, beyond hers and Logan’s. One the police didn’t find either.”
“How did they miss it?” I asked.
“The door is disguised to look like one of her metal sculptures. The police didn’t take apart works of art. I wouldn’t have figured it out myself if I hadn’t been suspicious already and knew how she used shadows in different ways. I was paying more attention than she thought, just like I was when you were practicing alchemical transformations back when we first met and you didn’t realize how closely I was watching.”
“Wait,” I said. “If you got in there without Isabella seeing you, that means you were able t
o take back the painting of Nicolas?”
Tobias shook his head. “I couldn’t get inside. There’s some sort of key that needs to be fitted into the lock of the sculpture.”
I swore. “Should we call the police? Damn, is that even a good idea? Have you called them already? Did you ever call Detective Vega back? I’m going to stop for breath now and let you talk.”
“I called her, but she hasn’t called back.”
“You did not tell her about the painting?” Dorian said. “Les flics, they would not understand.”
“No, only about what I’m pretty sure is an art forgery studio. We don’t want her stealing old Nick, do we? But once Isabella is arrested, you can ask Cleo about the painting. Time for some waiting. You and I are used to that.”
“That’s one thing that never gets easier,” I said, “especially when it involves people I care about.”
“Yes, yes,” Dorian said. “If you two are in a maudlin mood again, I will clean the dishes.” He scooped up the empty plates and scurried to the kitchen.
The rain had held off, so I stepped into the backyard garden. Tobias followed me outside with a cup of tea.
“You really forgive me?”
I looked at the lines of worry on his face. “Of course.” I hugged him and held on to him like he was my oldest friend in the world. Which, if we didn’t rescue Nicolas, he would be.
Someone cleared his throat. Dorian shouldn’t have been outside during daylight … But it wasn’t him.
“Max,” I said, turning to see him walking into the backyard.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“I’ll be inside,” Tobias said, taking his leave.
“I can’t do this, Zoe,” Max said.
“You don’t think Tobias and I—”
“I know. I’m not jealous of Tobias. No, that’s a lie. I’m jealous, but not for the reason you think. I don’t think you’re sleeping with him. He’s handsome and charming, but I trust you. And I think you feel the same way about me that I do about you.”