Chantress Alchemy (24 page)

My heart skipped a beat. Was it Wrexham, come to check on me again? Beside me, Margery turned pale.

“Of course I have permission to see her.” A proud voice, smooth and fluid. “From Wrexham? No, from the King himself. Look—here’s his seal upon it.”

The outer door opened, and Sir Isaac strode into the room.

“Your guards are rather more zealous than I expected,” Sir Isaac said as I led him to the fire.

“The Earl of Wrexham has ordered them to refuse all visitors.” I gestured to a chair and took the one next to it.

Sir Isaac frowned as he sat, his dark brows a marked contrast to his too-white face. “Yes, but I had the King’s permission to enter. As I told the guards—”

Whatever he was about to say was lost as a great tremor passed through him. He clutched at the chair arms.

“Sir Isaac!” I rose in alarm.

“It’s nothing,” he gasped. “Merely the aftereffects of the poison.”

“You ought to be resting.”

“No, no.” The fit, whatever it was, seemed to be passing. Or was it merely that he had found the strength to fight it? At any rate, he was sitting up straighter, and his breathing was easier. “It
is nothing, I swear. And it is vital—absolutely vital—that I meet with you now. Pray, sit down again and let me speak to you.”

I sank into my chair again and glanced back at Margery, who was retreating to her own room.

Following my gaze, Sir Isaac said softly, “Do not be troubled if she overhears. The Council never would have allowed her to serve you if she could not be trusted. Wrexham himself has vouched for her discretion and judgment and absolute loyalty.”

No wonder he had, given his hold over her family.

“What is it you wish to tell me?” I asked.

“Only this.” His bloodshot eyes beseeched me. “At dawn tomorrow, when we make the Philosopher’s Stone, I must have you by my side.”

“Me? But why? I’m no alchemist, Sir Isaac—”

“That matters not at all. Let me explain.” Sir Isaac pressed his fingers to his temple, as if warding off a headache. “It’s to do with the papers, you see. Flamel’s papers. Even if one understands the cipher he used, their meaning can still be cryptic.”

I nodded, remembering what I’d seen of them.

“And there is a passage in them,” Sir Isaac continued, “that I have struggled with again and again, for the symbols it contained did not entirely make sense to me. Nevertheless, I was fairly certain that what they called for was this: an assistant to hold the crucible during the last stages of the work, a man powerful and incorruptible. At least that’s what I believed—until yesterday.”

“And now?”

“Now I have worked out what those extra symbols mean. I
was almost right. I do need someone with those qualities. But what the symbols reveal is this: she must be a woman.”

“A woman?” I looked at him in frank surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Beyond all doubt. I ought to have worked it out before. There have long been rumors that Flamel’s wife, Pernelle, helped him in his work. And many alchemists through the ages have maintained that women’s energies are vital to the Great Work. An erroneous belief, I thought, and yet it seems they are correct. Flamel says we must have a woman—powerful and pure in heart—to make the Stone. And that is why I come to you.”

Because I was powerful? Not with my magic gone. “Sir Isaac, I’m not the best choice—”

“Chantress, there is not a woman in the kingdom who can match you for sheer power. And in using that power to restore the rightful King to his throne, you showed yourself to be incorruptible.” He leaned toward me, his gray eyes fervent. “My lady, believe me: there can be no one better for the task.”

“But why should any qualities of mine matter? How could they possibly affect the result?”

“Would that I knew! It is one of the great mysteries of alchemy. I can only assure you that all the sages agree: boiling and burning change the nature of matter, and so, too, do the invisible auras of our intentions and purposes. An unworthy practitioner, no matter how skilled, cannot succeed in making the Philosopher’s Stone. God will not allow it.”

His explanation chilled me. If I agreed to help with the Great Work when my power was gone, would the experiment fail?

I tried to smile. “Truly, Sir Isaac, it sounds as if you require a saint.”

“We require
you
.” Another small tremor passed through him. “Rest assured, the entire Council agrees with me: you are the woman we need.”

“Surely there is someone else, someone older and wiser—”

“My dear lady, no false modesty, please! It must be you.” Sir Isaac was unbending. “The Council agrees, and they will compel you to serve. Given your great heart, however, I should hope that conscience alone would be persuasion enough. Without your help, we will fail, and the country will starve.”

It seemed I had no choice, not if the Council was determined to drag me to the task. Best to give in gracefully—and hope what little power I had would see the work through. “If you truly need me, I will help.”

Sir Isaac gave me one of his rare smiles. It lightened his whole face. “My lady, we are grateful.
I
am grateful.”

“I am to hold the crucible? That is all?”

“That and a few other minor tasks. We alchemists will do the rest.”

I saw a chance to break free of my prison. “Even so, I would like to practice. If you could only arrange it, I will gladly go to the laboratory—”

“There is no need, my lady. They are simple tasks, and I have no doubt you will manage them to perfection at the appointed hour. Until then, the Council thinks it best that both you and the crucible remain under guard. If anything happens to you, all our efforts will be for nothing.”

“But you are at least as crucial to the success of the enterprise,” I pointed out, “and you are not living under guard.”

“My dear lady, I am a grown man. I do have an escort—they are waiting for me outside—but that is sufficient.”

“I am a Chantress. It would be sufficient for me, too.”

“The Council thinks not. Nat is drawn to you. He is desperate; we fear he may find a way to take you hostage.”

“But that’s mad,” I said. “He would never do that.”

“I understand the impulse to defend him, believe me.” Sir Isaac regarded me with some sympathy. “Despite our differences over alchemy, I have always held Nat in the highest regard. But even you must admit that the facts are entirely against him.”

“I admit no such thing.”

Sir Isaac sighed. “Facts are facts, my dear Chantress. We get nowhere by ignoring the evidence.” He rested his shaky hands on the chair arms. “That said, all this talk of drawing and quartering is unnecessarily bloodthirsty. And, of course, I would be the first to agree that the boy deserves a fair trial.”

“Yes, but I don’t see how he will get a fair trial—”

“Chantress, we should not keep talking about this.” His tone was not unkind, but he spoke right through me, drowning me out. “It is an unhappy subject, and dwelling on it will sap your strength at a time when we must have you well and strong.”

“But—”

“Please try to turn your mind to happier thoughts. In less than twelve hours, we must begin the Great Work, and we need you
to be in the best possible state of health for it. Indeed, you ought to be resting right now.” He rose from his chair.

He wasn’t going to listen to me. At least not about Nat. But there was another matter he might take in better spirit, if I approached it the right way.

“Sir Isaac, it is hard to rest with these sad thoughts whirring in my head. It would help so much if I could see a friend. If Miss Dashwood could visit—”

“Impossible, I’m afraid.” Sir Isaac shook his head, his face grave. “A necessary visit like mine is one thing, but social calls must wait for less perilous times.” He offered me a brief but courteous bow. “No, no, don’t get up. Rest, please. The guards will bring you to the laboratory at four tomorrow morning.”

He was already passing into the vestibule. I stood. “Sir Isaac—”

“I must run, my dear Chantress. There is so much to prepare.” He knocked at the outer door, alerting the guards, who ushered him over the threshold while barring my own way out.

When the door closed behind him, I felt more imprisoned than ever. A rich prison, this, with gilded ornaments and a warm fire burning, yet the very tapestries on the walls seemed to smother me.

“My lady?”

I looked up, startled, to see Margery coming toward me. In truth, I had half forgotten she was there. “Yes, Margery?”

She bent toward my ear like a conspirator. “You wish to see Miss Dashwood?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I might be able to help,” she whispered.

The unexpected offer buoyed me up. “What did you have in mind?” I whispered back.

“I could carry a message to her.” Margery’s voice was soft but intent. “The guards search me when I go in and out, so it can’t be written down. But if you tell me what you want to say, I will find her.”

It was a magnificent offer, especially from someone who had as much to fear from discovery as Margery did. Yet I hesitated. In person, I could have asked Sybil point-blank about other magic. But any messages relayed through Margery had to be much more discreet.

“It’s very kind of you,” I said at last. “But I’m afraid what I have to say is too complicated. If I could see her myself—”

“You need to see her?” Margery interrupted. “I’ll tell her that, then.”

“But she could never get in.”

“She might, if she had a letter from the King.”

“The way Sir Isaac did?” I shook my head. “Sybil couldn’t get a letter like that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, my lady. Her aunt says that Miss Dashwood and the King knew each other when they were small. Indeed, Lady Goring remarks upon it often. And ever since Miss Dashwood arrived, she’s received kind attentions from His Majesty. He looks favorably upon her.”

Sybil had the ear of the King? She hadn’t mentioned that to me. But now that I thought about it, there had been that basket of fruit in her room, and the pineapple . . . and she had been so deeply upset when he’d been attacked. . . .

“All right,” I whispered back to Margery. “Ask her to seek the King’s permission to visit me. If you’re willing.”

“I am,” Margery said. “And I’ll go right now. I’ll tell the guards I have to see the seamstresses about the silk that my lord Wrexham sent you. That part’s the truth, anyway.”

“The seamstresses work so late?”

She shook her head at my ignorance. “My lady, we
all
work late here.”

I should have known. “Thank you, Margery. Thank you for everything.”

She acknowledged my gratitude with a determined nod. “I’ll gather up the cloth and go, then.”

But when she returned from her room, her arms wrapped around the silk, she came toward me, not the door. “My lady?”

“Yes?”

“You said you would help Mam with your magic. Will you—”
Her eyes shone fearfully above the red cloth. “Could you do that
now
?”

Seeing the hope in her face, my heart sank. “No.” What else could I say? There were no explanations that were safe. “Not now. But later, I promise . . .”

Margery hardly moved at all, except to become more still. Yet the ease between us vanished. “Yes, my lady. I understand, my lady.” She curtsied and backed away, all life gone from her face.

Was she angry with me? Was she trying not to cry? Or was it simply that
later
wasn’t good enough, not when Wrexham had a chokehold on her family? She had retreated so far from me that I could not tell what she was thinking.

“Margery, please don’t go—”

“I must see about that silk, my lady.” She rapped on the door, and the guards let her out.

Was she going to the seamstresses and to Sybil? Or had she decided that she could best protect her family by going to Wrexham instead?

Keep calm
, I told myself. It wasn’t as if I’d given much away to Margery, except for my need to see Sybil. But that might be damning enough to Wrexham. Would he interrogate Sybil again? Would he come after me?

I sat there for a long time, my ear open to every sound: the spatter of rain at the windows, the snap of the fire, the moan of the wind outside. What I heard most of all, however, was an absence: the absence of music, of magic, of the power I so desperately needed.

†    †    †

One hour, two—and still Margery did not return. She
must
be with Wrexham.

I was pacing the room, wondering what to do, when I heard soft laughter ripple out from the other side of the door. It sounded exactly like Sybil.

Deeper laughter joined it—my guards?

The door opened, and the laughter streamed in. “So kind of you,” Sybil was saying. “I am so very much obliged. Oh dear, have my skirts caught
again
?”

More laughter, and then she was in, blue eyes merry and bright. But the laughter vanished from her face the instant the door shut. She hurried over and embraced me. “Oh, Lucy, I was so afraid they wouldn’t let me see you! It took the King’s letter to get me in.”

“So Margery found you?”

“Margery?” Sybil pulled back from me, confused. “No.”

“I sent her out to look for you. She still isn’t back.”

“I did see her,” Sybil said thoughtfully. “At least, I think it was Margery. She was lurking just outside Wrexham’s rooms.”

So Margery had gone straight to Wrexham. My heart plummeted.

“I wanted to speak to her,” Sybil said, “just to find out how you were, but she slipped away before I could reach her. Are you sure she’s trustworthy?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not.”

Sybil’s brow furrowed. “What message did you mean her to give me?”

“That if you sought the King’s permission, you might be able to visit me. But it seems you worked that out for yourself?”

“I did. It took me nearly all day, though, to be admitted to his presence. But he was kind.” Her color deepened. “He always is.”

Not always, I thought. But Sybil’s unexpected blush told me—even more than her words—that she saw a different side to him.