The Elusive Elixir Page 8

  Ivan cleared his throat. I opened my eyes and saw him leaning in the doorway, shaking his head and smiling.

  Max pulled back from his kiss, but he didn’t blush. He kept his eyes locked on mine and his fingers entwined in mine.

  “Since Ivan hasn’t been feeling well,” Max said, “I thought I’d bring him some lunch and tea while I’ve got a break. I’m so glad I caught you here too. I have to run, and today is going to be a long one for me, but how about dinner tomorrow night?”

  “I’d love that.”

  Max gave me a quick kiss goodbye before departing.

  “He brought more than enough for me,” Ivan said after he shut the front door. “You’re welcome to stay for lunch. Let me clear off the kitchen table.”

  I followed Ivan to the kitchen but stopped before stepping inside. The kitchen table was covered with more than a dozen alchemy books—each one of them destroyed.

  Ivan hadn’t experimented on only one book with questionable results. He’d obsessively taken apart at least fifteen antique books. Some had been soaked in water, some smeared with ashes, and some charred by fire.

  Ivan had unnecessarily destroyed priceless history on a fool’s errand. He was no longer simply a dedicated scholar. He was obsessed.

  Fifteen

  I gave Ivan an excuse and made a hasty departure. I needed to think, and I knew the perfect place to do so. I went on a long slow ramble to Lone Fir Cemetery, named for the single tree growing in the cemetery when it was founded in the 1840s. Since then, nature has become as much a part of the graveyard as anything else, with hundreds of trees creating a serene atmosphere for contemplation.

  The Victorians held many beliefs I disagreed with—such as the prevalence of dresses that made it nearly impossible to walk through a room without knocking things over let alone breathe—but their view on cemeteries mirrored my own. A calming atmosphere with well-tended landscapes and remembrances of loved ones provided a perfect setting for a thoughtful walk or picnic. In a cemetery, there was no rush. You could think about people past and present without the burdens of the outside world.

  Ivan had clearly crossed the line from passion into obsession. I’d done that myself once, so I couldn’t blame him. It was how I’d found the Elixir of Life without realizing I’d done so. I was obsessed with finding a cure for the plague that had afflicted my younger brother, and I’d foolishly wasted his last days. I hadn’t listened to Nicolas or Pernelle about what was possible, nor did I heed their warning that I would regret it if I didn’t spend time with Thomas making him more comfortable before he died.

  I remembered that raw emotion well, so I knew there was nothing I could say to Ivan to make him believe he was approaching alchemy incorrectly and that his time would be better spent with his friends or writing his book.

  Jasper Dubois had never listened to me either, but for different reasons. What had happened to him all those years ago?

  I’d walked for only ten minutes, but the serene cemetery no longer felt peaceful. Death is one thing, but not knowing what happened to someone was another. Without consciously realizing where I was going, I walked out of the cemetery and found myself heading to Hawthorne Boulevard.

  Blue Sky Teas was half full—much less crowded than it had been two months ago. Still the same was the weeping fig tree that stretched to the high ceiling in the center of the teashop, and the thick tree-ring tables that filled the cozy space.

  It was partly my fault the teashop wasn’t doing the brisk business it had been. I was Dorian’s front, so while I was sick and then gone in Paris, he wasn’t able to supply home-cooked treats for the teashop. Dorian baked vegan pastries in the teashop kitchen before dawn, but everyone thought it was me who was the chef who got up early to bake while they slept. I can transform herbs into healing remedies, but it’s Dorian who’s the culinary alchemist, transforming basic ingredients into decadent feasts. When “I” was unable to bake because of illness or travel, there was no way to explain fresh-baked treats showing up when the teashop opened.

  The other reason for the drop in business was the fact that the owner, Blue Sky, was in jail for a past crime that we all wished hadn’t resulted in prison time. Blue created teas and decoctions that rivaled anything I’d tasted in Munar, delighting the senses and healing the body and soul. She was due out soon, but in the meantime our friend Heather Taylor was running the teashop.

  Heather stood behind the counter this morning. Her teenage son Brixton sat at a corner table next to a man with dark brown skin, long black hair, and a tattoo of interwoven metal bars winding up his neck. At first I wondered why Brixton wasn’t at school, but then I remembered summer vacation had begun. His wealthy friend Ethan was organizing a fifteenth-birthday trip to London that summer, paying for his friends to attend.

  “Zoe!” Heather called out. “Welcome home.” The words warmed my soul. It wasn’t a one-sided feeling that this was my home. “One second, then I’ll introduce you to Abel.” She turned back to the customer at the counter, but at the sound of his name, the dark-haired man sitting with Brixton looked up, as did Brixton. So this was Brixton’s stepfather. He worked out of town a lot of the time, so I hadn’t met him yet.

  Abel stood and extended his hand. It was calloused and his handshake firm. “The famous Zoe Faust. Thanks for looking after Brix. He’s been telling me all about your garden. I know he started helping you in the garden so you wouldn’t press charges after he broke in, but it’s been really good for him. Thank you.”

  Brixton rolled his eyes.

  “How could anyone resist the lure of the neighborhood haunted house that someone was finally moving into?” I said. “I don’t blame Brixton. If the tables had been turned, I might have broken into your house to see what was going on.”

  “So can we change the subject or something?” Brixton said. “I didn’t think you were coming back so soon from your trip to visit your grandmother’s friend in Paris.”

  I hoped Brixton wasn’t paying enough attention to notice the flush I felt on my cheeks. I’d forgotten how close the lie I’d invented for my last-minute trip to Paris was to the truth I’d discovered, though Madame Leblanc couldn’t rightly be called a “friend.”

  “The visit wasn’t what I imagined it would be,” I said truthfully.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re back,” Abel said. “This way I get to meet you.” He moved a banjo from a chair to make room for me.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” Brixton said. “Abel brought it back for me. Did you bring me back something cool from Paris?”

  Abel elbowed Brixton. “Manners.”

  “What?” Brixton said. “Isn’t that what people do?”

  I smiled. I could already tell that Abel was a good influence on Brixton. He wasn’t Brixton’s biological father, but they held themselves in a similar way. Abel actually looked like he could have been Brixton’s half brother. He was in his twenties, a few years younger than Heather, who wasn’t quite thirty. Without her then-boyfriend’s support or her family’s blessing, Heather had dropped out of high school when she became pregnant with Brixton at fifteen. Whenever Heather’s flaky behavior frustrated me, I reminded myself that her father had left the family when she got pregnant, never to be seen again. I hadn’t seen my own family since I was sixteen, so I knew how difficult that could be.

  “Not hungry?” I asked, looking at the half-eaten sandwiches on the table.

  “Mom thought of getting fresh herbs for tea,” Brixton said, “but she forgot about making sandwiches at lunchtime. So she’s making mint and basil baguette sandwiches.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s your fault, Zoe. Not only were you gone so we didn’t get fresh food, but now that I’ve eaten Dor—I mean, your cooking, I can’t stand these premade sandwiches she picked up for behind the counter.”

  Able shifted his position so the weeping fig tree would block him from Heather’s view. “We’re going t
o get out of here in a little while to get some real lunch,” he said quietly, a conspiratorial grin on his face.

  Something was different about the setting. It wasn’t just the people and food. Had the tree been trimmed? No. It was the paintings that now hung on the walls. I recognized the style.

  “Heather’s new art is remarkable,” I said.

  Brixton shrugged, and a look of pride spread across Abel’s smiling face. “She sold two of them the day she hung the series on the wall,” he said.

  “I can see why,” I murmured.

  In contrast to Brixton’s mom’s bubbly personality, she used unusual colors of paint to create dark and deep images. In her latest series, she’d added metallic accents to black, brown, and green forest landscapes. The gold and silver peeked out of the trees like eyes watching the viewer.

  These new paintings were close-up studies of women’s faces, but there was more to them than portraiture. The reflections in the eyes and the wrinkles on the skin each told their own stories, as if transforming from one meaning to another as the viewer looked more closely. In the painting closest to me, the reflection showed a raven in flight, and a crease on the woman’s cheek was two simple line figures dancing.

  “I think Mom needs help with the lunch rush,” Brixton said to Abel. “Would it be cool if you helped her so I can catch up with Zoe?”

  It didn’t look very crowded to me, but Heather was taking orders and grabbing premade sandwiches from the display cabinet. Abel tousled Brixton’s hair and stood up. “Glad you’re not too cool to think of your mom.”

  Once Abel made it to the counter, Brixton hunched his shoulders over the table and spoke softly. “I didn’t really expect you to have brought me a gift from Paris, you know. That was just part of my cover, pretending like you were on vacation with your grandma’s friend like you told everyone.”

  “That’s what you wanted to tell me privately?” I whispered back.

  “Nah. Did Dorian tell you what’s up with Ivan?”

  “Yes. About that, it’s a terrible idea.”

  “Why? You don’t care about what we learned?”

  “I already know that Ivan is obsessed with alchemy. You need to distance yourself from him. Desperate people can change.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Fine. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. It’s not just me and D keeping an eye on him. There’s a creepy guy spying on Ivan.”

  Sixteen

  Someone was spying on the alchemy scholar? I felt my temple twitching furiously.

  “A creepy guy?” I repeated.

  “Well, maybe creepy isn’t the right word. But he was totally spying on Ivan yesterday.”

  “Dorian neglected to tell me that.” Why hadn’t he told me? The vein in my temple was now fully pulsating. I knew why Dorian hadn’t told me himself: he knew I’d disapprove.

  “You need to stop,” I said. “Now.”

  Brixton rolled his eyes. “I have the daytime shift, so it’s not like it’s dangerous. What? You’re friends with Ivan. He, like, helps you with stuff. You said so.”

  “There’s so much going on right now that we don’t understand. It’s safest for you to stay away from anything that involves spying.”

  “Whatever. So do you want to hear about the guy I saw or what?”

  I glanced at the counter. Abel and Heather had a good rhythm together. They weren’t paying any attention to us. “Who was he?”

  Brixton shrugged. “Just some boring-looking guy. He was spying on Ivan, like in a movie.”

  “Define spying,” I said.

  “Did you forget English while you were in France?”

  I sighed. “I know what the word means. I want to know why you think someone is spying on Ivan, not visiting him. What exactly was he doing?”

  “Looking in the windows. That totally counts as spying, right? When he first walked up to the house, I thought he was some professor Ivan knew. But then instead of knocking on the door, he looked in all the windows, and then flattened himself against the wall to make sure Ivan didn’t see him.”

  That certainly sounded like spying.

  My senses tingled. I was experiencing the feeling of being followed myself. Was it real or an overactive imagination? I scanned the tables and the sidewalk that was visible beyond the large front windows, half expecting to see Madame Leblanc hiding behind a potted plant, stealing a glance at me through her designer sunglasses. But that was crazy. The bushes on the sidewalk weren’t big enough to conceal a person, even a small one. Besides, she didn’t know where to find me. Still, I was uneasy as I watched several people walk past. None of them resembled the persistent Madame Leblanc or anyone else I knew.

  “Without making obvious movements,” I said to Brixton, “look around and see if you spot the man you saw spying.”

  “Wicked.”

  My pulse raced. “You see him?”

  “No. He’s not here. But we’re totally in a spy movie.”

  “I’m being serious, Brix.”

  The eye roll. “I’m being serious too. There’s seriously a guy spying on Ivan. That’s why you need my help. Something is going on.”

  “When did your stepdad get back?” I asked Brixton.

  “Yesterday.” He scowled. “You don’t think he—”

  “No, that’s the opposite of what I meant. You want to spend some time with him, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s not lame. He’s really cool.”

  “I can tell. Spend the time with your family, and with Ethan and Veronica. Forget all about Ivan. Forget all about me and Dorian for the time being too.”

  “What’s going on, Zoe?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s what worries me.”

  “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

  “Sorry. Nothing freak-out worthy. You know me. I’m old. I worry.”

  “You’re worried about saving Dorian, aren’t you? Why did you leave Paris so soon if you hadn’t figured stuff out?”

  “I’ve got a lead.” Would the book be in today’s mail? “I should go check it out, actually. No more surveillance, okay?”

  “Cool.”

  As I stood up, I fought the urge to tousle Brixton’s hair as Abel had done.

  On the sidewalk, my skin again prickled. There was no sign of anyone I didn’t wish to see, but for a fraction of a second the profile of a man turning the corner reminded me of Ambrose. I felt for my locket. My encounter with Madame Leblanc had brought up too many painful memories. My long-ago lover who’d died by his own hand, my brother who’d been claimed by the plague, and Jasper Dubois, my assistant who’d met a murderous end. Death followed me. Why did I think I could save Dorian?

  I hurried home. Backward Alchemists of Notre Dame hadn’t arrived in the mail. I’d looked up the title after the bookshop proprietor told me of its existence, and I understood why I hadn’t found it before. The only reference to it was a footnote in an obscure text I didn’t own, according to the comments of one of the many blogs devoted to “the Secrets of Paris.” In the modern age, people often assume they can find anything online. They don’t realize how far from the truth that is.

  I needed to get that book as soon as humanly possible. I’d already paid Lucien Augustin for the book, but it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to rare book dealers I knew in the States.

  I found Dorian standing on his stepping stool in front of the stove. With his right arm he stirred a fragrant pot of tomato sauce, heavy on the garlic. His left arm hung awkwardly at his side. It was even worse than it had been before my latest attempt at creating another batch of Tea of Ashes. I wondered if I should fix him a little sling.

  I crossed my arms and stood over him. “You didn’t tell me about the spy.”

  “Ah. You spoke to the boy.” He continued stirring. “I w
ished to wait until we knew more. There was no sense speaking of it before I knew what was going on.”

  “I told you everything I know about the other gargoyle, about Jasper Dubois, and about all of my Notre Dame leads, even though I have no idea what’s going on with any of those things.”

  “Using my little grey cells,” Dorian said, setting down the wooden spoon and tapping his head with his index claw, “I have taken the liberty of diagraming a chart of possibilities for all of these problems—both yours and mine.”

  Dorian thought the famous Poirot expression “little grey cells” was especially appropriate to him because his body was gray.

  “A chart,” I repeated.

  “Un moment.” He stepped down from the stool and opened the drawer with scratch paper and pens. He rummaged until he found the notepad he was after, then cleared his throat.

  I sighed. “All right. What have you figured out?”

  “Bon. We will begin with Ivan. He is Czech. He has defected, and therefore we can assume he is a spy—”

  “Let me stop you right there. What was the last novel you read from the library?”

  Dorian frowned. “Do not use the fact that it was a John Le Carré book against me.”

  “This isn’t a spy novel,” I said. “I’ll let you finish cooking dinner, and then you can tell me what you think might be a realistic theory.”

  I left him grumbling in the kitchen and stepped through the back door to get the nettle infusion that was waiting for me on the porch. It was ready, so I strained the liquid into a clay mug and took it with me to the basement.

  I sipped the energizing liquid as I descended the steps. When I reached the bottom, I nearly dropped the mug. Something was very wrong.

  Someone had been inside my alchemy lab.

  Seventeen

  A sweep of the room assured me there was nobody besides me in the room, but my heart refused to stop pounding. Because this time, I wasn’t imagining that someone had been there. My dragon’s blood had been moved from the front of a row of glass jars to the back. I twisted the lid, tilting the jar away from me as I eased it open. The contents were right, so nobody had added anything. I didn’t keep a record of measurements, so I couldn’t be certain if they’d taken any or simply looked.