twenty

“That can’t be right,” I said. “The painting clearly exists. It’s just that nobody knows what Nicolas Flamel really looked like, so art historians don’t know who the man in the painting is. You can’t search for it by using his name.”

“Non,” Dorian said, his strong French voice echoing off the sloping ceiling of the attic.

I shivered, but I didn’t think it was because of the rain pelting on the skylight window above us.

Dorian sniffed. “You think me this careless? Non, I have sought out Philippe Hayden works of art. There are many, many photographs of his paintings. Several of his works of art are similar to each other. Yet none of them resemble what you described in the slightest.”

“So Cleo could have been wrong about it being a Philippe Hayden,” Tobias said. “People see what they want to see. It’s not just vanity. Many forgers are damn good at painting in the style of another artist. Like Van Meegeren. Nobody would believe he painted the ‘Vermeer’ masterpiece until he painted a new one while in jail. Ironically he was caught not for forgery—”

“—but for selling Dutch masterpieces to the Nazis,” I said. “Selling national treasures to Nazis was treason, a far greater offense. I remember that trial.”

“I know he was a scoundrel,” Tobias said, “but I can’t help respecting anyone who put one over on the Nazis.”

“He was most likely a collaborator too, you know. Or at least a sympathizer.”

Tobias swore. “Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so. Not the folk hero he wanted people to think he was.”

“I forgot you lived through part of the occupation in Paris.”

“Allo?” Dorian said. “Do I need to separate you two children so you’ll stop reminiscing?”

“I’d hardly call talk of Nazis ‘reminiscing,’” Tobias mumbled.

“Dorian is right.” I sat down on the hardwood floor in front of the old chess set, which had been carved by hand around the time I’d studied under Nicolas. “It’s hard to focus because there are so many ways we could go about this. The painting is key. Because of Nicolas’s note, I’m certain it’s a Philippe Hayden. Nicolas had to have been referring to the one and only painting of himself. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“If only living through history made us experts on all things from the past,” Tobias said.

I smiled at him. “I know an art historian we can contact. One who also knows about how to find lost works of art.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, “I have already taken the liberty of calling him.”

My smile vanished. “You did what?”

“I mentioned this a few minutes ago, no? I shared with you that I have spoken with an art historian. I found his contact information in your Elixir records.”

“You were going through my—”

“Lane Peters was quite charming—he sends his regards, Zoe—yet he did not have high hopes for me. Philippe Hayden is an artist whose body of work is much debated. But Monsieur Peters told me something most interesting. Much like the case of the Vermeers you spoke of, many of the paintings art historians once believed to be Hayden masterpieces are in fact modern forgeries.”

“It’s not a forgery,” I snapped. “I’m not disputing the fact that there are Hayden forgeries out there. But that’s not the case here. It can’t be.”

“Instead of arguing,” Tobias said, “let’s think about how we find out.”

“Truce,” I said. “I have an idea. One we should have thought of immediately. Even though the painting was misattributed, the auction house that sold the painting will have photographs. We know the name given to the painting from Cleo: The Alchemist. We can find the auction house.”

Tobias threw his head back and chuckled. “Damn. You’re absolutely right.”

“She is a wise one,” Dorian said, “our alchemist.”

We found the auction house online through the name of the painting and the date of sale, but no image accompanied the listing, so we had to contact the auction house.

“Dorian should call,” I said. “His male French-accented voice will get us to the right person more quickly.”

“An undercover assignment! Très bon.”

Dorian sweet-talked his way through two low-level employees who couldn’t help us but who hoped Dorian would join them at a meal if he ever came to New York, and within minutes was transferred to the head of the company.

Dorian had insisted on using the antique rotary dial phone he preferred, instead of my cell, so I wasn’t able to catch all of what was being said on the other end of the line.

“But surely there is something you can do, Mademoiselle,” Dorian said into the receiver. “Yes … I understand it is the end of the day … But it is of utmost importance … I see … I gave you my phone number … I look forward to hearing from you. Merci beaucoup.” He hung up and drummed his claws together.

“They giving you the run-around?” Tobias asked.

“Oui, it is the ‘run-around,’ as you say. She promises she will call back, but … ”

“What?” I asked.

“It is most strange. I had the strongest feeling she was hiding something from me … Alors, we must explore other options.” Dorian flapped his wings. “I know what we need to lift our spirits. I will cook a feast to celebrate old friends. Food will help us think.”

“But—” Tobias began.

“Don’t argue,” I said. “When it comes to food, you’ve already lost.”

“Then I’ll help,” Tobias said. “I’ve got a few culinary tricks up my sleeve.”

Dorian looked back and forth between us. His mouth opened, then snapped shut.

“He’s worried about letting you into his kitchen,” I explained. “He’s trying to think of something to say that isn’t rude.”

“You must understand, it is nothing personal,” Dorian said. “I welcome you to keep me company with a glass of wine while I cook, but I can sufficiently handle the meal on my own.”

“I beg to differ,” Tobias said. “I saw turnip greens wilting on the kitchen counter. You were going to toss them and just keep the turnips. I can’t let that happen on my watch.”

Dorian nodded slowly. “Zoe has many turnips growing in the yard. It is a challenge to figure out the best use of them. I can spare one burner, Monsieur Freeman. One.”

“That’ll do.”

I wished I could have joined them in the kitchen, but thoughts of murder and a missing alchemist were in the forefront of my mind. While the two of them cooked, I searched online to double-check Dorian’s research. Unfortunately, I confirmed that my gargoyle friend was right: an online search wouldn’t yield any references to our painting. My next idea came up blank as well: tracing Nicolas himself.

I knew why I hadn’t begun with that line of action. It would be a massive undertaking on any level. I could look for a modest French country home that had once existed in 1704. I could sort through references to Nicolas Flamel over the centuries, most of which would be fictional. Or perhaps look back on what was going on in the early 1700s that might have involved danger—which was pretty much most of life in 1700. Even something as innocuous as women’s makeup was dangerous back then, poisoned with toxic substances including lead. All paths of historical research were theoretically viable, but each could easily involve years of effort—whereas the painting might reveal the clue I needed as soon as I was able to see it.

When the spicy scent of jalapeño peppers and the sweet earthy fragrance of roasted sweet potatoes and corn reached me in the attic, I climbed down the stairs.

“How is it possible neither of you knows any alchemist whom you can ask for assistance?” Dorian said as I walked into the kitchen. “I cannot believe this is truly the case.”

“Can’t you?” Tobias said. “Neither Zoe or I are your textbook alchemists. A woman and a black man don’t exactly fit into the secret societies practicing alchemy.”

“And they’re a secretive bunch to start with,” I added.

“Alchemists … ” Dorian shook his head and untied his apron. “At least you have a good sense of smell. You have perfect timing. Dinner is served.”

Dinner was flawless. When Dorian had seen how well Tobias’s stewed turnip greens were turning out, he made a spicy jalapeño corn bread and stuffed sweet potatoes to perfectly complement the greens.

This was to be the first autumn I’d lived with Dorian. I’d brought home the season’s first harvest of apples, and that night for desert, Dorian baked an apple pie. Since we both believed in cooking with seasonal ingredients, he’d never made one for me before. I took a bite. And was overcome by memories.

“Something is wrong?” Dorian asked, watching me. A look of horrified embarrassment swept across his face before he took a bite of pie himself. “But there is nothing the matter with my pie! The coconut oil worked well to replace butter … True, it is not overly sweet, yet this is the style of pie I was striving for. It perfectly elevates the apples themselves.”

“This recipe,” I said. “Where did you get it?” The tart flavor and the crisp texture of the pie transformed the apples into something much greater than Dorian could have realized: a memory of my childhood.

“It is my own recipe,” Dorian said, “based on ideas from cookbooks from the library. The Pacific Northwest has many apples, so I wished to learn their secrets.”

“New England is filled with apples,” I said. “I grew up surrounded by orchards. Your apple pie tastes like a freshly picked apple on its best day of the year, eaten after a hard day of manual labor.” Though my childhood hadn’t been an easy one, there were some good memories too. And Dorian had given one back to me.

Dorian beamed. “Bon. Enjoy the pie, because then I fear we are back to our first option. We have come up with no better ideas. You must get a closer look at the painting.”

Which meant I had to speak with the woman who had accused me of murdering her husband.