three

Normally the people of Portland were a friendly lot. I could occasionally upset someone when they thought I was proselytizing about my plant-based diet, but strangers didn’t frequently accuse me of killing people. Though admittedly it had been known to happen more than I would have liked. Alchemy comes with a lot of baggage.

But it wasn’t supposed to happen here in Portland, my fresh start.

“You have the wrong—”

“It was you,” the stunning dark-haired woman said again, tightening her grip until it was sure to leave a bruise. “You have his—” Her voice broke off as I twisted free. “Stop her!” she cried.

A group of joggers turned their heads in our direction, but I didn’t stop to see if they acted beyond craning their necks. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in over three hundred years of staying alive in war and peace, it’s that it’s best to get away from people trying to harm you.

But as I ran down the waterfront path, not pausing to look back, I wondered … who did she think I had killed?

My heart beat as furiously as it had during the Red Phase of an alchemical transformation, but for less pure reasons. It was the fear of being exposed. I’ve stayed alive by helping people while living a quiet life. It’s an existence that requires moving frequently, which is why I’d lived out of my 1950s Airstream trailer for years. I’m fearless when it comes to many things, but I’m terrified of being thrust into the spotlight.

In her high heels, there was no way she’d be able to keep up with me. I hoped nobody else tried, but I wasn’t taking chances. My rust-colored boots splashed through a puddle from the previous day’s storm. I kept running until I could no longer catch my breath. I slowed to a walk, hoping nobody had followed. My entire body was shaking.

I was in no shape to see Max. Dorian expected me to bring home groceries after visiting him, so I’d reverse the order and pick up groceries for Dorian before heading to Max’s house. I couldn’t lie to Max. I hadn’t yet told him the whole truth about myself, but lie to his face? That, I couldn’t do.

Twenty minutes later, as I walked up the sloping driveway to my house, I was no longer as apprehensive, but I couldn’t stop thinking about both the strange accusation and Logan Magnus’s painting of Nicolas. With a brown paper bag blocking most of my view, I unlocked the front door of my house. As soon as I’d closed it, I felt fingers wrap themselves around my wrist.

Again.

I dropped the bag and spun around, my heart racing. So much for not being on edge. There was nobody at eye level, but the grip on my wrist was very real. It came from someone two feet shorter.

“Je suis désolé for startling you,” Dorian said, his black eyes innocent as he looked up at me. “I am so pleased to see you. I was getting very hungry.”

He let go of my wrist and jumped up and down impatiently, his bare feet thumping on the hardwood floor, then scooped up the slightly squished bag of produce and scampered toward the kitchen.

Dorian isn’t my child. He isn’t even a child. Dorian Robert-Houdin is a nearly-150-year-old gargoyle. Who’s also a chef. It’s a long story.

The key facts are that Dorian was once stone but was accidentally brought to life through a dangerous form of alchemy. I met him when he snuck into a crate I’d shipped to Portland from Paris. Dorian wanted my help deciphering the ancient alchemy book that had brought him to life as a living gargoyle in the first place, but its alchemy was unraveling and causing him to die a slow, unnatural death that would keep him awake but trapped in stone forever. Through our efforts this past year, he’d recently discovered the true Elixir of Life for himself. The once-perilous book had been stolen before we could destroy it, but it was no longer a danger. I hoped.

Dorian could hold still and pretend to be stone if anyone not in our inner circle were to see him. Though it was a perfect way to hide, he rarely did it these days. He was still traumatized from having been taken into police custody in stone form before.

Now he flapped his wings with glee as he removed the stalk of brussels sprouts sticking out of the bag. “Très bon. We have caraway seeds, garlic-infused olive oil … ”

I forgot to mention what is perhaps the most important thing about Dorian. He’s French.

I could see the wheels spinning in his mind as he thought about transforming the raw ingredients into sumptuous meals. He’d apprenticed for a blind chef before going to work as a personal chef for blind people, all of whom believed his lie that he was a disfigured man uncomfortable being seen. Until Dorian met me, he’d lived a lonely and secretive life.

Setting the bag and stalk of brussels sprouts on the kitchen counter, Dorian retrieved the stepping stool. The three-and-a-half-foot-tall gargoyle had originally been carved for the gallery of gargoyles at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, as part of the 1850s renovation by Eugène Viollet-le-Duc. The architect then realized that Dorian was too small to be seen from the ground, so the gargoyle was cast aside for the larger chimeras that now adorn the cathedral. It meant Dorian was also too short for the height of an average kitchen counter.

The sight of a gargoyle cooking in my kitchen had taken a bit of getting used to. Dorian resembles the famous Thinker gargoyle now atop Notre Dame, with similar horns and snout. His horns now wriggled more freely, and his wings were soft, like the feathers of a phoenix risen from the ashes. Though unlike a bird, he couldn’t fly.

“Superb,” he said, sniffing the pears. His snout crinkled in ecstasy. “I am beginning to think the Elixir reinvigorated my senses. Not taste, but smell. The olfactory senses are the strongest. You experience them both when you smell the aroma before taking a bite, and also right before you swallow. It is as if I have been rescued from a desert island where I lived only on coconuts and the water I captured by condensation … before being rescued by a prince who is secretly my father.”

“Have you been watching daytime television soap operas again?”

Dorian crossed his arms. “If a certain alchemist would get me the books I requested from the library, I would not have to.”

“My library account was suspended for defacing library books.”

Dorian gasped. “What have you done, Zoe?”

I scowled at the gargoyle. “It’s your doing. It’s all the cookbooks you’ve written in.”

“But I am fixing them! How can one properly capture the complex flavors of a stew without deglazing a pan? Or use garlic without letting it rest? Or—”

“I know, Dorian, but you can’t write in library books.”

“But—”

“For any reason.”

He looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments. “What if a recipe would poison someone?”

“You found a poisonous recipe?”

“No. Not as of yet. But this would be an exception, no?”

I sighed. “If you find poison, you can fix it. But that’s it. All right?”

He relaxed his arms and studied my face. “What is wrong, my friend?”

“I’ve had the strangest evening.”

“You have broken Max’s heart?”

“What? No! Why would you say that?”

Dorian shrugged. “You are home earlier than expected. I understood you were having dinner with Max.”

“I didn’t want to see him while I was upset, because I didn’t want to lie to him.”

“Nor to see him when your hair looks like you have run through a field of brambles.”

I ran a hand through my hair. It’s cut at an angle and falls well above my shoulders. Since it’s naturally bright white, I keep it cut stylishly to make it look as if I dye it to be trendy.

“What has upset you?” Dorian asked, blinking up at me.

“I saw a painting that looks like Nicolas Flamel. Before I could look more closely, I had to run away—because a woman accused me of killing someone.”

Dorian’s clawed hand flew to his mouth. “C’est terrible! For an alchemist, you are not very good at hiding.”

“I got out of there, didn’t I?”

“True.”

Dorian pushed open the swinging door and disappeared into the living room. I followed in time to see him peeking carefully through the curtains we always kept drawn.

“Les flics have not descended,” he declared. “I see no police cars. I believe you are safe. Why do you attract such inopportune people? And I understand why you believe you saw Nicolas in a painting. It is because of the letter he left you. But it is no use, Zoe. You cannot decipher it. Even after you used heat to recover more of the ink, it revealed nothing more.”

Over the past several months, I’d tried everything I could think of to raise the ink beyond the few visible words. Dearest Zoe, If you find this one day … I hope you can help. All my efforts had achieved was showing darker versions of doodles in the margins. But now …

I swore. It seemed so obvious now.

“Dorian, it really is a painting of Nicolas. And I was wrong about the methods I’ve been using to raise the ink. That portrait tonight showed me how I can decipher his note.”