thirty

“Did she go to the police?” I asked. “Who—?”

“Two problems.” Tobias cut me off. “First, she doesn’t know who the person is—if it’s the forger Neo who’s on the run, or someone else. Second, she doesn’t have the proof. It was something Logan found, which she discovered in their safe after he died. When she went back to look more closely at what she realized it was, she says it was gone, just like the painting.”

“That’s an even better reason to go to the police.”

“Without any hard evidence, and without even knowing who the documents implicate, she’s worried nothing will come of it except for scandal—that there’ll be headlines saying Logan Magnus was in league with an art forger. The police already know about the possible art forgery connection.”

“You realize she could have made up the whole thing to get false sympathy from you.”

“And to draw suspicion away from herself,” Tobias added. “Yeah, I know all that. But my gut is telling me Isabella is good people. One of the lessons I’ve learned from alchemy, especially spiritual alchemy, is that you’ve gotta believe your gut. Even when there’s no rational reason to do so. You’re certainly keeping my mind preoccupied, Zoe Faust. For that, I thank you. Shall we solve this thing or what? Where is Dorian? I have to admit he’s good with coming up with plans under strange circumstances like these.”

Tobias went upstairs to fetch the gargoyle, but returned a minute later shaking his head. “This is weird. He must’ve already gone out for the night. It’s a bit early.”

“He needs to spend even more of the night baking at Blue’s to meet the new demand.”

“Are you sure that’s what he’s up to?” Tobias asked.

“Why do you say that?”

Tobias handed me his phone and showed me a photo of the attic. Only it looked nothing like the space I knew. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“You took this just now?”

He nodded.

“Help me up the stairs,” I croaked.

“You sure?”

“I have to see this with my own eyes.”

With the railing, I barely needed Tobias’s help on the first set of stairs. The steep, narrow stairs leading to the attic were trickier, but I had to see for myself …

I didn’t recognize my attic. Dozens of printouts were taped to the walls, with yards of red yarn strung between the pages. The room had been transformed from a cozy sanctuary to the lair of a conspiracy theorist.

I yanked one paper off the wall. A picture of Isabella Magnus from a newspaper, taken at an art gallery. “This area is a dossier of the whole Magnus family,” I said. “Logan, Cleo, Ward, and Cleo’s ex the mysterious Archer. Even Logan’s parents, Isabella’s sister and parents, and Ward’s family back in England. We’re surrounded by everything publicly available on the family that Dorian could find online and print. Plus the paintings of Philippe Hayden that might be relevant … and clippings about the Portland art forger who escaped after his studio was raided.”

“Look at this side,” Tobias said. “Here on this wall, we’ve also got a few references to Nick and Perenelle—though I’m guessing most of these are wrong. The little fellow has lost it.”

I shook my head and picked up a 1970s spy novel sitting on top of a garage sale box of books and magazines. “He’s simply impressionable. What do you want to bet the characters in this spy novel constructed a suspect chart like this?”

Tobias ran his hands across his face and stifled a laugh.

“It looks like he’s not finished,” I said. “The section above the chess set stops abruptly. He must have realized he needed to leave to start baking—”

I broke off when I saw the note Dorian had left for us: Arrêtez! Stop! Mes amies, I will explain my system once I have returned. There are clues here, but I cannot yet see the forest for the trees.

I woke up at sunrise with my heart beating furiously, the echoes of a dream fresh but fading. I struggled against the image seared into my mind of Philippe Hayden and Perenelle Flamel as partners in crime, laughing as they imprisoned Nicolas in the painting.

If Philippe Hayden was an alchemist who’d discovered the Elixir of Life thanks to Perenelle, could they have worked together to trap Nicolas in a painting? Why would they have let the painting out of their control, and why steal it back now? How was it related to the death of Logan Magnus?

I cautiously stretched my toes, bent my ankle, and stepped softly onto the hardwood floor. Thankfully, my ankle didn’t give way. I felt it twinge, but the ice, poultice, and rest had worked. I could walk with only a minor limp today.

I watered my kitchen window box herb garden and got myself a glass of water with a squeeze of lemon. I slipped on sandals and sat down on the back porch steps, drinking the water as I looked over my garden coming to life with the sun. The plants were covered in dew and the soil was damp from the rain, so I only needed to water the plants in containers on the covered back porch. Max had given me lavender clippings that I’d planted in old tomato cans.

Mint, thyme, and blackberry brambles were taking over the yard. I’d shown Brixton how to safely cut back invasive plants, but he’d resisted cutting down plants that were healthy, asking why we couldn’t simply let the yard run wild as long as everything was doing well. He couldn’t see the underground network of roots that would squeeze out other plants, choking the life out of them. And he wouldn’t believe what he couldn’t see.

In the planned part of the garden, kale, parsley, mustard greens, and mizuna were interspersed with fall squashes. The pumpkins were doing especially well. Only a little bit of powdery mildew touched their leaves.

Back inside, I started hot water for tea and rooted through Dorian’s misshapen creations to see what I’d like for breakfast. Even with the influx of customers, Dorian still refused to serve anything that looked less than perfect. The misshapen pastries tasted every bit as good—arguably better, for having character and more nooks and crannies for the natural sweetness of crisping in the oven—but of course Dorian believed presentation was an essential part of stoking the palette.

I decided it was late enough that I could knock on Tobias’s door to see if he wanted to join me for breakfast. The door swung open as I knocked. The bed was made and the room was empty.

He wasn’t in the bathroom or backyard either. I even checked my Airstream trailer.

“Dorian,” I called as I carefully climbed the attic stairs. “Do you know where Tobias went? Dorian?”

The attic was empty of life as well. My truck was still in the driveway, so they must have walked to wherever they went. Where had they gone?

Only belatedly did I think to look for a message on my cell phone. But there were no messages. I texted Tobias and he wrote back immediately: At breakfast. Back soon.

I sighed. I’m much better at picking up local languages, including accents and dialects, than adapting to new technology. I prefer landline phones that don’t drop a signal and classic cars that can be fixed by hand, and I firmly believe that kitchen tools were perfected in the 1960s. That’s when gadgets served multiple purposes and were built to last. I had the same blender I’d used for fifty years. Like my Chevy, all it needed was a new engine every so often.

Tobias’s text didn’t explain everything, though. Dorian couldn’t go out to breakfast. So where was Dorian?

I had a cup of green tea, a fruit and vegetable smoothie made in my blender, and a misshapen carrot cake breakfast cookie Dorian had rejected the day before—the cookie looked like the state of Florida—all before Tobias walked in the front door.

“How are the teashop crowds?” I asked.

“I wasn’t at Blue’s.”

“You weren’t? I thought you said you were at breakfast? Don’t tell Dorian you’ve found a better spot.”

“I called a car to take me to the Castle to see Isabella again,” Tobias said. “She invited me over for an early breakfast. I thought I’d be back sooner.”

“So last night wasn’t just a one-time sharing of grief … ”

“I can take care of myself, Zoe. And so what if there’s a risk? What good is living for so long if we don’t help people? You used to know that.”

“You think I’m not?”

“Hey, where’s Dorian?”

“He’s not here.”

“What do you mean? It’s daytime. He should be back here.”

“I know.”

Tobias picked up his phone.

“He doesn’t have a cell phone,” I said. “It doesn’t work well with his clawed hands. He can only use a proper keyboard and the landline phone in the house.”

“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m looking to see if there are any news reports of a strange creature sighted.” Tobias broke off and pointed at my phone resting on the dining table. “Your phone is blinking. You’ve got a message.”

It was a text message from Brixton, letting me know he’d gone to school and that Dorian was safe at his house for the day.

“Why is Dorian at Brixton’s house?” Tobias asked.

“Well, they’re friends … ” I said, but there was no reason for Dorian to have taken the risk of going to Brixton’s. No good reason. Not when Brixton was due to come over to our house to work on the garden after school. What were they up to?

The phone rang. The voice on the other end was a whisper. A whisper with a French accent.

“Dorian?” I said.

“Shh!”

“Um … you’re the one who called.”

“Yes, yes. Can you drive yet? Because I need you to pick me up at Brixton’s home.”

“Uh … ”

“Heather was supposed to be working at the teashop,” he whispered, “but she felt like painting instead, because the muse struck. She is here! It is difficult for me to stay in stone form for long periods of time now. I will be waiting if you pick me up. We will need a distraction. Perhaps a fire alarm?”

“No fire alarm,” I said quickly. “I’ll make it work to drive. You can assume stone form for a few minutes when I arrive, and we’ll tell Heather that Brixton borrowed my gargoyle statue to draw you for art class and that I’m picking you up.”

“This is not very believable, no?”

“Hopefully Heather will be so involved in following her muse that she won’t notice.”

I hung up.

“What was that about?” Tobias asked.

“Apparently I’m a gargoyle soccer mom.”