thirty-one

I returned half an hour later, safe but with a sore ankle, and set the satchel containing my “statue” on the living room floor. Dorian climbed out and stretched. He flapped his wings and wriggled his horns.

“Now that we can talk,” I said, “what were you doing at Brixton’s house?”

“I do not suppose you would believe I was assisting him with his mathematics?”

“No.”

“You are right.” Dorian giggled. “I was helping him with history.”

“Before dawn?” Tobias said. “What kind of teenager gets up before dawn?”

Dorian sighed. “You are correct. I had many misshapen pastries last night, so I wished to bring him extras. He is a growing boy, after all. When I was leaving the bag on his window sill, he woke up. We are friends. Alors, we conversed. And then it was too late to come home.”

I eyed the gargoyle. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“You are such a serious, suspicious person, Zoe Faust. I worry for your blood pressure. You are not immortal, you know.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Can we get down to business?” Tobias said. “The conspiracy room in the attic.”

“Ah, so you discovered my research. It is not yet complete, so I hope you heeded my note.”

“We did,” I said. “Otherwise we would have been up all night trying to figure out your methods rather than considering what you’d actually discovered.”

“Bon. I will meet you in the attic.”

“You’re not coming?” Tobias asked him.

“You don’t know him as well as I do,” I said. “He’s going to the kitchen.”

“Dorian, buddy,” Tobias said, “isn’t this research more important than cooking? And I’ve already eaten breakfast. I don’t need anything.”

Dorian stood to his full height of three-and-a-half-feet, plus a few added inches of wings that stretched past his horns. “You know not of which you speak, Monsieur Freeman. If we do not have regular sustenance, our brains cannot function properly. And if we do not take the time to savor—”

“We’ll meet you in the attic,” I said, hooking my hand around Tobias’s elbow. “You need to pick your battles,” I whispered.

“I heard that,” Dorian called over his shoulder from the swinging kitchen door. “And yes, this is yet another reason we need food. We must prepare for battle.”

While Dorian cooked, Tobias and I cleared space in the attic for the three of us to sit around a table. I moved the chess set from its perch, careful not to move the pieces from Dorian and Tobias’s in-progress game, and Tobias hefted the steamer trunk and an ottoman to the table.

“I can barely see these articles with the lines of red yarn covering so much of the walls,” Tobias said.

“I have an idea.” I reached for my laptop.

Dorian arrived in the attic a few minutes after I’d completed my task. He carried an apple-themed tray: freshly cut apples from the farmers’ market next to small dishes of homemade nut butters; mini fresh-baked baguettes filled with thinly sliced apples, figs, and cashew cream; and a pot of jasmine green tea, which I recognized as the batch Max had made.

“A simple mid-morning snack,” he said, expertly spreading a white tablecloth with one hand while he balanced the tray in the other. “Bof! What is this?”

“He’s noticed your contribution,” Tobias said.

I’d printed out two dozen pages of what looked like the most relevant articles on the members of the Magnus household, as well as references to art forgery in Portland, and taped them to the bookshelf. I’d been forced to limit myself to that small number because the printer was running out of ink. No red threads connected the information. They were simply there for us to read.

Dorian frowned. “This is not how proper investigators make connections.”

“At least we can read the text and see the photos,” I pointed out. “But we never would have found all of these articles without you.”

Dorian grinned. “I am quite adept at internet searches. My fr—I mean, I have taught myself many things in this strange new world. I prioritized high quality photographs, as you can see. You are certain none of these people are Perenelle Flamel?”

I shook my head as I limped across the attic, lifting pieces of yarn to study each face in the hundreds of images on the walls. “None of these people look like anyone I know.”

“Let’s take it from the top,” Tobias said, pointing at the top left paper. “We’ve got Logan Magnus, the famous Portland artist who grew up the only child of a famous father, who died by swallowing toxic paint—either by his own hand, which is unlikely, or by force.”

“What’s not on the walls,” I said, “is that Logan had an interest in alchemical artwork and owned Hayden’s painting The Alchemist.”

“Purchased by Cleo Magnus,” Dorian said, scampering to the section of wall focused on Logan’s daughter. “I have included the auction house in my notes. You see? The auction house is legitimate. I do not believe they are lying about the burglary in which all records of the painting were stolen. There must be a conspiracy afoot. This is why I conducted such thorough research.”

“Why the red yarn?” Tobias asked.

“This is how connections are made,” Dorian said, pointing his clawed index finger at the intricate red spiderweb.

“But you’ve got every single paper connected. How does that help—”

“I didn’t know Cleo was an artist herself,” I said to preempt an argument. I was reading an old article on Cleo I’d taped to the bookshelf. “Or that she owned a lot of waterfront property that she’s been renting out as art galleries. I thought she was only an art dealer.”

“Oui. She studied fine art during her college years.”

“And,” Tobias said, “Ward Talbot, Cleo’s husband, was previously swindled by an art forger. His career as an art dealer was nearly ruined. Damn. That’s gotta sting.”

“Looks like his English baron father got him back on his feet,” I said.

“Even worse for his ego, I’d expect,” Tobias said. “You think he could have hated art forgers enough to kill one?”

“We deal in facts here in my attic, Monsieur Freeman,” Dorian said. “Such as the fact that I find no signs that any of these people could be an alchemist. They all have families. This is why I have done such extensive research. I fear that we have no leads on Perenelle Flamel and Philippe Hayden. Wherever they are, they are in the shadows.”

“The shadows … ” I said. “Archer. He’s the only person who doesn’t have family connections here. And remember, Cleo suspected him of stealing the painting. She thought it was a joke, but—”

“First instincts are often the right ones,” Tobias said. “Even if we don’t know where they come from.”

“Archer, Archer … ” Dorian mumbled to himself as he followed incomprehensible lines of yarn. “Ah! Here. ‘Artist Archer.’ A rather self-congratulatory moniker, is it not? This is how he signs his artwork. Therefore I do not know his surname, so there is no way to find his family.”

“He’s just a kid,” Tobias said, looking at a photo of Archer.

“I felt the same way when I saw him at the gallery,” I said. “I don’t think he could be as old as Philippe Hayden. Not simply his looks, but the way he carries himself. He’s a twenty-something finding himself. Not a 450-year-old painter.”

“Unless,” Dorian said, drumming his fingers together, “he is a master of disguise.”

“We deal with facts in this attic, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” Tobias said, looking at a photo of Archer from a zine. He picked up a sketch of another young man. “This doesn’t look like Archer, but this guy doesn’t have a name.”

“Ah yes,” Dorian said. “This is the person presumed to be the art forger who fled the city after his studio was raided earlier this year. I found it in relation to my research on art forgery in Portland. He goes by the name Neo, but his real name is unknown.”

Tobias leaned over the gargoyle to get a better look at the photo. “It’s a rather generic image. Could be almost anyone.”

“If my olfactory senses are not mistaken,” Dorian said, “you have been eating bacon. You did not find my leftover breakfast options satisfactory? I know bacon is superb, but I have been surprised not to miss it at all after learning how to cook differently—”

“I went to see a friend,” Tobias said.

“She’s not a friend,” I said. “You can’t think of her like that.”

“Zoe, don’t start.”

“Start what? I’m trying to make sure my dear friend doesn’t get hurt.”

“Isabella?” Dorian said. “The metal-sculptor wife of Logan Magnus? The beautiful woman we see before us on these very attic walls?”

“The murder suspect,” I said, “who tried to deflect suspicion off herself by accusing me.”

“What happened to trusting me?” Tobias asked.

“It’s one thing to let you accept a gift. It’s another if you two are bosom buddies now.”

Dorian cleared his throat and flapped his wings. “If you would stop bickering, you would see we must send Tobias undercover at the Castle.”

Tobias and I stared speechlessly at the gargoyle.

“Bon,” Dorian said. “I take your silence as agreement. You, Tobias Freeman, will be our mole.”

Tobias raised an eyebrow at me. “You weren’t kidding about that spy novel.”

“I will bake fortifications,” Dorian said. “Have you discerned what type of foods are Isabella’s favorite?”

“None are needed,” Tobias said. “I’ve already made plans to go to the gallery with her later.”

“You—” I began, but Dorian silenced me with a hand on my arm.

“Get yourself invited back to the Castle,” Dorian said calmly. If I didn’t know better, I would have said he was practicing his hypnosis voice. His stage magician father had unwisely taught him the basics of mesmerism, which he’d tried to teach Brixton.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Tobias said. “Because whatever I discover will help both Zoe and Isabella. That painting of Nick is somehow tied up in her husband’s murder.”

It made me uneasy to see how much Tobias trusted Isabella Magnus. But he could make his own decisions. And Nicolas’s fate might depend on what he could learn.