thirty-five

1597, Prague, Bohemia

The more beautiful a painting, the less likely it was to contain the true secrets of alchemy. That was the way it was—before Philippe Hayden. Alchemy versus art.

Alchemy had always been handed down through secret codes shared through secret associations. Those coded illustrations resided in woodcuts, not in paintings. Paintings with alchemy as the subject matter existed, but they were painted by artists who had no knowledge of alchemy itself. Those artists had patrons who envisioned alchemy as a romantic pursuit rather than the backbreaking labor it truly was. Therefore the artists painted the pleasing settings their patrons wanted.

Philippe, meanwhile, wished to hide alchemy’s secrets in artwork that would be displayed, so that more worthy people might discover the science. Men and women, regardless of their stature in life, could have a chance to use alchemy if they so wished. Philippe knew what it was like to be kept outside, unable to obtain delicious knowledge.

Coming to a royal court was the best way the painter had found to attain the status of a great artist whose work might appear before the public, not only now but in future generations.

There was one last thing to try. Could such a transformation as had been achieved with the alchemical painting of the gold nuggets possibly work with something living?

Philippe hesitated, then stepped outside. Night had fallen and the moon had risen. That was a good sign. The moon held power—especially to someone with such gifts. The artist stepped back inside and lit additional candles.

With the outside world fading away, Philippe used focused intent, this time concentrating on a dying dandelion flower. Using arsenic and dragon’s blood from the alchemy lab, the painter recreated the flower on canvas.

As had happened with the gold, the flower disappeared from the side table and appeared on the canvas. But at great cost … Philippe collapsed onto the floor from the exertion and did not awaken until first light.

Stiff joints did not detract from feeling exuberance at what appeared on the canvas that morning The dying flower had not deteriorated further during the night. Its life force had been suspended.

This was no time to be timid. Confidence was needed for the next stage of transformation to succeed. After several deep breaths, Philippe reached inside the painting. The canvas gave way. The flower and gold now sat in the painter’s hand, exactly as they had been before entering the painting.

But in great excitement, the painter had failed to look around. Joy turned to horror as the shadow of a man appeared.

Edward had been watching the alchemist since daybreak. Now that Philippe was working for him, Edward had a key to enter the rooms at his pleasure, yet he still preferred to watch the artist secretly. At first he had considered waking Philippe, who was sleeping not in bed but on the stone floor. As the daylight from the one window woke the man, Edward was kneeling behind a row of canvases. He remained hidden until he understood what the alchemist was doing. This was the secret. Philippe had extracted a living flower and chunk of gold from within the painting.

“Hello, Philippe,” said Edward, stepping out from behind the canvases. “You and I must speak. It appears I have been underestimating alchemy and you have more to teach me.”

Philippe nearly dropped the flower, but had the presence of mind to quickly recover. His eyes narrowed and his chin thrust out defiantly.

That’s when Edward saw it. Philippe had no Adam’s apple. He wouldn’t have noticed it had it not been for other subtle clues that Edward hadn’t thought much of. The artist’s diminutive size wasn’t abnormal; many people had been malnourished in childhood. Philippe’s voice had also not fully matured.

Edward’s eyes dropped to the painter’s chest. It was impossible to detect its form. The artist wore a loose robe, caked with dirt. Only it wasn’t dirt. Edward realized that the air in this supposedly dirty room had a more pleasant odor than in other houses within the castle walls. The “dirt” was a carefully constructed mixture of paints. And Philippe’s hair. It was not the hairstyle of a woman, yet the short hair revealed a petite head.

“Who are you?” Edward hissed. “Mademoiselle.”

He watched in awe as the painter’s eyes grew wide. He’d been right. This was no man.

“You insult me, sir?” the painter said.

“If I send for a guard,” Edward said, “he will most certainly have a less pleasant way of proving you are a woman. Tell me, who are you?”

Philippe’s thin shoulders shook. With rage or with fear, Edward wasn’t sure. He waited for the man—er, woman—to speak.

“Does it matter?” the masquerading woman asked.

“No. You’re right. It does not.” Edward took in the painter, seeing him—her—in a new light. “The only thing that matters is that you can trust me with your life. As long as—”

“There’s always an as long as.”

Edward arched an eyebrow. “As long as you agree to my plan.”

The woman nodded. “I have already agreed to teach you the steps to true alchemy.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Edward said. “You had your chance. Now I desire more. You will show me how to move gold into and out of a painting.”

She laughed without humor. “You have smuggling in mind?”

“Such a crass word for enterprising individuals who have faithfully served their king. You and I are going to be Rudolf’s most favored artisans. And very, very rich.”

There was no use pretending. She wasn’t physically strong enough to resist the men who would tear her robe from her and see she was a woman. “Philippe” nodded.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of the raw minerals she ground and mixed to transform into the pigments that would come alive as images of the natural world. Sulfurous dragon’s blood, earthy ochre, metallic carbon, tinny chalk. Natural minerals she could command. She was not as powerful as Edward, but she was a force of nature with a brilliant mind, with an equally brilliant mind supporting her.

“If Nicolas Flamel doesn’t hear from me within the week with a message that I’m well,” she said, “there will be trouble. He expects regular letters from me.”

“He knows you’re a woman?”

“Of course. I’m his wife. Perenelle Flamel.”