forty-two

1597, Prague, Bohemia

Perenelle hadn’t anticipated the violence to come so quickly.

She awoke in the middle of the night with a cold, rough sack sliding over her head. She flailed her arms and legs, but to no avail. He was stronger. A rope pulled the sack tightly against her neck.

“Be still,” the voice said, the acrid scent of his breath accompanying the words. It wasn’t Edward. This was one of the men he kept in his employ, the one with very few teeth. “This is your only warning before I snap that little neck.”

“We both know he doesn’t want me dead,” Perenelle said through the stifling fabric. As he relaxed his grip, she kneed him in a most unpleasant place.

The man grunted in pain but he didn’t let her go. It was small comfort that the noose didn’t tighten around her neck. Instead, a heavy object crashed onto her head. In spite of the darkness from the sack, Perenelle saw flashes of light from a million stars. The bright starbursts were so beautiful, an unexpected thought flashed through her mind: she wished she could find the right pigments to paint them. Then all became darkness.

When she awoke, she found herself in a cell, most angry at herself for underestimating Edward. A cup of foul-smelling beer, a torn stub of stale bread, and an empty bucket were her only company in the room with stone walls and a thick wooden door. The only light came from a narrow slit high above. The fact that she could see told her it was daylight.

The stone bore no identifying mark. She wasn’t sure where she was. But it didn’t matter. By the time someone came to check on her hours later, she had formulated a plan.

“When you’re ready to cooperate,” said the man with few teeth, leering at her from the cracked doorway, “I will send for him.”

“Please, kind sir,” Perenelle said, her voice cracking, “you and Edward have made your point. You have won. I will do as he wishes.” She crumpled into a fit of sobs.

She dared not look up at him, fearing he’d see the malice in her eyes or that the tears were false.

She needn’t have worried. Edward was used to bending people to his will. He easily accepted that he had broken her. He brought her the materials she needed to create gold and paint it into paintings. He would be watching her, to learn the secrets himself. Once he learned the secrets of alchemy, would he kill her or let her go? She wasn’t going to wait and see.

Perenelle’s plan was simple—she only prayed it would be successful.

The idea was to work Edward to the brink of collapse—alchemy was a painstaking, laborious process, after all. She waited for him to confess he needed a break to rest. Yet he carried on. Why wouldn’t he stop for much-needed sleep? Ah! She knew the answer. Though Edward’s exhaustion showed in his tired eyes and unsteady hands, he would not confess to being weaker than a woman. She hid her irritation and feigned fatigue. The reprimand was a small price to pay to being left alone.

Perenelle had been able to paint the essence of a flower into a painting and physically move it into the painting. Why wouldn’t it be possible to do so with a human being? The heart of alchemy was capturing the true essence of a person (the Elixir of Life), of a plant (apothecary healing powers), or of a mineral (the Philosopher’s Stone, to turn base metals into gold).

The same principles applied here. She’d done it with the gold nuggets and the flower, so it stood to reason she could do it with a man.

She painted a scene, leaving room for a person, then pilfered a cloth from the guard’s pocket when he brought her more foul food. This was not only possible, but child’s play, because he always tried to caress her face. This time it worked to her advantage.

Collecting ashes and dried flowers, she carefully mixed in the grime from the guard’s handkerchief. Next she mixed the powdery pigment with an egg binder.

Pushing away her food, she turned back to her artwork, focusing her intent on the guard. She worked in brisk movements, painting his cape in shadows. She sketched his face in charcoal from the fire—the essence of charcoal helped her capture essences, just as it was essential in alchemy—then painted his features.

She felt the energy as she painted his eyes. It was working. She was nearly done. Just the snarl of his lips to capture his personality and give him life.

She called out to him. He came grudgingly. As he opened the door, she looked from his face to the lips of the painting. They weren’t quite right … With the finishing touch that captured his essence, he disappeared from the room.

Perenelle turned back to the canvas. The malicious eyes painted from soot and soul shone back at her.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, twirled the tip of her brush into a sharp point, and painted her signature P in the corner.

She was free.