six

Dorian kissed the rolling pin. “I have always told you my high-end cooking supplies were worth it. I have enabled your first breakthrough. I am glad you have a clue to find Monsieur Flamel.”

How had the painting ended up in Portland four hundred years after its creation? Dare I hope Nicolas was still alive?

“What was the dangerous task he mentions, and how did his portrait come to be here?” Dorian asked, echoing my own thoughts.

“All this time,” I murmured, feeling my throat constricting. “All these years when I never heard from him, it wasn’t because he’d abandoned me and lost his humanity—it was because he was either dead or imprisoned.”

Who was he asking me to stop? What information had Philippe Hayden hidden in the painting? And what had become of Perenelle? Nicolas hadn’t mentioned her in the legible portion of the note I could read.

“Do not look so forlorn, mon amie,” Dorian said. “You are the person who taught me to have hope, and it is why I am alive today. You will find Monsieur Flamel, and I will find my stolen alchemy book. Alas, I have not seen any signs of it yet.” Dorian pointed his rolling pin at the pile of European newspapers sticking out of the recycle bin. “But I have hope.”

Backward alchemy was a dark alchemy that used unnatural shortcuts and had claimed many lives. We’d put an end to it, but Dorian felt responsible that we couldn’t entirely close that chapter of our lives while the book still existed.

“The book is harmless now,” I said as I grabbed my silver raincoat.

Dorian frowned. “You are leaving to be with Max now?”

“I’m going to see the painting again first, but yes, then I’m going to see Max.”

Dorian clicked his tongue. “I have read enough novels to know what it is to be in love. Max is in love with you. It is clear you mean the world to him. Yet you can never tell him the truth about yourself. It is impossible. Mark my words. If there is one thing you must fear, it is that the man who loves you will be your downfall.”

“Now I’m definitely convinced you’ve been watching too many soap operas. The man I love will be my downfall? Really?” Dorian was certainly a dramatic little gargoyle.

He blinked at me. “This was said in a Gothic novel, not a television program. A young governess with a heart-shaped face visited a gypsy fortune-teller—”

“I get the picture,” I said. “But that’s fiction. This is real life.”

“This means you are going to tell Max about alchemy? And about me?”

“I need to figure out the best way. But yes. I’ll tell him, at least about me.”

Dorian’s gray jaw fell, revealing gray stone teeth. “Temperamental alchemists,” he grumbled.

“He’s a good man, Dorian.”

“If you need me,” he said, shaking his head, “you know where to find me. I will be here in my kitchen.”

Though I’d bought the house, this was certainly his kitchen. I’d lived out of my trailer for more than half a century, so I didn’t need much in terms of a kitchen. One copper pot on a single burner to cook legumes and hearty root vegetables, and a blender to make vegetable soups and smoothies. The kitchen in the Craftsman house hadn’t been updated since the 1950s, but that hadn’t bothered me. I loved the porcelain gas stove and pink fridge. Both were tiny compared to modern standards, but they seemed huge to me. Dorian had other ideas.

“Cilantro—bof!” Dorian muttered from beyond the kitchen’s swinging door. He must have spotted the fresh cilantro I’d picked and placed in a jar of water on the counter. “It is not even supposed to be in season! Sometimes I wish the alchemist was not so good with plants.”

Dorian had been horrified to learn I ate a plant-based vegan diet. We’d found common ground when we’d discovered that we both agreed the most important thing was the quality of the ingredients themselves. He’d learned how to cook French delicacies with only plant-based ingredients. He was more surprised than anyone that it had worked. And I was surprised by how it no longer felt strange to have a gargoyle as my best friend and roommate.

At Max Liu’s door, I rapped with the shiny brass lion-head knocker. I had arrived sooner than I’d expected to, since the Logan Magnus memorial art gallery was closed when I drove by, a black curtain drawn across the windows. Seeing the Nicolas painting would have to wait until the next day.

Max opened his crimson-colored front door. His normally perfect black hair was askew, and his deep brown eyes reflected tenderness and passion back at me.

Simply being with Max gave me a euphoria I couldn’t remember ever having felt before I met him. We could talk about everything and nothing, and enjoyed both chatting for hours and sitting in contemplative silence. And those dark eyes, and the black hair that drove him crazy when it wasn’t perfectly in place …

“Sorry I’m so late,” I said.

I expected him to smile and pull me into a kiss. Instead, he frowned and sneezed. I noticed, then, that his nose was nearly as red as his front door.

“You didn’t get my texts telling you not to come?”

I still hadn’t gotten used to cell phones. I looked at mine and saw I’d missed two texts and a voicemail message.

“I’m glad I missed them,” I said. “This way I can take care of you.” And he could take care of me.

“I don’t want to get you sick, Zoe.”

“I won’t get sick. But I wouldn’t care if I did. Now, let’s see what you’ve got in the kitchen. I’ll bring you some of my own home remedies tomorrow.”

I led the way to the kitchen, and Max leaned against the kitchen doorway while I assessed the contents of the cabinets. I could feel him watching me, but I didn’t expect the words that followed.

“Zoe,” he said, “you lied to me.”