nine

The voice on the phone was one I knew well. Alchemist and former slave Tobias Freeman.

“Is it Rosa?” I asked him.

“She’s at peace now. I was with her when she passed. She was ready to go. Still … ”

“I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved her. How much you two loved each other for decades.”

“More than half a century.” His voice broke.

“Put me to work. I can help with any—”

“I knew you’d offer. That’s why I took care of it before calling. Don’t feel hurt. I know I could have called on you. But this feeling in my chest. I’d forgotten how much the body can hurt. I knew I’d fall apart. I couldn’t handle sympathy. I wouldn’t have made it through.”

Water spilled over the edge of my watering can and lapped onto my boots. I’d forgotten about the running hose. I shut it off and sat down on the steps of the porch, looking out over the dark garden. The plants were already folding in on themselves in anticipation of the night. It was a subtle movement, but I noticed it.

“I’m glad you’re calling now,” I said. Although I hadn’t found Tobias again until a year ago, I’d come across him in the late 1950s without realizing it. A song called “Accidental Life,” by an artist who called himself the Philosopher, had shot up the charts. That song always made me feel like home, wherever I was. I’d carefully preserved the 8-track for decades. I hadn’t realized it was written by my old friend Tobias, whom I’d known as Toby. We’d met back in the nineteenth century while I was doing my small part to help with the Underground Railroad. Toby had been watching the methods I used to create herbal remedies more carefully than I’d realized, and after I left he discovered the Elixir of Life.

“I’m a free man,” he said. “The first time I said those words, it was the most magnificent feeling in the world. But this time … I don’t know that I’ve ever felt such a void.”

“Will you stay in Detroit?”

“Nah. It’s time for me to move on. It’s been too long already. I only stayed and risked it for Rosa.”

“Come to Portland,” I said without thinking. Was I really going to stay? “It’ll be good for you. And you know I have extra room. Even with Dorian, this house feels almost too big after living out of the trailer for so long.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“You’d be doing me a favor.” To say it would be good for him would make it sound like a burden, when it wouldn’t be at all. “I have my first solid lead on what happened to Nicolas.”

“Flamel?”

“He’s imprisoned and he needs my help. And I could use yours.”

I awoke with the sun, as I always did. Since it was shortly before the autumn equinox, that meant it was shortly before seven o’clock. Blue Sky Teas would be opening soon. I could get tea and breakfast there, and hopefully the art gallery would be open by mid-morning.

I drank a large glass of water with a squeeze of lemon, and after a quick shower walked to the teashop. I felt apprehensive from seeing the article, knowing that all of Portland now believed I was the one baking the great breakfast pastries. But it was also comforting that my oldest friend would be coming to visit. He would be going through a tough time for a while, and I was glad I could help. I also felt hopeful because I loved this time of year, when day and night were in balance and the last of summer crops were being harvested before fall arrived. Summer fruits always tasted the sweetest right before they were about to disappear for another full cycle of the year.

When I reached Hawthorne, a line spilled out onto the sidewalk. A good crowd could always be expected at Blue Sky Teas on a Saturday morning, but nothing like this. I saw through the front windows that the long line snaked around the live weeping fig tree that stood in the center of the cozy space. Blue had created a welcoming gathering spot in both appearance and sustenance. Even before Dorian had begun cooking pastries for the teashop, Blue’s heavenly homemade teas beckoned to people from across Portland.

The setting was as comforting as the teas. A plaque above the orange door read, “There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be diminished by a nice cup of tea—Bernard-Paul Heroux.” Around the weeping fig tree, the eight tables had circular tree-ring tops. To celebrate the approach of autumn, the weeping fig tree was decorated with strands of red, orange, and yellow lights. Beyond the central tree, a series of alchemy-inspired paintings lined one wall. The subject of this set of paintings was plants in lush forests at various stages of growth. Eyes peeked out from the background darkness, and the older trees dipped their leaves into flowers that looked like glass vials, leading to a final transformation that suggested they were about to step out of the forest.

The amateur artist who’d created the paintings that complemented Blue Sky Teas so beautifully was Heather Taylor, the mother of my young friend Brixton. She’d made this series of paintings reminiscent of alchemy after seeing the alchemical items I sold at Elixir. Heather didn’t know alchemy was real, but Brixton was one of the few people who knew my secret—and Dorian’s. It was an accident that he’d seen the gargoyle, but after a shaky start he’d become one of our most trusted friends in Portland.

I spotted Brixton behind the counter. Since he’d turned fifteen that summer, Heather thought it would be good for him to get his first part-time job, where she and “Aunt Blue” could look out for him. His dark curls could use a haircut, and each time I saw him I could have sworn he’d grown another inch.

The eight tables were full, and a handful of people stood with their tea and pastries around a high table near the picture window. One woman stood apart, neither in line nor around a table. At the sight of her, my whole body froze. It was the woman from the art gallery. She must have seen the paper. That’s how she knew to find me here. It was exactly what I’d been afraid of.

Before I could regain my composure, Blue walked over from behind the counter. “Zoe!”

Brixton stayed at the cash register to deal with the long line.

“Did you see the paper?” Blue said with a grin. In her enthusiasm, her silver curls bounced on her shoulders. “Your food is a hit. Are you up for increasing the volume and variety?”

Before I could reply, the woman cut across the shop.

“Let me see it,” she said, pointing a finger in my face. “The necklace,” she continued before I could speak, and now that she was close to me it was clear her voice was shaking. “Let me see it.”

Breathe, Zoe. My hand instinctively moved to cover my locket, even though it was safely underneath my blouse. That must have been why she’d accused me of murder at the gallery. I’d been holding my locket and pendant in my hand, pulled out from under my sweater. But if that’s all it was, then surely it was a mistake.

“I recognized it when I saw you at the gallery,” she said. She stepped so close I could see the faint scar from an old nose ring on her thin nose. She towered over me, her long black wrap dress hanging loosely over a gaunt frame. The woman unnerved me, but I didn’t sense violence from her.

“Is there a problem?” Blue asked. I was struck by the contrast between the two women. Both had naturally beautiful silver-streaked hair, but Blue let her curls run wild and dressed her round body in baggy jeans and soft wool sweaters. The woman from the art gallery had sleek hair and impossibly high heels.

The woman’s thin shoulders fell, the first sign of vulnerability I’d seen in her. “Please … I’ll leave just as soon as you show me your necklace. I just … Please.”

“It’s okay,” I said to Blue. I pulled the chain up, revealing the gold locket and the pewter pendant. If I gave her a closer look, she would see that it wasn’t whatever she thought it was.

But instead of being disappointed, she gasped and nodded. “Where did you get it?” She reached out her hand for the phoenix pendant but Blue pulled me away.

“You need to leave,” Blue said. She spoke more powerfully than I’d ever heard before. It wasn’t volume. It was command. I remembered that the Blue Sky who stood beside me with her shoulders squared used to be a trial lawyer before running away from her old life and opening the teashop in Portland.

The woman from the gallery had spoken quietly, not wanting to raise a scene, but at the sound of Blue’s voice, several customers paused and turned our way.

“If you don’t leave right now,” Blue continued, “I’m calling the police.”

“Please do,” the woman said. “You’ll save me the effort.”

Blue hesitated. She caught my eye for guidance. Why did the strange woman want the police involved? I shook my head. Blue lowered the phone she was holding.

The woman picked up her own phone and began dialing.

“You’re wearing the pendant I made for my husband, Logan Magnus,” she said. “He was wearing it the night he was murdered.”