Five

When I walked into my kitchen sanctuary shortly after sunrise, Dorian was already there, wearing an apron and standing tall on his stepping stool as he fixed himself an espresso. I took a deep breath and savored the energizing scents surrounding me. A bowl of freshly made wild blackberry compote mingled with the fragrances of yeast from a loaf of sourdough bread in the oven and freshly ground French roast coffee beans. Next to the espresso machine sat two grinders, one for coffee beans and one for aromatic spices.

I tugged at the sleeve of my blouse, which was poking out from an ill-fitted sweater. I hated nearly all of the new clothing that I’d picked up at a local secondhand shop after my clothes were ruined. I supposed it was better the splintered wood had fallen into my closet rather than my bed, but I was unhappy nonetheless. I’ve never gotten used to wearing off-the-rack clothes. Even when ready-to-wear clothing supposedly fits properly, no two bodies are alike; it’s impossible to get a perfect fit without tailoring.

I hitched up my high-waisted, oversize jeans to avoid tripping, but my superficial concerns were forgotten as soon as my gaze fell to Dorian’s left foot. Not only was it fully stone, but another claw had broken off. Would it grow back after I healed him?

“Morning, Dorian,” I said, hesitating to mention his foot. I also thought better of mentioning the fact that there was a chance there might be another alchemist in town. It was much more likely that Peter Silverman was a criminal hiding from his past; that would explain why he hated photographs and shunned social media. Dorian had a habit of overreacting.

“If you visit Blue Sky Teas today,” he said, tamping down the coffee grounds, “you will see a new cake named after Brixton. I found a large patch of ‘wild treasure’ blackberries, which the boy loves. Brixton’s Blackberry Bread will be on the menu.” He turned from the espresso machine and his black eyes grew wide. “Mon dieu. I thought you were a morning person.”

“That bad, huh?” I hadn’t lived with another person in nearly a century. I wasn’t used to making myself presentable before breakfast. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair. I gave a start as a clump of hair pulled out into my hand. It was happening again. I quickly tossed the hair ball into the trash. Thankfully, Dorian didn’t appear to have noticed.

“I would be happy to make you an espresso. Perhaps one that is très petite?”

Dorian had ordered the espresso maker on my credit card—without asking me. Since I don’t drink coffee, the existence of the contraption caused people to think I had a “friend” who stayed overnight. Brixton’s efforts had cemented the gossip that I had a secret French boyfriend. Before he realized he needed to protect Dorian from the world, he’d tried to expose the gargoyle. Though I’d foiled Brixton’s attempts to share a video of Dorian, he’d gotten a voice recording of Dorian’s deep French-accented voice that he shared with his friends. I couldn’t completely deny the existence of a Frenchman, so I made up a story about a platonic friend who was disfigured and therefore shy of meeting anyone new. It was a messy lie, and one I hadn’t wanted to tell, but I’d had to act on the spur of the moment to protect Dorian. I especially hated that Max thought I was keeping a male friend from him, though technically that was the case.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick with tea.” Since the plants and drugs I put into my body affect me so strongly, I’ve never been able to drink coffee. Decaf would work, but then what’s the point? The amount of caffeine in black tea, green tea, or chocolate gives me a boost without turning me into a Berserker. I got myself a glass of water and turned back to the sickly gargoyle. Even though the transformation was hurting me in ways that scared me, I knew what I had to do. “I’ll do another plant transformation today, to make your Tea of Ashes.”

“Non.”

“What do you mean, no? Your foot—”

“It is killing you, Zoe.” He stepped, rather than hopped, down from the stepping stool. “You think I cannot see what is happening to you? I can no longer ask you to do this for me.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

The gargoyle’s gray lips quivered. “I do not wish us both to die.”

“Neither of us is going to die,” I said firmly. I didn’t think it would help anything to mention the fact that if I died it would be a natural death—nothing compared to Dorian’s tragic fate of being alive yet trapped in unmoving stone.

“You are a good woman, Zoe. I thank you for trying.”

“Dorian—”

“Un moment.” He opened the oven door and placed the loaf of bread onto a wooden cutting board. “Do you not wish to tend to your potager?”

Though he suggested it to avoid a painful subject, he was right that I wanted to check on my backyard vegetable garden.

“I will be in the dining room with breakfast and the newspaper,” Dorian said. “If you wish to join me and speak of other things, I would be happy to save some bread for you.”

Denial wasn’t healthy, but who was I to judge? I’d done it myself for decades. I desperately wanted to be able to heal Dorian, but after I’d run from alchemy for so long, I didn’t know if I alone was capable of that. Was it worth it to speak with the stage magician, just in case Brixton was right?

I left Dorian to his espresso and zucchini bread and went to check on my two gardens: the indoor window-box herb garden and the edible plants in the backyard. Though I’d started my new garden in the midst of a cold and rainy Portland winter, I knew how to coax the best out of plants. Because I wanted to get a good volume in a short amount of time to create Dorian’s Tea of Ashes, I’d planted several quick-growing herbs and vegetables, including lemon balm, parsley, leaf lettuces, spinach, sorrel, nettles, and fennel. Most of them could easily take over the garden if not harvested, but that wasn’t a problem. The thriving plants gave me a few minutes of peace, but they didn’t tell me what I should do about approaching Peter Silverman.

After making sure the plants were tended, I made myself a green smoothie in my vintage Vitamix with greens from the garden plus a green apple for sweetness and a knob of ginger for kick. I whole-heartedly believe that both cars and blenders were perfected in the 1940s. In the modern world of disposable everything, I missed the time when things were built to last.

I found Dorian sitting at the dining table, an empty espresso mug at his side and flaky crumbs from the freshly baked bread scattered across the entire table. Ever the gentleman, he’d saved a quarter of the small loaf on a plate for me.

Directly in front of him were Le Monde and two local newspapers. He’d been obsessively reading every word of Le Monde for months, ever since the French paper reported gold thefts from European museums. It was an important story to follow because Dorian and I believed the “thefts” not to be thefts at all, but rather the handiwork of unscrupulous alchemists who’d died centuries ago but left false gold behind. Unlike real gold that could be created by true alchemists, the shortcuts of backward alchemy could be used to create false gold. Because intent is important in alchemical transformations, and the intentions of these backward alchemists weren’t pure, their false gold was now turning to dust. There hadn’t been any recent developments, but after so many years living itinerantly, I enjoyed having newspapers delivered to my doorstep.

“Good riddance!” Dorian declared.

“Did I miss something?”

“This local newspaper reports the last of the treasure hunters have left. My woods can now go back to normal.”

The woods near River View Cemetery were one of Dorian’s favorite places for nocturnal exploration, and it caused him grief that so many interlopers were sneaking around “his” domain.

“Did someone find the hoard?” I asked.

“That does not appear to be the case.” He chortled.

“What’s so funny?” I looked over his shoulder. “THREE INJURED IN FALL NEAR RIVER VIEW CEMETERY. That headline doesn’t sound very amusing to me.”

“Not that dreary article.” Dorian pointed a claw at another column. “The gossip columnist is much more dramatic, writing of monsoons and masterminds. Écoute.”

LAKE LOOT TREASURE HUNTERS GIVE UP HOPE. Amateur treasure hunters from throughout the Pacific Northwest flooded to Portland in February, after monsoon-like rains led to the discovery of jewels from a 1969 train robbery. Two months later, those treasure hunters have abandoned their quest. Graphic images of injuries sustained by three men caught in a second landslide were leaked to the press. Since then, no treasure hunters have been seen on the hillside.

A source close to the police department told this reporter that the photographs were purposefully released to scare other amateur treasure hunters away from exploring the cordoned-off area still considered a high risk for landslides.

“What else does the columnist say of interest? Mmm … Oui … Bon.”

I took the newspaper from his hands.

“I was reading!” he protested.

“You stopped reading aloud. Let me do it.”

In 1969, mastermind Franklin Thorne robbed the wealthy Lake family’s private train car and killed guard Arnold Burke. Thorne was subsequently killed in a shoot-out with the police. Since the brazen train heist, the stolen jewels, dubbed the Lake Loot, remained elusive … until February of this year, when torrential rains caused a landslide in the hills near River View Cemetery. Days later, a sapphire necklace from the robbery was discovered near the Willamette River by two boys playing at the river’s edge. Since the boys found this small portion of the Lake Loot, treasure hunters flocked to the area.

“Zoe,” Dorian cut in.

I looked up.

He held out a clawed hand. “May I?”

“What’s the matter with how I’m reading it?”

“Your voice lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“I’m not reading melodramatically enough for you?”

Dorian blinked at me. “It is a dramatic story. It calls for a dramatic reading.”

“Here.” I handed over the newspaper.

Worried about another landslide, authorities blocked off the area and declared they would arrest anyone caught trespassing. But the lure of missing train-heist loot was too great. This announcement was clearly a misstep, one that simply caused the treasure hunters to return under cover of darkness, under more dangerous conditions that led to three men sustaining critical injuries. Was it the thrill of the chase that lured Oregonians to danger? If found, the distinctive jewels must be returned to their rightful owners, the Lake family, who have offered a small reward. Julian Lake, the 80-year-old survivor of the 1969 robbery, had no comment on recent developments …

“That’s not the end. Why did you stop reading?”

“Forty-six years,” Dorian murmured. “People speak of this as if it is a long time!” He tossed aside the newspaper and cleared the table.

It was time for me to descend the stairs to my basement alchemy lab. Dorian may object to my continued production of his tea, but I wasn’t about to let him simply return to stone. Instead of turning on the overhead light, I lit an oil lamp. It put me in a better frame of mind to practice alchemy.

But instead of peace, I felt confusion. The scent from the night before had vanished. It must have been my overly active imagination. Since I’m not a night person, I must have been too tired to think straight. I wished that my own body’s reaction to creating Dorian’s Tea of Ashes was nothing but my imagination. I was much sicker than I wanted to admit to either Dorian or to myself. If I didn’t find a true solution, soon I would waste away as completely as the plants I was about to turn to ash.