seven

“My body,” Dorian said, “is slowly turning back into stone. You might say this is the natural state of things, for us all to die. But this is not a natural death. When I turn to stone, I do not sleep. I will be awake but forever trapped in this stone shell.”

“Oh, Dorian—”

He held up a clawed hand. “I did not wish to speak of it. It makes it more the truth. Now that the book has been stolen—” He broke off and shook his head.

“Why is this happening now? What changed?”

“I do not know. If I had known this would happen, I would have sought you out before now. Now that I am here, you can help me by deciphering the remaining pages of the book. Perhaps there are answers in the pages you found interesting enough to photograph.”

“Maybe, but I need to understand more—”

“Yet I know very little.” His words were clipped. “This is why I have come to you.”

I felt the weight of his words sink in. He was putting so much faith in me, and I didn’t know if I would be able to help. But I had to try.

“You know more than you think you do,” I said. “Tell me about the transformation. The day Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin brought you to life.”

“I do not remember the moment,” he said, his voice softening. “It is a blur, as they say. I will tell you the story told to me by my father. He had been given a great gift from his friend, the architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, who was restoring the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. Father’s friend had fanciful plans for the cathedral, including a balcony of stone chimeras. Unlike the water spout gargoyles along the sides of the cathedral, his stone carvings had personality. I was one of his prototypes. I was not large enough, though. Because my father collected many items for his stage performances, Viollet-le-Duc thought he would appreciate this carving—and he was correct.”

“That’s amazing,” I said, thinking of the gallery of gargoyles at Notre Dame I had climbed many times. When I had first seen Dorian, he reminded me of one of the gargoyles there. Now I knew why.

“My father created mechanized automatons. He was planning on building an automaton based on my stone carving. He had already retired to Saint-Gervais and was working on his memoirs, but his mind was restless. He wished to continue innovating for the stage. The idea for his new illusion was to read from an ancient alchemy book, at which point the automaton would begin to move—the illusion of coming to life.” Dorian closed his eyes and paused.

“I know it must be difficult to talk about this, but it will help me understand what happened to you.”

Dorian nodded. “As my father built his clockwork automaton, he placed the stone prototype—me—on stage, to practice. He was not very good at reading Latin. He practiced again and again so the words would sound dramatic for his audience. One day, he pronounced the words properly. This is the day I came to life.”

“If I’d known what was happening to you, I could have read the Latin out loud to rejuvenate you.”

Dorian shook his head. “I have already tried this. Tristement, it is not that simple. That is why I need you.”

“Where did your father get the book?”

“This,” Dorian said sadly, “I do not know.”

“You must know something.”

“What I know is that my father found stage magic accidentally. He had ordered two books on his vocation, clockmaking. In their place, he received books on magic. It is for this reason that he always collected an assortment of books. The more happenstance, the better. Friends and well-wishers knew this of him. Many people gave him strange books. There is no way to trace the origins of Non Degenera Alchemia.”

“He didn’t remember who gave it to him?”

“If he did, he did not tell me. I did not give the book much thought for many years. Only when my body began to change did I realize my life continued to be tied to the book. I can read and write in many languages, but have never studied alchemy. This secret language of alchemists is a mystery to me. You, Zoe Faust, are the one person I knew of who could help me.”

In spite of my desire to know more, that was all he could tell me. I was also about to fall over. I needed sleep. I wasn’t built to be awake in the middle of the night. I’m so attuned to the sun that simply staying awake at night is challenging.

Dorian cleaned up the broken pot of chervil and told me to get some sleep, saying I looked like I needed it. He assured me he would pay more attention to Portland’s sunrise, then disappeared into the darkness. The sadness on his face before he headed out into the night lingered in my mind. Was he really dying? Could I help? Even if we had the book back, I didn’t know what I could do as an out-of-practice alchemist who didn’t speak whatever coded language the book was written in. But he had been right the night before. He and I were two outcasts who didn’t understand what had happened to us. I didn’t want to let him down—or to lose him.

———

As always, I awoke with the sun. In spite of my fatigue, I had tossed and turned for several hours. Yawning, I pulled open the trailer curtains, thin muslin from Egypt that assured privacy on the inside but let in natural light from the outside.

With my blender stuck in the roped-off house, I couldn’t start the day with a smoothie of fruits and vegetables. As the sun rose, I ate dried heirloom apples and wild blueberries with a handful of walnuts, and drank a large glass of water with lemon essence. The familiar flavors and hydrating water helped calm my nerves after Dorian’s upsetting revelation.

I tucked my legs under me and sat in the window in the direction of the sunrise, thinking over the strange events of the last two days. If it hadn’t been for the scratches running across the panels near my bed and the broken pot in my herb garden, I might have been able to believe Dorian’s presence the previous night had been a dream.

Was Charles Macraith’s death a result of his own life catching up with him at my front door? He was, after all, known for being “discreet,” a word with an added meaning that hadn’t occurred to me when the real estate agent gave me his card. Or was his death a consequence of someone in search of Dorian’s book, an unintended casualty because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Whatever was going on, Dorian and I were right in the middle of it.

I scrolled through the photographs of Dorian’s book I had on my phone. I stopped on an image of the earth being engulfed in flames. That pretty much summed up how I was feeling about my life.

After my night, I needed a calming cup of tea to think straight and decide what to do about Dorian’s dilemma. Since I couldn’t make tea without my kettle, I went in search of the teashop Brixton had mentioned. Brixton hadn’t referred to it by name, but if it was the same teashop I’d visited, it would be easy to find. I remembered it had a large weeping fig tree growing in the midst of the tables.

After a quick shower using my trailer’s nearly depleted water supplies, I slipped on custom-made gray wool slacks and cream cashmere sweater, and grabbed my silver raincoat. I’ve never gotten the hang of wearing off-the-rack clothes. How do people wear clothes that aren’t made specifically to fit their unique shape? Tailored clothes weren’t always considered the luxury item they are today. It was simply how things were done. Once mass-produced clothes were a reality, that’s what felt like a luxury to people. There’s certainly the instant gratification from seeing something you like and taking it home with you, but it doesn’t compare.

I found Blue Sky Teas on Hawthorne Boulevard, several blocks from my house. From the sidewalk, I could see it was the same teashop I remembered. Beyond the tall glass windows, the familiar weeping fig tree filled the welcoming space without dominating it. The plaque above the teashop’s bright orange door read: “‘There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be diminished by a nice cup of tea.’ —Bernard-Paul Heroux.”

It was a few minutes before 7:30 and a woman with wild gray hair was turning a hand-painted wooden sign from “closed” to “open.” She caught my eye and smiled.

The storefront was narrow, but as I stepped inside, I felt as if I’d set foot in an expansive forest. The ceiling was taller than the width of the shop. Mosaic tiles covered the floor except for a spot in the center of the shop where a live weeping fig tree with gnarled roots grew out of a three-foot circle. The branches stretched up to the curved ceiling, which was painted the color of a deep blue sky with wispy white clouds. As long as I didn’t stare directly at it, it felt like real sky hanging above me—minus the fickle Pacific Northwest weather. Eight tables lined the walls, their tops made of solid redwood with the tree rings showing. The walls were unadorned, as I remembered, except now one corner held a framed photo of a young red-haired woman. The picture was surrounded by cards and dried flowers, including fragrant lavender.

Walking through to the counter, located at the back, a cacophony of scents washed over me, but in a pleasing rather than overwhelming way. I could pick out many of the scents—mint, jasmine, honeysuckle, cinnamon—while many of the herbs blended together. Breathing in the fragrance of the teashop had an immediate effect on calming my nerves. I wasn’t exactly relaxed, but poking through my apprehension was the same feeling of hope I’d had when I first visited Portland. I wanted desperately to grab hold of the feeling and not let it go.

“I’m glad I opened early today,” the gray-haired woman said. “Zoe, right? Brixton mentioned you.”

“You must be Blue,” I said. “He mentioned you too.” I hadn’t recognized her until the scent of jasmine triggered my memory. It was the same woman who’d been here the previous year when I bought the best cup of lemon ginger tea I’d ever tasted. If I recalled, her secret ingredients were fresh turmeric and a hint of cayenne.

Though not classically beautiful, here in her element she was radiant. She wore no makeup, but her round cheeks had a natural glow. Curly hair more gray than brown swept halfway down her back, falling on the simple white blouse she wore over faded jeans. She stood behind the counter, a steaming cup of jasmine green tea in her hands.

“Blue Sky,” she said, setting down her cup of tea and offering me her hand. “And yes, that’s really my name.”

“I wasn’t going to ask. It suits you.”

“Thanks for not pressing charges against Brixton. His mom lets him run wild, but he’s a good kid. Anything you’d like, it’s on the house.”

“That’s not necessary. He didn’t do any harm. I was going to have him help weed my yard, but then …”

“Charles,” Blue finished for me. “Such a shame.”

“You knew him?”

“Not well. But this neighborhood is like a small town in many ways. Charles came into the shop, especially while he was off work recovering from a construction accident. He was a man of few words. I always got the feeling he was more comfortable whittling on wood than talking to people. You know—” she paused and frowned. “I don’t even know where he’s from. Portland is a place that gives fresh starts for a lot of people. It’s what the city did for me. I didn’t try to get to know him better. I wish now that I had …”

I never knew what to say surrounding death. You’d think it would get easier, but it never does. Maybe that’s a good thing. I remained silent, letting Blue have the time she needed. No platitude would help.

“I’m sorry that was your introduction to your new home,” Blue continued, then snapped her fingers. “You look like a fan of cinnamon. I bet you’ll like my homemade spicy chai.”

“I don’t do dairy,” I said. “I follow a vegan diet.”

“Even better. There’s no milk in my chai. People often complain about that—until they taste it.”

With a wink, she turned away from me to brew my chai. It gave me more time to look around the teashop. I placed my hand on the rough bark of the tree. It was old. The building must have been built around it. There was so much to love here, but now I knew there was also something to fear.

“See if you like this,” Blue said, startling me from my thoughts.

The intermingling scents of cinnamon, ginger, cloves, fennel, and cardamom wafted up from the clay mug. Unlike many teashops and coffeehouses across the country, the liquid in this mug wasn’t close to boiling. It was hot enough to be steaming, but cool enough to drink. Just as tea was meant to be served.

“Real Ceylon cinnamon,” I said.

“I can tell you’re going to keep me on my toes.”

I felt an immediate sense of warmth spread through my body. “This is exactly what I needed after yesterday.”

Blue smiled, the wrinkles around her friendly eyes crinkling. “You shouldn’t let Brixton off the hook.”

I breathed in the aromatic scent of the tea, hoping it would help me decide what to do about a lot of things. “I don’t know.”

“Cleaning up your yard after he broke your window is exactly what he needs.” She saw the hesitation on my face. “You don’t need to protect him from anything. It’s unfortunate Charles’s life caught up with him outside your house, but life is about moving forward. And that boy needs structure. He’s been in trouble before.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Blue waved off the question. “Nothing serious. Just kid stuff. But I worry.”

“You sound like you know him well.”

“His mom, Heather, had him when she was sixteen. I moved here when Heather was twenty and Brixton was four. What a precocious boy he was—still is.”

“I noticed.”

Blue smiled wryly. “For the last ten years, she’s often left him at the teashop, letting me babysit. Until he was old enough to be on his own after school, he’d often sit at that table by the window and do his homework.” She pointed at one of the smaller tree-ringed tabletops. “The regulars loved to help him with his homework.”

“You said that in the past tense.”

“He’s in high school now. Old enough that he can do what he wants. Which doesn’t seem to involve doing homework.”

A bell chimed and an exceptionally tall young man walked in. He wasn’t especially young, though he looked it to me. He must have been in his late twenties, around the same age people thought I was, which I’d never stop thinking of as young.

“Morning, Blue,” he said, giving her a sad smile. “The usual.”

“Coming right up.”

I brought my chai to a table near the tree while Blue helped the customer, who got a tea to go in a personal travel mug. Now that my attention wasn’t focused on Blue, I noticed the vast array of teas in metal jars lining several narrow shelves behind the counter.

The man smiled at me as he left with his tea. Blue came out from behind the counter and joined me at my table.

“I’m an early bird,” Blue said, “so I like to get started early, even though I don’t usually get many customers this early. Tea isn’t the usual choice of commuters looking for a quick caffeine fix on their way to work. A lot of my teas are actually decoctions that take a while to brew.”

“How long have you run this place?” I asked.

“It’s why I stayed in Portland. This tree was here on the corner and was about to be cut down to build more storefronts. I was able to save it.”

“I love it,” I said. I wasn’t just being polite. The old tree brought so much life to the shop.

“I can tell you’re going to like it here. Brixton told me you moved into that haunt—I mean the house that’s been sitting empty for years.”

“You don’t have to censor yourself. I’ve already heard it’s known as the local haunted house.”

“We’re a tight-knit community. It’s all well-meaning. So don’t you worry about what they’re saying about you.”

“Wait, what?”

“Looks like the rush is starting,” Blue said, standing up and turning her attention to four people who were walking up to the counter. “Stay and enjoy the chai.”