From the Typewriter of Dorian Robert-Houdin
The Culinary Alchemist’s Toolbox
One must experiment to succeed. Experimentation comes with failure. This is not a flaw, but a necessary step.
Zoe had called to tell Dorian she would be staying over at Max’s house that night, so the tea alchemist could care for her during her hangover. She had foolishly taken one of Dorian’s failed culinary experiments in which he was testing the line between peak flavor extraction and distasteful ash. Fire brought out the best in food, but it also obscured the truth when it went too far and turned a culinary delight into only bitter, charred remnants of a once-great creation.
Before ringing off, Zoe also told Dorian about the Flamels’ adventures with their “Art Collector #2” suspect, for whom they now had a name. Joni Mitchell. An unhelpful name, but still, it was a start.
Dorian remained convinced that everyone besides himself was overlooking Gwendolyn Graves as the primary suspect. Why was her trip to Seattle to retrieve her notes taking her so long? Zoe maintained it was because an elderly person might wish to spread a long drive across two days. Pfft. In spite of arthritis, the professor was quite capable. She might very well be up to something else.
Though the sun had set, it was not yet late in the evening. He called Brixton to find out if the boy had learned anything of interest.
“You were right,” Brixton said. “I talked to three professors who were happy to share their ideas with a high school student interested in art history. I told them I’d heard about some scandal from fifty years ago. Only one of them had heard about it, and he said everyone makes mistakes when they’re young.”
“Good work,” Dorian said. “This is a promising start. Keep at it.”
He bid the boy goodnight, then paced back and forth upon the attic floorboards. In this ruminative state, he tapped his fingers together as he paced, then clasped his hands behind his back. After much contemplative thought, Dorian hatched a plan. His little gray cells had done their work. Now he needed Nicolas Flamel’s assistance.
“We must gather evidence of Gwendolyn Graves’s wrongdoings,” he told the old alchemist. “The professor alluded to the fact that the evidence is at her office. As soon as I am done baking for Blue Sky Teas, we must drive there to seek it out.”
And so it was that Nicolas Flamel and Dorian Robert-Houdin secretly borrowed Zoe’s truck for the three-hour drive to Seattle.
It was four o’clock in the morning when the gargoyle and the old alchemist arrived at the university.
With Dorian’s claws, they made quick work of the inconsequential lock on the office door of Emeritus Professor Graves, and on the locks on her file cabinets.
Dorian was pleased he was correct in his assumption that Dr. Graves kept paper records of her research. He was not a gargoyle who wished to stereotype based on age. The woman herself had said she needed to return so she could bring boxes back with her. This wording indicated her preference for paper.
“I’m still unsure what you hope to find,” Nicolas said as they began searching through the beige file cabinets. “Gwendolyn is willingly bringing her research on Hayden back to Portland tomorrow. Er, I suppose I mean today at this point.”
“Willingly bringing only the documents she wishes to share with Perenelle and Zoe.”
“Looks like her Hayden research is already gone.” Nicolas drew Dorian’s attention to an empty drawer that squeaked as the older alchemist pulled it all the way open.
“Not quite.” Dorian reached inside the nearly empty drawer. There was one well-worn file folder at the bottom of the drawer. A few dust bunnies fluttered to the floor as he lifted it in his clawed hands.
“This drawer was kept under lock and key.”
“For good reason,” Dorian exclaimed, the little gray cells in his mind spinning so quickly he could barely contain himself. “I believe I have found our secret society!”
Nicolas peered over his shoulder. “The Brushstrokes and Brimstone Society.” There was a note of reverence in his voice as he read from the top of a yellowed, typewritten page.
Dorian spun around, nearly knocking Nicolas over with an outstretched wing. “You have heard of this society?”
Nicolas scratched his scruffy chin. “Not exactly. But it’s similar.”
“Similar to what?” Dorian prompted.
“I’m mistaken. Never heard of it.” He tapped his temple. “Many centuries of facts up here. They get jumbled sometimes.”
Dorian sighed. His exciting breakthrough was somewhat marred by the fact that Nicolas’s health had not recovered.
“Night will be turning into day soon,” Nicolas said. “We should be on our way. Gwendolyn has already been here to take what she needs, so we can safely take this with us.”
“There is not much to read. Only one page remains.”
It was five o’clock as they locked the door behind them. The hallway was dim, but bright enough that they need not use the torch from Nicolas’s mobile phone.
“Can I help?” a deep voice called.
Nicolas raised his wild eyebrows as they exchanged a brief look, before hurrying around a corner, pretending not to have heard.
“Stone,” Nicolas whispered.
Dorian agreed, and quickly turned to stone.
“Professor?” the voice called.
“It must be a security guard,” Dorian whispered back, and a moment later, he was fully stone.
“Never fear,” Nicolas whispered. “I will talk our way out of this.”
Dorian was not certain the old alchemist would be able to do this, but what choice did he have but to have faith?
Nicolas straightened his lapels and turned to face the guard who was quickly approaching.
“Hello, good man!” Nicolas beamed at the uniformed man. “I’m so sorry to have startled you from your rounds. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought I’d do some work.”
“With a statue of a Gothic Revival-style gargoyle as your muse?” The guard pointed at Dorian.
“Ah, you recognize the style!”
Dorian’s stone faced the guard, not Nicolas, so he could not see his friend’s expression, though he detected delight in the old alchemist’s voice.
“Notre Dame Cathedral, right?” said the guard. “Eugène Viollet-le-Duc’s 1860s renovation.”
“Quite right, good sir.”
The guard chuckled. “Let me guess. You specialize in art history going back a ways. Not modern art.”
“There is much to be learned from history.”
It was all Dorian could do not to come back to life to nudge Nicolas. Why was the man making mundane small talk with the lowly guard? The man had clearly assumed Nicolas was a professor, so there was no need to speak further.
“Agreed,” said the guard. “But I don’t agree that modern scientific advancements should bow down to ‘expert’ connoisseurs. Your sculpture, for example. It looks like limestone, like those cathedral gargoyles, but if you were to claim it was really that old, that doesn’t mean nobody should test it.”
“Quite,” said Nicolas. “Yet I do not believe modern science can tell us everything we need to know about art history. Those we think of as experts need to be checked. Tell me, what era of art do you study?”
The guard hesitated.
“I did not mean to pry,” said Nicolas. “If you don’t wish to share your research—”
“It’s not that.” The man’s bravado turned almost bashful. “Most people… They assume I’m just a security guard.”
“How could they think that after speaking with you?”
The man chortled. “You assume students and professors talk to me.”
“That’s distressing to hear.”
The guard shrugged. “I’m glad visiting professors at least are open minded. Can I help you with your statue? What are you doing with it anyway? You’re sharing that big old office with Professor Graves?”
“You know her?” Nicolas asked.
“She’s mostly retired, so not much.”
“The gargoyle is related to some research that Dr. Graves worked on in the past. She’s doing research in Portland at present, so I’m retrieving him.”
“Him?”
“Does he not have enough personality to merit more than an it?”
The man chuckled as he lifted Dorian in his strong arms. “Sure does. And I see what you mean about scientific analysis being checked. This gargoyle, even if the stone dates back to the time the cathedral was being renovated and the rock is placed to come from those limestone quarries, this little guy is far too small to be one of those gargoyles on the cathedral.”
Dorian, in spite of suffering the indignity of being carried by this muscular man back to the car, could not help but be impressed by this line of reasoning.
During the walk to Zoe’s truck, Nicolas learned that the man had been in the military and was now returning to school to earn his bachelor’s degree.
“You giving any lectures I can attend?” he asked as they reached the parking lot.
“Afraid I’m only visiting for research. But please do feel free to call me if you wish to discuss your research. I’m technically retired, but always happy to mentor a bright young pupil.” Nicolas handed the man a card. “My name is Nicolas. Nicolas Flamel.”
“Like that fictional alchemist?”
“Ah! Have you done adequate research to be sure he was indeed fictional?”
The guard chuckled and wished Nicolas a safe journey home.
“You do not mind giving out your name?” Dorian asked once the man had gone.
“Why would I? It’s the name on my identification. I believe the expression is that I am ‘hiding in plain sight.’ After all, who would believe I’m six hundred years old?”
Who, indeed. Nicolas would surely make a good front for Dorian’s chart-topping work of culinary genius. But first, they must confront Gwendolyn Graves.