April had unknowingly given her life by listening to the whispers of backward alchemy. But I couldn’t believe she’d have given up her life on purpose. Even if she wanted to sacrifice herself, what would have been the point, for an unreproducible result?
Non Degenera Alchemia didn’t explicitly state that a person had to die for backward alchemy to be realized. Like all alchemy, its lessons were shrouded in obscure clues. When I’d studied the book, all I’d been able to glean were hints that gave me enough information to keep Dorian alive while we searched for a real solution.
That was the problem of backward alchemy. It didn’t last. Like anything in life that’s too good to be true, backward alchemy’s “quick fix” was only a temporary solution.
The book of backward alchemy had been stolen from Dorian over a year ago, and now I knew that it had somehow ended up at the British Library. How that had happened was a question for another day. For now, I had to figure out if my theory was right. And if it was, how it had set in motion the events of this week.
“Did April know about your research?” I asked Willow. “And about that book?” I wished I could see her face, but this phone call would have to do.
“I guess so. We share each other’s research in a secure online filing system. April was much more interested in the history of art than the history of science, but she was still a scientist, so she was interested in anything that could help her lab experiments. What does that strange book have to do with anything? It barely looked like alchemy, so I wondered if it was a spoof. Something a bored monk with a macabre sense of humor had created. Like how nuns sometimes painted humorous self-portraits into the margins of illuminated manuscripts. But a monk would have had access to more resources to create a whole book of satire. Zoe? Did I lose you?”
I hesitated before answering. I didn’t yet know who was involved in this week’s thefts and murder. Willow was an unlikely suspect, but she wasn’t someone to underestimate. Conversely, if I assumed she was innocent, I didn’t want to give her information for how to read the dangerous clues from Non Degenera Alchemia if she hadn’t yet figured them out.
“I don’t know exactly how the book fits in,” I said. “But it’s an alchemy book I’ve encountered before.”
“How?” Willow’s voice had taken on a sharp edge that hadn’t been there a moment ago, when she was caught up in her ideas about medieval satire. “That alchemy book was one-of-a-kind. A new acquisition that wasn’t available in their online archives.”
I grimaced. I was trying to say something innocuous that wouldn’t raise her suspicions, but it had backfired.
Max scribbled a note to me. Say you read about it somewhere?
I shook my head. It was a decent idea, but one that would lead me down a path of lies. It was always best to stay as close to the truth as possible.
“I think the reason the library doesn’t have provenance,” I said, “is because the book was stolen from a friend of mine a year ago.”
Willow’s intake of breath was loud enough for me to hear over the phone. “The book is valuable, then? How does it involve us?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said, “but thefts of historical items related to alchemy got me thinking about the book. I’m going to ask my friend more about it.” It wasn’t completely a lie.
“You’ll keep me posted?”
“I will.” That was a lie.
I tossed my phone aside after hanging up and looked to Max.
“Backward alchemy?” he asked me.
“Maybe. The book doesn’t have all the answers, though. It’s not a step-by-step guide. April had to have something else to go on if that’s how she really died.”
“Why would the medical examiner lie?” Max asked, but he was speaking mostly to himself.
“I doubt they lied. People see what they want to see. What they’re ready to believe. April probably did die of heart failure from her weak heart after drinking way too many energy drinks and not sleeping left her in a weakened state. Whoever examined her body would have overlooked clues about her life force being drained out of her, because signs of backward alchemy, like rapid ageing, wouldn’t make sense rationally.”
“I’ll ask Vega if there were any anomalies noted in the autopsy.”
“Later. First, we need to go to Veronica’s house.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
“She has a tube of the Renaissance White paint sample,” I explained. “I was going to ask Willow for one, but she was already suspicious of my questions, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell her why I wanted one.”
“Why do you want one?”
“If that paint was made with backward alchemy, it’ll start deteriorating sometime soon.”
It wasn’t yet nine o’clock at night, so later than was socially acceptable to stop by someone’s house, but far from the middle of the night.
Alessandro answered the door, scowling at the unexpected visit so late, but he let Max ask Veronica about her paint.
“What’s going on?” she asked with her parents and little sister looking on.
“You have a tube of Renaissance White paint?” Max asked her.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Have you used it?” I asked.
“Not much. Since Perenelle is tutoring me, I’m using paints I’m mixing myself from natural dyes Perenelle is helping me turn into color-fast pigments. But I’ve used it at school, and my friend Cas and I were painting with it earlier.”
“You have some left?” Max asked.
“About half the tube?”
Alessandro stepped to his daughter’s side. “What’s this about?”
“The paint,” said Max, “might be relevant to a criminal investigation.”
A squeak escaped from Veronica’s lips.
“Give it to Max, tesoro,” Alessandro said before turning to Max. “Is she in any danger?”
“I don’t think so,” Max said. “And as soon as she gives us the paint, definitely not.”
We left with the wrinkled tube of white paint. The rain had moved on, and the dark sky was clear above us. I twisted open the lid under the light of the full moon, looking for any sign of separation of the pigment from the binders.
The sensation washed over me wasn’t one I was expecting.
Brimstone.
“Do you smell that?” I asked Max.
“Smell what?”
I guess that answered my question. He didn’t smell the sulfuric scent of rotten eggs. Max eyed the window of the Chen-Mendoza household, where Alessandro was scowling at us through the window.
“Come on,” Max said. “Let’s get out of here.”
We climbed into Max’s jeep and drove down the deserted residential street.
“You didn’t tell me what you smelled,” he said as we came to a stop sign.
“I must have imagined it,” I said, half believing it. I no longer smelled anything foul. I dabbed a small amount of the acrylic paint onto the back of my hand.
Immediately, my hand began to burn.
My skin burned as strongly as if it had caught fire, though I could see no visible flame. Terrible memories flashed through my mind. Fires that had caused destruction and killed people I knew. I gasped in pain as I felt my skin blistering in the heat. Desperate, I reached for a tissue from the box in between the seats.
“What’s happening?” Max yanked the emergency break and helped me wipe away the paint.
There was nothing wrong with my palm. No blisters. No burn. Only the sensation of fire.
“Burning,” I croaked. “My hand. It was burning.”
“You’re all right,” he said gently as he lifted my hand. “We got it off in time. Something caustic in there?”
“As it’s breaking down. It’ll be far worse than the toxic paints they were trying to replicate safely. If anyone touches this paint, they’ll be severely burned.”
This was no longer about an inward-looking goal of saving my beloved painting of Thomas, helping Perenelle set the historical record straight, or even catching a killer who’d used a desperate woman. This was bigger than all of that.
A major product about to be released by Renaissance White would harm thousands of people. And the more the paint broke down, the more damage it would do.