thirteen

I added an extra scoop of unsweetened cocoa powder to the mixture in the blender.

“I’m not drinking that,” Brixton said.

“One sip,” I said, “is all I ask.”

“Whatever.” He skulked to the other side of the kitchen and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, then took them out and crossed his arms. Without a cell phone, he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

I’d driven Brixton back to my house from the hospital. Of course I wasn’t letting a grieving kid stay in his house by himself. I wasn’t sure how Dorian was going to react to Brixton’s staying at the house for a few days, or to the new information that his book wasn’t among the items recovered at Blue’s house. Upon seeing us come into the house, Dorian hadn’t yelled or hidden. Instead, he held up a clawed hand and simply said, “Phone.” Brixton complied, handing over the device. “I will return it to you when you leave the house,” Dorian told him. Brixton wouldn’t be getting any more videos of the gargoyle.

I hadn’t yet told Dorian that his book wasn’t one of the items recovered. I knew how important it was, so I couldn’t bring myself to break it to him. Brixton didn’t know Dorian was dying, so I had to wait until he wouldn’t hear us talking. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.

I turned my attention back to the blender. The trick to creating a kid-friendly green smoothie is all in the chocolate. Fruits have natural sugars that sweeten a smoothie, but without chocolate, the flavor of vegetables can overpower the fruit.

In addition to the subtler flavors of cucumber and avocado, the sweetness of a large pear, and the spicy kick of a knob of ginger, I added a few leaves of light green curly kale. Kale is a winter vegetable, making it abundant at local farmers markets. As it was, it would have been a perfect smoothie for me, but I was making this for Brixton. Since meeting him earlier that week, I had seen him eat cookies and peanut butter sandwiches he had in his backpack, but I hadn’t seen him eat a single vegetable. That was going to change. And he was going to like it.

To make sure it would be palatable for his taste, I added a scoop of peanut butter and instead of plain water I opted for coconut water, which was sweeter. After blending it well, I poured half of the creamy mixture into a mug and handed it to Brixton.

He took a sip and scowled at me. “What’s in it?”

“You saw everything I did.”

“Yeah, but this actually tastes good.”

I smiled. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

Even with my old furniture the movers had delivered, the house was sparsely furnished. Brixton would have to settle for the small mattress I’d brought inside from my Airstream trailer, which I’d placed in the upstairs bedroom with the least leaky windows.

When we reached the top of the creaking stairs, Brixton lagged behind.

“When do we get to check on Blue?” he asked.

“I’ll call and check on her. I promise I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

In addition to a small backpack, Brixton had a guitar with him. Maybe that would help get him out of his funk. The scuffs and stickers on the case suggested the instrument was well-loved. I’d tried out several instruments over the years, but it was the piano that spoke to me most. Not the most practical thing for someone who lived on the road. But now that I had a house… If I could solve the madness surrounding me, was I fooling myself thinking I could stay a while? From the top of the stairs, I turned to look down at the living room. It was still filled with moving crates, but I could imagine a grand piano in the corner. Such an instrument might be worth the depleting task of transmuting lead into gold.

“Why don’t you bring your guitar downstairs after you get settled,” I said.

“I’m not playing for you,” he said.

“You don’t have to.”

“Whatever.”

I left Brixton to unpack his small bag and found Dorian attending to the fireplace. “Both you and the boy are wearing heavy sweaters,” he said, “so it must be cold inside.”

“You don’t feel it?”

“I feel the difference in temperature, but I do not mind it. I checked the chimney last night. It is sound. I thought we would have a fire.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“Zoe Faust,” Dorian said, “for someone who has had time to learn to lie, your face is an open book, as they say. You are keeping something from me. Is it about the woman who was found nearly dead? Is her condition more serious than you are allowing the boy to think?”

“It’s about her, but not in the way that you think.” I hesitated. I hated being the bearer of bad news. “Some of the items stolen from the house were found at her house.”

“Mon livre!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “your book wasn’t among the items recovered.”

Dorian fired a million questions at me—or at least a dozen—none of which I knew the answer to. I was more than ready for a break from the gargoyle’s interrogation when Brixton came downstairs and found us sitting in front of a blazing fire. He brought his guitar with him but wore a skeptical look on his face.

“Est ce que tu connais ‘Dame Tartine,’ Zoe?” Dorian said to me.

“Of course you’d think of that folk song. It’s all about butter.”

“Not only butter,” Dorian said. “Also anise and raisins.”

Brixton looked at us like we were crazy. But he also looked like he was itching to play the beaten-up acoustic guitar he held with a confident hand.

“If you play these chords,” Dorian told Brixton, “we will sing.”

Dorian and I sang the French-language verses about sweet pralines, fried croquets, and baked biscuits, with Dorian prompting Brixton when to play different chords.

“It’s about a woman, Dame Tartine, who lives in a house of food,” I explained. “A tartine is a French style of open-faced sandwich.”

“I’m fourteen, you know,” Brixton said. “Not eight.”

“But the song is in French,” Dorian said. “It has a very nice sound. If you learn the words, you do not have to tell your girlfriend what they mean.”

“Veronica is not my girlfriend,” Brixton said. He didn’t blush when he said it, but it was interesting that he immediately thought of her when Dorian used the word. I remembered the tall, awkward girl standing on my porch earlier that week who was going to be a knockout once she grew into her own skin.

“How long have the three of you been friends?” I asked.

“Me and VCM have been best friends since we were little.”

“VCM?”

“Veronica Chen-Mendoza. V or VCM for short. Anyway, Ethan moved here two years ago. Everybody wanted to be friends with him except us.”

“I must have misunderstood your English,” Dorian said. “Is he not your friend?”

“Me and V hated him at first. His parents are, like, uber-rich. He has everything. But then we learned he doesn’t care about that stuff. He’s cool.”

“Why does he dress like James Dean?” I asked.

“Yeah, kinda weird, huh? He had us over to his house and showed us this movie Rebel Without a Cause. That’s when we knew he was cool.” His face clouded over. “Do you think Blue tried to kill herself? That’s what people are saying.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“She’s like a mom to me, you know? You met my mom. She acts more like Veronica’s little sister than a mom sometimes. I don’t know what I’d do if Blue doesn’t—” He broke off and stood up, walking away from us. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

Dorian stood up. I put my hand on his arm to hold him back, giving Brixton space.

“When do we eat around here?” Brixton said after a minute. “I’m starving.”

“That is the best suggestion I have heard all day,” Dorian said. “Let us cook.”

I followed them into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“We begin with mise en place,” Dorian said to Brixton. “This means putting everything you wish to use in a meal in its proper place, before you begin cooking. What shall we cook for dinner?”

While they prepared dinner in the kitchen, I sat in front of the fireplace and stared into the richly colored flames. What was I going to do about the two of them? I couldn’t let either of them down.

Since the police hadn’t recovered Dorian’s book with the other items found at Blue’s house, there was renewed urgency in deciphering the few pages I had.

I spread out the photographed pages, stopping on the one with an unsettling image of a basilisk, the creature that symbolizes the destructive fire necessary to perform transformations. As you’d normally find in an alchemical woodcut, the creature had the head of a bird and the body of a serpent. That’s where the similarities ended. The tail of this serpent was contorted and wrapped in such an unexpected and disconcerting way that I was sure it had to mean something. But what that was, I had no idea. Perhaps the background setting had significance. The contorted basilisk was perched at the top of crumbled castle ruins, clinging to the one turret that remained.

My own books hadn’t yet proven helpful to decipher any of the pages, so I again opened my laptop, delving deeper on the Internet for anything that might be remotely relevant. Nothing like this image seemed to exist. I typed sections of the convoluted Latin into a search, again coming up empty-handed. Read literally, the text explained how one needed to walk in the direction where one cannot see. Riddles! The alchemists always had their riddles. I had never appreciated that part of alchemy. I liked my mysteries solved, which is probably why I loved the detective fiction that came of age in the nineteenth century. Yet there was something about the riddle of these pages that tickled at my brain—as if I’d been searching in the wrong places and the answers were within me.

“Ignore the color of the soup,” Dorian said, carrying a tray of three steaming bowls from the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with the … oh.” The creamed soup was certain shade of brown that should be reserved for a room of the house that wasn’t the dining room.

“He didn’t warn me,” Brixton said, following Dorian out of the kitchen carrying a Dutch oven with two pot holders. “I thought using the purple carrots would be cool.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve done it myself. It’s simple chemistry. Purple blended with the other vegetables gives you brown.”

“The risotto is a much more palatable color,” Dorian said.

As we ate, I couldn’t pull my mind from Not Untrue Alchemy. I was missing a crucial element of deciphering the pages, making me simultaneously far away and close to unlocking the secrets in those pages.

I knew what I had to do.

There was one thing I hadn’t yet tried. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was that it was the key. I could immerse myself in alchemy, doing something I hadn’t done in nearly a century. I could set up my alchemy laboratory. I didn’t know if I was ready, but that didn’t matter. I had to be.