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Though the fire had long since been extinguished, the smell of smoke still hung in the air. I stayed alert, looking for anyone I recognized—but desperately hoping I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t want to be recognized by an alchemist who might have been involved, so I’d taken the precaution of tucking my distinctive hair under a knit cap. I couldn’t bear to part with my favorite silver raincoat, though. It wasn’t only the fact that it was the perfect garment for chilly weather. I loved it, so I felt stronger in it. Which was a feeling I badly needed after my blunder with Marcel Boucher. I hoped he couldn’t trace where I was staying, or surely he’d send the police to question me.
I pushed the rented wheelchair across the street and into the western courtyard, dodging two scooters as I went. Thankfully, Dorian had agreed to the disguise. In an old dress, two shawls, and a scarf covering his head and neck, plus a fashionable wide-brimmed hat, he was my petite grandmother. I had packed the large swaths of fabric in the checked bag with Dorian, leading him to believe it was for cushioning. I thought it would be easier to convince him to don the disguise once we reached Paris. I was right.
What I wasn’t right about was how close to the cathedral we’d be able to get. We’d only barely entered the courtyard, and I wouldn’t be able to take us much further. Barricades and scaffolding blocked off most of the once-vast courtyard in front of the majestic stone towers that were now missing their spire behind them.
As evidenced by the flock of people surrounding us, the cathedral was in the hearts of many. And now that Professor Boucher had confirmed that the discovery of the journal and the Lost Gargoyle of Paris illustration were authentic, the cathedral would be in the hearts and minds of backward alchemists as well.
“My poor brothers,” Dorian murmured, his head craned upward toward the stone gargoyles. “And you. Now that the art historian believes you to be a suspicious person, why are you wearing that shiny silver coat? It is like a beacon.”
I didn’t feel like explaining it served the purpose of a security blanket, so I tightened the silver belt and pushed the wheelchair toward the cathedral. As we drew closer to the barricades, my hands began to shake. I let go of the handles and rubbed them together, even though it wasn’t cold I was feeling.
“Something is wrong,” Dorian whispered from beneath the folds of fabric.
I knelt beside the wheelchair. “We knew the cathedral would be closed off.”
“That is not what I speak of. You are ill. Is it the backward alchemists? Have they poisoned the area?” He attempted to turn his head to look around, but instead tightened the scarf wrapped around his neck up to his snout.
He was right that I was ill, but not about the cause. A heavy weight of exhaustion crept into my bones as we entered the western courtyard, growing stronger with each step. It wasn’t the jet lag. It wasn’t the emotional stress of seeing the devastation up close. Those were both slowly taking their toll, but they weren’t what hit me like a swirling tornado I couldn’t escape.
I felt the lead.
The area had been decontaminated, so I wasn’t worried about lead poisoning, but because my body is hyper-attuned to nature and the elements, I can sense trace amounts of substances that most people can’t, such as detecting a scent of poison that’s supposedly undetectable. That skill had gotten me in trouble more times than I could count, and even worse is the fact that I get tired as soon as the sun goes down (I’m a terrible date). But it’s also how I can coax plants back to life even when most people take them for dead, and how I can do a bit of good for people themselves through my knowledge of herbalism.
Much of the lead in the cathedral burned in the intense flames, the billowing smoke carrying the particles to the surrounding areas. Authorities had sprung into action (not as quickly as some would have liked) but elements always leave a trace.
I first saw Notre Dame de Paris in the year 1700, long before the famous gargoyles were in place—and several years before I discovered the Elixir of Life. I was twenty-four, though even now I don’t consider myself to have been young at the time. My innocence had dissipated nearly a decade before, when those I loved and trusted betrayed me. They accused me of being a witch because I was so good with coaxing life from struggling plants, both in our kitchen garden and the crops on larger plots of land. I fled from Massachusetts to Europe, and used my aptitude with plants to sell healing tinctures to get by, until my creations caught the attention of Nicolas Flamel. I traveled from England to France to begin an apprenticeship with the famous alchemist.
Nicolas and his wife Perenelle maintained residences in both Paris and the countryside. My apprenticeship was to take place in the country, but I first visited Paris. The city was like nothing I’d seen before, and Notre Dame was the North Star shining in a bright night sky. It had been breathtaking then, its grace and history astounding regardless of whether you viewed it as a secular monument or a religious sanctuary. It was simultaneously a holy site and a symbol of French resilience.
“I’ll be all right.” I took a sip of the nettle tea in the thermos in my shoulder bag.
I was devastated by the scale of the destruction in front of me. I didn’t sense any negative energy of backward alchemists—alchemy isn’t magic, after all. But I did wonder if I was wrong that they’d attempt to steal the discovery. Even though it would be of use to them, they were such lazy, lazy people. That’s why they’d latched onto a false alchemy that wasn’t a fraction as much work. But it was also why they’d want a precious illustration that had been nestled untouched in an alchemy-infused journal for more than a century. I couldn’t dismiss the threat. I took another sip of tea, put the cap back on the thermos, and stood up.
“You are better? Bon. Push me closer, Zoe.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, I can’t.”
“I can’t, says the woman who found the Elixir of Life when she was 28 years old! Younger, I might add, than any man has achieved.”
“Flattery won’t move those barricades.”
“Flattery, like the saints in this cathedral, has created many miracles. Did you hear any of them saying, I cannot, it is trop difficile?”
I couldn’t see Dorian’s eyes beneath the shawl he’d wrapped around his head and the wide-brimmed hat I’d insisted on. But I would have bet the entire contents of my alchemy laboratory, including my hard-to-come-by gold, that he was scowling at me.
I turned the wheelchair and guided Dorian closer. I wanted to hear what a guard was saying to a group of tourists. We reached the edge of the group as he was explaining the importance of the barricades. The tourists insisted they’d seen photos on social media of people who’d been able to get closer. The patient guard explained that the fences put in place after the fire had been placed different distances from the cathedral at different times since the fire, as the situation was assessed and workers began clearing out the debris.
“Closer,” Dorian whined.
Honestly, sometimes I wasn’t sure if he was a 160-year-old or a teenager.
Dorian began to squirm and make choking noises.
“Are you all right, madame?” the guard knelt and spoke in French, leaving the gaggle of frustrated tourists as he spoke to Dorian.
“My grandmère has lost her teeth,” I answered for him, “so she has difficulty speaking. She’s only distressed because it would mean so much to her to get closer. I don’t suppose—”
“Je suis désolé, mademoiselle. It is too dangerous. As I was explaining, nobody is allowed further. May I suggest a view from across the river, perhaps in the courtyard in front of the bookshop.” He gestured toward Shakespeare & Company.
“Merci.”
“You are giving up?” Dorian whispered as I turned the wheelchair.
“We’ll stick to our original plan.”
“Ah, so. La nuit. We shall resume our search in the night.”
“With my map of the catacombs.”