Twenty-One

I dreamt of a fierce sea.

Dressed in a feedsack dress with scratchy fibers that bore into my skin, I watched from a rocking boat as water serpents gracefully spun their lean bodies through the water, circling each other in an underwater dance. What at first looked like a benevolent action morphed into a scene of battle. The creatures curled their bodies around one another and bit into each other’s flesh. Above them, bees circled and toads fell from a dark sky.

A pelican swooped from the air and caught a toad that was about to fall on my head. She nodded at me, then flew back to her nest, where she would give the toad to her offspring. I watched her flapping wings until the bird disappeared in the clouds. These dream clouds weren’t the clouds of reality. They were faces of women.

These were the faces from Heather’s new paintings, with reflections in the women’s eyes. One of the reflections was of a man. Was it her father who’d fled? No, I recognized this man. It was the Frenchman who owned the bookshop, Lucien Augustin. His body was bound in thick ropes, and he’d been lashed to the mast of a ship. The ship that I was on. The raven I remembered from one of Heather’s paintings appeared behind him, only the bird was no reflection. The black bird flew out of the clouds and dove straight for me. The ominous feathered being would have crashed into me had it not been for a toad I had assumed dead. The amphibian jumped from the boat at the last moment and caught the bird in its mouth.

I woke up.

The cotton sheets of my bed were tangled around me like tentacles. I was drenched in salty sweat. If I’d been fanciful, I would have sworn the salt came from the sea of my dream.

Sometimes I really hated that Freud was right about our subconscious speaking to us in our dreams. I’d found him to be a terribly arrogant man, but I grudgingly admitted he was a smart one. In alchemy, serpents represent the life force that’s exchanged in each transformation, pelicans represent sacrifice, and toads represent the First Matter that both begins and ends the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone. My subconscious was definitely trying to work out the confusing events around me.

A sweet aroma brought me back to reality. The scent of fresh apricot tarts told me that Dorian was back from his predawn baking at Blue Sky Teas and had brought back misshapen pastries, as usual. The treats tasted as good, but customers were less likely to buy a lopsided tart, so he brought these malformed treats back to the house … if he didn’t eat them first.

I made myself a cup of jasmine green tea from tea leaves Max had given me and sat down with Dorian at the dining table. Built by a craftsman I met in the south of France shortly after the turn of the twentieth century, the table had been in storage during the years I’d lived out of a trailer. It was nice to have a home again, even if I always made sure to keep the curtains drawn tightly so that Dorian could have the run of the house.

Even at the familiar table that had brought me joy from the moment it was handcrafted, with a perfect breakfast and my best friend at my side, I couldn’t relax. I was plagued by the troubling idea that the bookseller had been harmed by whoever was following me and Ivan. Could the book he found be more important than either of us thought? Could Backward Alchemists of Notre Dame hold a real clue to finding a backward alchemist? And if so, was someone trying to stop me from getting it?

“Breakfast is unsatisfactory?” Dorian asked, his horns twitching in alarm. “I will cook fresh food. I suspected I had gone too far trusting the malformed atrocities. This scone resembles your Richard Nixon, no? It is the chin.” Dorian frowned at the scone. “What would you like? Buckwheat crepes? Chickpea pancakes? Almond milk porridge?” He jumped down from his chair, falling onto the creaky hardwood floor in the process. His left ankle was now unbending, solid stone.

“These pastries taste perfect, Dorian.” I helped him back into his chair and held my tongue about his stone lower leg. “I simply didn’t sleep well.”

“If you are certain.”

“I am.” I took a huge bite of a heavenly apricot tart to prove my point.

“Bon. Then we can get to work. My little grey cells have been mulling over this most unusual problem: not one but two old alchemy murders. Both of which are distracting you from helping me and my brother.” He tapped his claws on the wooden tabletop. “When we have eliminated the impossible, the only thing that remains, however improbable, is the truth to which I will apply my little grey cells.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re mixing your fictional detectives.”

“I am being most serious, Zoe. Murders across time and location, yet they have one thing in common: you.”

“The connection,” I said emphatically, “is alchemy.”

Dorian shook his head even more emphatically. “This week has stirred up two alchemical murders relating to you. You cannot think this is a coincidence.”

“Jasper was killed in France seventy-five years ago. The unknown man in the cabin was killed in Oregon around a decade ago. I was careless in Paris and Brixton was snooping in Portland because we want to get alchemical answers to help you. In that sense, you’re right: they’re connected. But only because of dangers we both stepped into.”

“You miss the logical next step, mon amie. You being recognized in Paris could have set forces in motion—”

“I can’t think straight. Everything seems connected right now. Even Heather’s paintings remind me of alchemy.”

“Oui. She has a vivid imagination. I can see why the themes of transformation remind you of alchemy.”

“You’ve seen the paintings?”

“When I arrive in the café’s kitchen at three a.m., before removing my cape I look around to make sure there is nobody there.”

“Now you think Heather is an alchemist? Heather? The woman who dropped out of high school at sixteen, who can’t be bothered to wear shoes for half the year, who’s more interested in weaving daisy chains in her hair and finding the perfect shade of green paint than making sure where her son is?”

“I agree, it does not make sense that all of Portland is overflowing with alchemists. I have explored enough to know that is not the case. There is something else at play, Zoe. You. You must investigate the unknown dead man to find out his connection to you—”

“The police are already doing that.”

Dorian flapped his wings at his side. “But there is a connection to the man who has been spying on Ivan!”

“The only thing I have to investigate is the alchemy that will save you. I’m so close to understanding what’s going on, Dorian. So close to saving you.” I swallowed hard, willing my eyes not to fill with tears. “As soon as that book from Paris arrives, I’ll be able to find a backward alchemist and have the last piece of the puzzle.”

“And in the meantime?”

“The book will be arriving soon. Maybe even later today.” If someone hadn’t gotten to Lucien first.

“Alors, the meantime? We are well equipped to solve these past mysteries, you and I.”

“I know you’re careful, but you can’t move your left arm. And your foot … ” I let the words trail off as I looked at his poor foot. His stone ankle was frozen at an awkward angle. Was it painful?

Instead of protesting, as I suspected he would, Dorian’s wings folded as he nodded sadly. “I nearly fell from the roof the other day. No, no. Do not worry. I have since compensated and know how to hold on with one hand and foot. But you are right that I cannot investigate as I once could. Yet I have other skills to assist you. In addition to reading the entire Christie canon, I read Tey’s Daughter of Time. Twice.”

I crossed my arms and stared down at the gargoyle. “Then you should stay in the attic instead of following phantoms. If memory serves, the hero in that novel about solving a centuries-old mystery didn’t leave his hospital bed the entire time.”

Dorian’s snout twitched. “Well played, Alchemist. Well played.”

“If you want to play armchair detective, why don’t you help me look through online archives of newspaper accounts from 1942 Paris?” I didn’t think learning more about Jasper Dubois’s death would help, but it couldn’t hurt, and it was a safe line of investigation for Dorian. I handed him my laptop.

“I have already done this.”

“You have?”

“You thought I would not use my little grey cells to help you?” His shoulders and wings fell. “I searched for clues for many hours, while you slept. Alas, I have not discovered any new facts, only theories. This is why I have not spoken of my findings. As for my brother—”

“The other gargoyle,” I corrected.

Dorian narrowed his eyes.

“I should run to the market,” I continued. “There’s a farmer’s market today.”

“You are a très intelligent woman, Zoe. You knew the one thing you could say that would not cause me to object to ending this conversation.”

Though it was early summer, an unexpected rainstorm had blown in that morning, though I probably shouldn’t have called it “unexpected” since this was Portland. I grabbed my silver rain coat and walked to a local farmer’s market. I found myself looking over my shoulder the entire way. Could Dorian be right that the two murders were connected to me? It wasn’t possible. Jasper’s death might have been connected to me, but I wasn’t in Portland a decade ago.

I was so distracted I barely noticed the early-summer fruits and vegetables. I was vaguely aware of a pyramid-shaped stack of apricots, but didn’t stop wandering until I reached a stall that sent me back to another century.

The farmer had freekeh, a preparation of durum wheat in which the young green stalks are set afire to stop the process of the wheat aging and to give the grain a smoky flavor. It would be a perfect complement to the green onions from my garden. And I knew Dorian would love it. For a brief time he’d missed the smoky flavor of cured meats, but he’d been delighted to discover a whole other world of smoky spices and grains.

The more I got to know Portland, the more I loved my new home. A stab of frustration overcame me. I was so close to having a happy life here. If only I could solve the riddle of Dorian’s alchemy book to save him and rid myself of the murderous mysteries that had followed me, I knew that life was within reach.

I was almost hopeful on my walk home. I let myself appreciate the moment, taking in the scents of the smoky freekeh and sweet summer peas in the bag over my shoulder, and the roses and pine from the nature that surrounded me.

I quickened my pace as I approached the house. A package was sticking out of the mailbox. I’d let my imagination run wild in thinking something bad had happened to the bookseller. I tore into the package.

It wasn’t the book from Paris.

The book-shaped package contained a bound stack of magazines. I flipped through the pages. All back issues of a vegan magazine Dorian had recently discovered.

It was probably still true that I was jumping to conclusions about the bookseller. An unsettling thought about Lucien crossed my mind: The French police could have tracked me down to the bookshop. If they told the bookseller about Jasper’s murder in 1942, Lucien might have decided that he didn’t want to help a criminal.

Or worse. If the authorities had traced my movements in Paris, could they have traced me back to my house in Portland?

Dorian had an escape-hatch in the roof of the house; if anyone entered the house with a search warrant, he could make an easy escape. What did it say about my life that I’d already had to think about such matters multiple times this year?

Being traced here didn’t seem especially likely, though. The supposed granddaughter of a possible criminal who was most likely long dead wouldn’t merit the French authorities sending their American counterparts to follow up with me. But Madame Leblanc cared enough. I tensed as I remembered her high-end clothing. She could very well have the resources to hire a private investigator to look into anything related to alchemy in Portland.

I couldn’t sit at home doing nothing, so I walked to Blue Sky Teas. It was early afternoon, but as I drew near I saw that the teashop was dark and the sign set to CLOSED. A little rain never stopped a Portlander. I peeked in the windows but saw nothing amiss.

Is everything all right? I texted Brixton.

Where are you? he texted back.

Teashop.

Meet me at the morgue.

The morgue? This couldn’t be good.