Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

He stumbled backward. “Dammit! Stop that!”

Wrestling her arm free of him, she glared. His handprint on her cheek changed from pink to red.

“Call off your mastiff,” he growled.

Flamel moved like a much older man around the table and rested his hands on her shoulders. His mere touch seemed to calm her, and her tensed shoulders dropped back to their normal posture. But she still glared at Crispin.

“She seems to know what we are saying,” he said, watching her warily. His foot and shin both throbbed.

Flamel sighed. “She reads the movement of our lips. She can understand both French and English, possibly other languages as well, though she cannot hear them. Very accomplished is my Avelyn. I do not know how or when she learned it.”

“But you speak to her with your hands.”

“Yes. It was she who taught me that.”

He looked at her anew and she offered a smug smile. It seemed she did know what they were saying. He gave her a sneer in return.

“Be that as it may,” said Crispin, moving out of range of Avelyn’s feet, “I do not understand why you would risk the life of your wife with a false ransom. How did you hope to buy time with a simple stone instead of the valuable jewel he wanted? This might have angered him, forced his hand.”

“You don’t understand, Maître Guest.”

“No, I don’t. And I like all this even less. You are keeping information from me, and that might cost Madam Flamel her life. If you do not wish to aid me, then there is little I can do for you.”

The alchemist wrung his hands. “If only I could explain it all, Maître . But I cannot. There are ancient secrets that must be kept. Alchemists swear oaths to keep these secrets sacred. Even for the life of my dear Perenelle, I may not divulge all. She would surely understand that. If only you could believe me. And trust me. Please. You must help me.”

Crispin raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how to help you if you will not tell me the truth.” Though he, too, was keeping secrets from Flamel. For could Henry of Bolingbroke be both a murderer and an abductor?

No. He refused to believe it. Though he had often allowed the people he trusted to deceive him, he was also a good judge of character, and this did not fit in with Henry’s character at all. He was as wealthy as they came. He wouldn’t need to extort an expensive broach from some unknown alchemist. Even if that broach did come from the King of France. Henry was in charge of an army. And even if he needed an additional one, one for himself for selfish purposes, he still wouldn’t need another man’s money to do it. No, something else was afoot here. Something more. If Flamel would not tell him, he would find it out for himself.

He breathed, calming down. “Very well. Since the exchange did not go as planned, we must await a message from the abductor. I believe it will be soon.” Avelyn had moved closer to Flamel and was petting his arm soothingly. Crispin tapped the table in front of her and she looked up at him. “Take care of your master,” he said. He was amazed when she nodded.

“Master Flamel, I must go. Alert me when you receive another message. Do nothing until you talk to me.”

“Yes, Maître . I swear I will.”

Crispin nodded, bowed, and left.

He stood in the street, inhaling deeply of the heavy cold. Now that he thought on it, Henry’s visit to the Shambles seemed even stranger. Had he been trying to warn Crispin? Or trying to see what he knew? But this was before the dead man was discovered or the note about the ransom. The uncertainty gave him a headache.

He walked on, and when he finally turned the corner of the Shambles, he halted. Both sheriffs sat in their saddles. Their horses bowed their heads, snuffling for dead grass through the snow. The sheriffs’ gazes fell on Crispin, but they did not beckon him. What else would they be doing in the Shambles except to watch him? Did they not trust he would do his best to find the killer? They’d seen him accomplish as much before and were as ungrateful each time.

He bowed slightly to them and they pointedly turned away, refusing to acknowledge him. “Whoresons,” Crispin muttered, and continued on to his lodgings.

He made a quick stop at a meat pie seller, handing over his coins and taking the greasy pastry in exchange. The pie warmed his fingers and he was grateful for that as he trudged up the stairs, hoping Jack would be there. But when he opened the door, he found Avelyn stoking his fire instead. “God’s blood!” How had she gotten here so fast? He stomped toward her and she turned, perhaps sensing his steps through the floor. The fire lit a halo of her already fair hair. Her eyes took him in and a small smile graced her face. She still looked elfin, like a changeling, yet he could appreciate her more feminine charms. And she was using them, either consciously or as part of her nature. Much softer than he intended, he asked, “Why are you here? You should be by your master, easing his anxiety.”

She smiled and simply knelt by the fire. He noticed she had a pot of wine steaming there and grabbed the pot’s handle with the rolled-up hem of her apron and poured its contents into a bowl. How had she accomplished so much in so little time? She must have raced here when Crispin left the alchemist.

With a smile, she offered the bowl to him. Disconcerted, he took it reluctantly. “Yes … thank you.” He sipped the hot wine. It felt good as it warmed. He set it aside and sat on his chair, leaning toward her. “You must not stay.” She turned to the fire again and he tapped her shoulder. “I say, you must not stay. You must return to your master. He needs you.”

She shook her head and got up on her knees, touching his to keep herself steady. Her fingers fluttered as she tried to speak her hand language, but he closed his larger hands over her petite ones. “No. I don’t understand you.”

She sighed and clasped her delicate fingers together. After merely looking at him for a long moment, she rose again and made more motions, seemed to act out something, but it still made no sense to Crispin.

“I’m sorry. But I do not understand you. I thank you for the wine, but it might be best to return to-” She laid her fingers to his lips. When he stopped speaking, the fingers slowly withdrew. She touched the bowl, made a motion with her fingers, and then waited. She repeated and waited again expectantly.

“Are you … trying to teach me?” She made the motion a third time and, tentatively, he imitated it.

A broad smile broke out on her face and she repeated the motion. He did a better job of imitating her and she clapped her hands. She jumped to her feet and pointed to the hearth, making a motion with her fingers. And then she pointed to the candle flame. Her fingers meant “fire,” he supposed, and, feeling slightly foolish, he made the motion back. She smiled again and treated many objects in the room in the same way, going to the next only when he made the correct motion.

The strange language intrigued him. He’d always enjoyed learning languages, and this was no different. He marveled at the simplicity of the movements, which reminded him of some of the dancing movements he’d seen in miracle plays. She cupped her hand for the bowl, she wiggled her fingers to represent fire or flames, the same movement only downward represented water. Over and over she’d teach him simple words, the movements a poetic accompaniment to each object she’d encounter.

She laughed her braying laugh again and settled with a flourish of skirts at his feet, hands resting on his knees.

“Where do you come from?” he said to her when she looked up at him with laughing eyes. “Did you come from France?”