Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Jack gave him a significant look.

“Yes, well. It does have its parallels in our current political circumstances. It is a game of strategy. Of thinking far ahead of the current state of the board. Of being able to adjust your thinking depending on what is presented to you.”

“Blind me, sir. It’s like what we do all the time.”

“Indeed. As I said, it’s a fine metaphor for the games of court and politics. But unlike politics, the outcome can sometimes be predicted. Even directed.”

Crispin grasped his pawn and moved it two squares forward, but just as he placed it on the square, a knock sounded on the door.

They both straightened, hands on their knife hilts. At a signal from Crispin, Jack went to the door and opened it.

Avelyn stood there, hands behind her back, rocking from side to side. When she spied Crispin, her smile widened impossibly.

She rushed past Jack, nearly toppling him. “Oi! Watch it!”

She stopped right in front of Crispin, looking up at him with her chin high. It bared her throat, and a long, lovely throat it is, he mused, though it was slightly marred by his love bites. His eyes could not help but travel downward to the shadow of her bosom, where he remembered proffering a few more gentle nibbles.

They looked at each other for a while before Jack loudly let out a gust of exasperation. “I’ll be outside, I reckon,” he grumbled, grabbing his cloak, and he slammed the door behind him.

Crispin didn’t even wait for the last click of the lock. His hands reached up and grasped her shoulders and slid up to her neck. He ran his fingers over her hair, but it was tightly braided again into one long plait. “I do prefer your hair loose,” he said softly.

She moved her face into his hand, nuzzling. She lifted her arms, running her hands up his chest until she reached his neck and tugged him down. He bent obligingly and their lips touched. He opened his mouth over hers, clutched her small frame, and lifted her off the floor. Her feet dangled just below his knees. She weighed nothing at all.

Their tongues tangled slowly, slick and wet, and one hand traveled down her back, lower, until he was able to cup one arsecheek and squeeze it.

They kissed for a long time, until he drew his mouth away mere inches from hers. “Have you come with a message from your master?” he asked breathlessly, thinking that he should at least ask the question. Her mistress was, after all, still in peril.

But he wasn’t far enough away for her to see his lips and he quickly forgot the question and molded his mouth to hers again. They kissed another few moments before she tore away and landed on her feet. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear it. “Avelyn?” He didn’t even realize he was still reaching for her when she pushed him back. With determination she shook her head and then started to gesture.

“You know I can’t understand.” He slipped his hands around her petite waist and pulled. When she was flush against him, his hands cupped her jaw and he bent over and found her mouth again. She kissed back, but with far less enthusiasm and pushed him away again.

He looked down at her in puzzlement and she continued to sign.

“Clearly you are trying to tell me something.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You are right, of course. Something must be done about Madam Flamel.” What did he know of abductions? For the most part, he knew of instances where knights were captured on the battlefield and they would be kept until a ransom was paid. They lived at ease, for the most part, for courtesy demanded they be treated with care, only they were unable to leave the precincts of whatever castle or manor house kept them. Even Richard Lionheart was kept for years until his brother, Prince John, collected enough ransom in taxes to set him free.

And on the streets of London, a woman might be captured by her rival’s family until her own family agreed to marry her off to the abductor’s son. Such things were not entirely legal but were well-known.

But an abduction for a ransom alone, and one involving murder, was not oft heard of. Would she be safe? Would the abductor exercise patience? God’s blood! He had been careless and selfish, getting distracted by the likes of Henry and this seductress, who was even now trying desperately to tell him something. He had dismissed her in favor of asking her master the questions he needed to ask, but he had been a fool.

“Avelyn,” he said, sobered, “tell me. Try.”

She looked around the darkening room when her gaze landed on the chess set. She grabbed a knight and showed it to him. He shrugged, taking it from her hand.

With a breath of vexation, she gestured to the corners of the room. But still he did not know her meaning. She ran to the bucket, dipped in her hand, and wrote with her wet finger on the wall. She made one of those symbols he had seen on the streets of London.

He hurried over to her. “Do you know what they mean?”

She gave a tentative nod. Crispin grabbed his cloak, and when he opened the door, he beckoned a sleepy Jack to come along.

The muddied snow was tinged blue in the dark. People had retreated to their homes, as they were obligated to do. The curfew was in place and shutters were closed and locked. Horses were stabled and suppers consumed.

And it was cold. Night crept in like a thief in the house, and Crispin, Jack, and Avelyn made their careful way over the streets, keeping an eye skinned for a slippery patch of ice as well as for the Watch.

With her hand clutched around the hem of his cloak, she pulled Crispin to a corner and showed him the symbol. “Yes, I see it, but I don’t know what it means. Master Bartholomew, the other alchemist, seemed afraid of them.”

She nodded but kept pointing to it.

He looked at Jack for help. Jack tapped her shoulder, and keeping his voice low, he enunciated, “HE DON’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANS.”

Scowling at him, she winced away from Jack’s touch.

“We must return to Flamel,” said Crispin. It was a long night ahead for all of them, he decided. They needed to decipher once and for all what these symbols might mean.

They hurried as the darkness enveloped them. Only a slice of moon lit their way now. Occasional sparks swirled up from a chimney but quickly died in the cold and gloom. The smell of cooking fires on the wind took them all the way to Fleet Ditch, and Avelyn led the way directly into the alchemist’s shop.

Instead of worrying at a rosary or pacing the floor, the alchemist was busy at his crucibles. A leather-bound book lay open to the side, and on its parchment pages were many of the same symbols Crispin had seen all over London. More symbols, written in chalk, decorated the alchemist’s table, floor, and walls, connected by long straight lines. Strange smells issued from his bubbling retorts, and the fire beneath each beaker lit the man’s determined face with dancing shadows. In fact, more shadows flickered wildly against a far wall in shapes that Crispin dared not look at.

Directly in front of the alchemist was a shallow basin filled with dark water that did not move. He appeared to be staring into it with great concentration, leaning farther and farther toward its unnatural plane.

And above it all came the creak and groan of the metal planets circling endlessly, fire rippling over their brass faces.

Crispin drew back, alarmed. This was sorcery!

“Master Flamel! What are you doing?”

The alchemist startled and jerked up. “ Maître Guest!” He cast his glance across his work. “I am doing what I can, what I must, in order to find my dear wife. Alchemy is much more than using the simple elements of the earth.”