Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“I can do that!” said the boy, brightening. He took the bucket back from Crispin and walked, swaying from side to side with the weight of it, sloshing the water onto the snow.

Enough water remained in the bucket when they finally arrived to Flamel’s shop. Crispin thanked the boy, gave him a farthing, and, before the boy left, stopped him with the lifting of his hand. “And boy, promise me you will not get water from the Tun for some days.”

“Eh? Not the Tun? But it is the closest cistern.”

“I know that. But promise me you will not.” He handed over yet another coin to seal the bargain, kicking himself for the mawkish fool that he was. He couldn’t very well pay all the urchins in London not to take water from the Tun.

The boy whooped as he sprinted away, surely to relate to his family how a strange and foolish man had paid an exorbitant price for their leaky old bucket.

He knocked on the alchemist’s door and Avelyn opened it. She looked as fresh as if she had gotten a full night’s sleep, but he seemed to expect no less from her. She looked puzzled at the bucket he carried inside but didn’t question it when Crispin set it on a table still chalked with sigils.

Flamel, heavy dark bags under his eyes, was slowly climbing down the ladder from his upper loft. He seemed to pay no heed to the whirling planets mere inches from him. “What have you brought, Maître . More clues?”

“Something else, sir. Perhaps it will distract you from your troubles while doing this good deed for others.”

“Eh? What good deed?” He eyed the bucket. He looked smaller dressed as he was in his long shift with a loose unbuttoned gown thrown over it.

“I have reason to believe that this water has been poisoned.”

“Poisoned? But why?”

Crispin shook his head. Avelyn was suddenly there, offering him a chair. A good thing. He was exhausted and fell into it. “I know not why, Master Flamel. But I only hope that you can discover the poison from this sample and tell me what it is and how to counteract it. If poisoned it is.”

“But how do you know it is poisoned?”

“Because many have died from consuming it. I have surmised that much.”

“Died, have they?” It had indeed served as a distraction, for Flamel was hitching up his sleeves and scooping up some of the water into a beaker. He poured it into a retort and set the glass object over a trivet in his fire.

“Yes,” Crispin said wearily. “Young children, mostly. Some old people as well.”

“Weaklings?”

“I suppose.”

“Ah,” he said, and set quietly to work.

Crispin watched him grab different canisters from his shelves, peer inside them, and either use a wooden spoon to remove some of the powdered contents or put the canister back untouched on his shelf, muttering all the while.

After a time, Crispin rose. He could see no sense in spending the day there. He told the man he was leaving, though he doubted he heard. Avelyn’s eyes tracked him as he strode out the door, and she followed. He stopped on the step outside and turned to her.

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down toward her. Face very close to his, he felt her breath on his lips. It was tempting. She licked her lips, knowing he was looking at them.

“You are a seductress, do you know that?” He reached up to his neck and disengaged her arms, holding them a long time. “I have work to do,” he said.

She made the sign for “kiss,” but he shook his head. She pouted and made the sign again. “No,” he said firmly, and turned away, striding down the lane. But when he looked back, she was stalking right behind him.

He stopped and glared at her. “What do you think you are doing?”

Her lips formed that elfin smile and she licked them yet again, tongue trailing over them slowly. Sighing with just a bit of a quickened heart, he glanced quickly around the street, grabbed her by her cloak, and dragged her forward. “I’m beginning to think that you have bewitched me,” he said to her lips before he kissed them, exploring the shape and fullness of her mouth for a long time. When he finally drew back, it was to the whistles and guffaws of the men passing by.

He smirked at her and walked away. And when he looked over his shoulder, he was satisfied that she had retreated back to her master’s shop.

It took little time to return to the Shambles. Crispin bade good day to the tinker Martin Kemp, who was rearranging his wares on his display table, before Crispin stumped up the stairs to his lodgings. He closed the door once inside. After stoking the dying fire, he lit the candles in their sconces along the walls and kept his cloak on as he sat at the table, eyes traveling over the discarded chessboard.

He picked up a bishop and turned it in his fingers. The carvings had always intrigued him. The design depicted each piece as its model was in life, only fatter and squatter. Easy to put in one’s hand. The abbot had told him it was an old set, possibly had been in his family for a generation. It was an expensive behest. He was certain that Abbot William would have rather sold it or gifted it to some other noble for a favor. But a behest was a behest. Crispin was glad to have it.

With a grunt, he wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. Those were treasured days. He did not realize how much he had relied on the old man for advice and counsel. He wished the old abbot were here now to talk to. He supposed, in a way, the abbot had been a substitute for Lancaster, whom he had started speaking to again only a few years ago.

And now Lancaster’s son. He closed his eyes. His mind drifted along, snapping up memories of those long-ago days, when Crispin was a household knight and had been given the privilege of training young Henry, just as Lancaster had trained Crispin. He had taken the lad hawking and riding, had trained him in archery. They had discussed warfare and strategy and, yes, had played many games of chess and tables together. But gone were those carefree days. So much had changed. Richard was a man now and so was Henry. The old abbot was dead, and Lancaster was far away in Spain. And Crispin was left with a dead apprentice, a missing wife, poisoned water, and … what? Strange clues etched on the streets and alleys of London? Shadowy men following him for some unknown reason? It seemed absurd, beyond the realm of reality. And yet over the years, he had encountered far stranger things.

Still, this abduction seemed particularly insidious. Someone was playing games, relishing the confusion it elicited. But did it have to do with Perenelle Flamel or something else? Something worse? Something … like a poisoned cistern?

Crispin turned his head, staring at his own bucket in the corner by the door. Such a simple thing. Water. One needed it for one’s stews and pottage. To clean. To drink, when there was no ale or wine about. A necessity of life. It was worse than poisoning bread. What foul demon would do such a thing? To what end?

And what had Henry to do with it? For he could not put out of his head the possibility that Henry was somehow involved. The man had ambition. Impatience. No wonder Lancaster had left him at home. Of course, the public excuse was that he needed him to watch the estates, but if Henry was anything like Crispin at that age, it was because of his impetuosity. If Henry believed he needed this Stone or believed in its power, then he would have no qualms about taking it.…

Wait.

Crispin felt like the biggest fool. It couldn’t be Henry. Derby would never stoop to this waiting game, not that impatient youth. He would simply go to Flamel himself and force him to give over the Stone. He wouldn’t have time to play these games.

That meant Henry was innocent.

Crispin sat back, feeling relieved. He had not wanted his young lord to be the cause of this crime or of any other. Henry might be a dupe, but he was not an instigator.