Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Oh God. That hadn’t been a dream, then? He rubbed his head, shaking loose the cobwebs. “Remind me, Jack. What is it we are doing … exactly?”

With his fists at his hips, Jack glared at him. “Don’t you recall anything?”

“Well … I seem to recall … a French alchemist?” Jack nodded. “And a strange female servant?”

“Aye.”

“And then…?”

“God blind me, Master Crispin! You give a man gray whiskers. Here’s a client-a paying client-and you don’t remember?”

He cradled his head from Jack’s loud admonishment. “Give me a moment.”

“Well, I was there, too, so I can tell you all about it, I suppose.”

Jack moved about the room, fetching Crispin’s wash water and explaining about the missing wife and apprentice; how they had gone to the apprentice’s family, but the man wasn’t there. And then, as he handed Crispin a bowl of watery broth, he mentioned curtly about the unexpected visitation of Henry of Derby.

Oh, yes. Crispin seemed to remember that! He made a secret glance at Jack as he stoked the fire and noted the red tips of his ears. Crispin smiled into his bowl. A jealous Jack was an amusing one.

But none of it was amusing once they got outside. It might have been a clear day with only a wintry haze along the horizon, but it was starkly cold. His feet were already numb even under two layers of stockings.

“Tell me, Jack,” he said, climbing carefully down the stairs. “Had we any idea where to start this search?”

He still wore a hurt expression, one he seemed to hold dear from last night when Henry taunted him. “ I’m not the Tracker, you are.”

Crispin would have rolled his eyes, but his head still hurt. “Very well. We could- God’s blood!”

A cluster of women chattered close together in front of the poulterer’s, vying for the plumpest hen hanging by its feet from a hook in the front of the stall, and the poulterer smiled broadly at his good fortune. But just beside them, not part of the group, stood Avelyn.

Her sparkling eyes followed Crispin as he descended the stairs, but she made no move to approach.

“What’s she doing here?” said Jack, voicing Crispin’s thoughts.

“I don’t know.” They both stood on their own patches of dirty snow, regarding each other across the lane. But the longer they stood at this silent battle, the more foolish Crispin felt. “She doesn’t seem to have anything to offer. Let us go, Jack.”

As he threw his hood up over his head, his foot hit the street and sank into the cart-rutted snow. Slyly, he looked back over his shoulder. Avelyn hadn’t moved. Very well, then.

Of course, he had no idea where he was going. It seemed foolish to simply wander all over London looking for a lost wife. Though more likely, she had returned. If the servant Avelyn were only able to talk, he might have asked her. He stopped and whipped around, looking for her tiny frame, but she was no longer standing in the drift by the poulterer’s.

He supposed it might be best to see this Nicholas Flamel again to find out what had transpired.

He turned and headed toward the Fleet. Shopkeepers set out their wares. A baker’s apprentice wandered the streets with a heavy canvas bag slung across his shoulder. Inside were warm meat pies and small loaves of maslin. Whenever he was stopped to sell his wares, the apprentice opened the flap of the bag and steam arose, sending the tantalizing whiff of fresh bread and meat spices into the air.

The broth seemed a mere memory in Crispin’s belly, and his mouth watered to smell the aromas.

Along the way, Crispin let the familiar scenes of an awakening London trickle past him. A master here and an apprentice there, plying their trade in open doorways. Braziers burned with sticks and dung along the avenues, and travelers warmed their hands and faces over the smoky fires.

He passed a familiar shop with its heavy posts in each corner. Crispin had passed it hundreds of times, perhaps a thousand times, without giving it thought. But this time, he came to an abrupt halt. Walking backward, he returned to stare at the dark wood of the corner post. It rose to the second story with white lime plaster swathed in between window and corner. He’d never had reason to take note of it before, but today, carved crudely into the wood, was a set of strange symbols.

He approached and raised his hand. Cold fingertips slid over the crudely carved shapes. “Jack,” he said softly, “am I imagining this, or…” He had been about to ask if the symbols had always been there only he had never noticed. But the truth was under his fingers, for the carving was new and even left a splinter in his skin.

He rubbed it free and studied the wall. Jack came up beside him.

“What is that, Master?”

“I don’t know. It is writing of some sort. Reminds me of something.” Try as he might, he could not recall the memory.

Dismissing it, he turned and suddenly came face-to-face with Avelyn. Her unexpected appearance disconcerted him.

“What do you want, wench?” He realized even as he said it that she could not hear him.

But her face was drawn in consternation and she grabbed his arm, yanking him forward.

Reflexively, he pulled away from her, but she was not put off. She leapt up and grabbed him again, jerking his arm hard.

“What the devil-”

Jack grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back, but she spun in his arms and elbowed him in the gut with surprising strength. Jack doubled with the blow, and she seized Crispin’s arm again, pulling him into the middle of the lane.

“I’m going to go with her, Jack. Are you all right?”

The boy sputtered and staggered after him. “Aye … Master. God’s teeth but she’s got a sharp jab.”

Crispin let himself be dragged along. It was useless trying to slide her grip from him. She’d only grasp on again like a limpet.

They were steadily making their way to the alchemist’s shop. Passersby stared at them with amusement, but Crispin was far from amused. He’d give the man a piece of his mind for his servant’s actions!

They turned the corner and she let Crispin go to run to the shop. She stood at the door, looking back at Crispin and beckoning with urgency. Crispin felt compelled to trot forward, his heart thumping faster, a strange feeling stirring in his gut.

When she opened the door, he stopped dead.

The alchemist sat on the floor on his knees, weeping. Above him, swinging gently back and forth, hung a young man.

Upside down he hung, his left leg bent and tied behind his right to form a triangle. He’d been hung by his left foot, which was wrapped with a heavy rope leading up to the rafter beam.

And on his chest a dagger was thrust through, holding in place a piece of parchment with dark writing and a blotch of blood.

Jack had gone to fetch the sheriffs while Crispin carefully removed the dagger and the bloodied parchment.

“How long, Master Flamel? How long were you absent from your shop? This had to have been a difficult thing to hang him thus without anyone seeing.”

“I was gone all morning,” he said between wiping his eyes. “Doing your job, Maître ! Looking for my Perenelle. Oh, my saints. Oh God, keep his soul, the poor, dear boy. For I had accused him most foully of great sin. The greater sin is mine.”

Guilt twinged Crispin’s gut. Had he not been in his cups … “This is your apprentice, then? Thomas Cornhill.”

“Yes,” he said, sobbing.

Crispin directed his attention to the spidery script of the parchment. In Latin, he read: