Elaine Knighton - The Alchemist's Daughter

Isidora’s body stilled at a creak of leather and the faintest whiff of sandalwood. She looked around the edge of the thick planking. Her gaze moved from a gauntleted hand, up a muscular, linen-clad arm, and to the vivid blue eyes of the man who remained firmly in the way.

“Oh,” she breathed. If the lovely Marylas resembled a woman made of silver, this was as comely a man as could be imagined, made of red-gold. A straight nose, set in a lean, sculpted, sun-burned face, with high cheekbones and a wide jaw. Hair that flowed past his shoulders like liquid copper.

His eyebrow quirked. A charming, perfect eyebrow.

“Ma demoiselle?”

And a voice to match the rest. Resonant yet soft. Rich with nuance.

She blinked and was ready to kick herself. What am I thinking? One bewitching stranger cannot sway me from what I know to be the truth. Fair men are perfectly capable of destroying one’s life and happiness, just as are ugly ones.

“Pardon me, do you speak French or English?” he asked, still not releasing the gate.

“Or Latin? Or Greek? Lucien knows them all,” came another voice from beyond him, accompanied by male laughter.

“You are Franj?” Isidora ventured in French. His eyes were as blue as the sea beyond the walls of the city. Beteuse! What does it matter who he is or how handsome? Tell him to go away!

“Nay. But we need—guiding—to the, em, bathhouse. Can you help?”

His companions groaned. “Lucien—you and your hot water obsession! Why not ask where the nearest ale house is?”

Her father’s voice rang out into the courtyard. “Isidora! What’s keeping you?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Nothing, my lord! Just some travelers looking for the hammam. It is up that way,” she added, and pointed in the direction they should go.

“God speed you!” she urged the young men, but they did not depart.

Then her father, Sir Deogal, emerged, tall and spare and out of sorts. His eyes glinted dangerously from beneath his heavy gray brows. He moved in the stiff but determined way of old warriors, his faded blue robe dragging along the stones of the courtyard.

Isidora threw him a concerned look. He would still pick a fight, even though outnumbered and unarmed. Strong he might be, but men like these could cut him to pieces if they chose.

“Father, please do not trouble yourself. They are just leaving.” She turned and met the handsome intruder’s gaze squarely. “Are you not?”

Clutching the slender neck of a glass alembic in one hand, Deogal threw the gate wide with the other to reveal the group of four young men.

“Take yourselves off from here. Go find someone who has time to squander dealing with the worthless likes of you!”

Just this once, curb your temper, Father! Isidora’s heart pounded and she balled her hands into fists as the knights exchanged dark looks and fingered their swords. All but the one at the gate, whose eyes smiled even when his mouth did not.

The stranger gave a dismissive wave. “My friends, waste not your strength upon a demented old man. Go on, I will catch up with you later.” When they hesitated, he fixed them with his gaze and said but one word. “Go.”

“Don’t get too clean, Lucien, or we won’t take you back.” They resumed their joking and moved down the lane, away from the hammam and toward the closest wine merchant.

Deogal shook his flask at Lucien and its contents danced in silver waves. “How dare you speak of me thus, you sorry whelp of a—”

The young knight raised his gauntleted hand. “Sir, I could not but help notice that is quicksilver in the vessel you hold there. I have an appreciation for such things, but my friends do not, so forgive me for having discouraged them in the way that I deemed best for the situation…may I speak with you?”

“You may not. I have work to do and no time for curiosity seekers. Isidora, get inside.”

As Deogal retreated, slamming the workshop door behind him, Isidora was struck by the disappointment reflected on—what had they called him?—Lucien’s face.

It was similar to her own, what she felt every time her father barred her from entering his sanctum sanctorum. From the part of his life that mattered most to him.

This fellow did not belong here. Her father needed help, aye, but she would provide it, not some stranger off the street. As much as she resented the Work, it was indeed important, and given time, Deogal would surely let her in. She was of his flesh, his only child. Sooner or later he had to….

But for now, the least she could do was show the knight that manners did exist in this household. And that she was not afraid of him.

“Lord, would you like some wine?”

The knight, who she assumed belonged to Henry of Champagne, the King of Jerusalem—known to the native residents of Acre, his capital, as al-Kond Herri—took a long breath. He crossed his arms and seemed to consider her proposal, looking at her carefully all the while. Then he nodded, once.

She had half expected him to stalk away. Half hoped that he would. But here he remained, so Isidora ushered him into the small garden where her father received his rare but usually important visitors.

All was in order. A small fountain burbled, red-flowering vines wound around the carved sandstone columns and birds chirped, flitting in and out of the shadows.

“Please sit, sir.” Isidora indicated a polished marble bench. Off to one side, Marylas stood staring, her hand clamped over her mouth. Isidora gave the girl a reassuring look and she hurried toward the kitchen.

Marylas was easily frightened by the presence of armed men. Before coming to this household, she had suffered indignities that Isidora did not want her to be reminded of by anyone. Even this Lucien.

He settled his elegant limbs, removed his gloves and dabbled long, strong fingers in the fountain’s pool as he looked about. When Marylas returned with the refreshments, and hesitated before him, Isidora saw that Lucien recognized the maid with courtesy instead of treating her as an object of contempt.

He inclined his head to her and murmured something that actually made her eyes smile. No doubt he was hoping to lay the foundation for a future assault. He would meet with a sharp, unpleasant surprise, should he try. Marylas never went without her dagger.

Isidora poured a measure of water into a mazer, then topped it with the wine and handed it to him.

“My thanks.” Lucien raised the bowl but did not drink. “Will you not join me?”

“Nay. Forgive my rudeness, I have but little time to spare.”

In truth, every moment she was with him unnerved her more. She found herself staring like a foolish girl might. He was so foreign. Gleaming. Beautiful. He glowed, like a painting of a heavenly herald.

Her mind wandered, as if along the golden curves of the lettered illuminations she labored over each day. For one ridiculous, embarrassing moment she imagined him to be sent by God, to distract her from the frustration of working for her father. Working for him, but kept apart from his work. The Work. It was all that mattered to him.

A familiar constriction squeezed her heart at the thought. She adored her father, but the Work had become her enemy, for it always stood between them. At times she hated it, as much as one could hate anything so ethereal and elusive.

Isidora looked away, for fear the young man would see her loneliness and pity her for it.

But he did not seem to notice anything amiss at all. He took a swallow of the wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am Lucien de Griswold. What is your name?”

“Isidora,” she managed.

“Ah. Gift of Isis. A fitting name…for an alchemist’s daughter.”

She made a small sound. At his knowledge she was truly surprised and not a little alarmed. “You know of the Work my father does?”