I looked closer. There was more Latin scribbled in the margins, in a cramped and hasty hand.
Alchemistam ultimam lapis elegit. Vae illi, qui non accipit.
The Stone chooses the last alchemist, but woe to whom it does not accept.
The last alchemist? I had never heard of that, or seen anything like this sentiment before. It made no sense, on its face. How could the Stone choose anything? It had to be some kind of metaphor—perhaps another way of saying that it took virtue and determination to succeed at making the Stone. One must be worthy. That was a common idea.
My eyes went from one warning to the other. If you put them together, it seemed to suggest that the Alchemist’s Curse would befall the one whom the Stone had rejected. I could not tell if they ought to be taken together. The smaller warning wasn’t in the text at all, just added by my mother. But perhaps she had a good reason to put them together. Foreboding stirred deep in my stomach.
Perhaps my mother knew something was going to happen to her. Perhaps she even knew why. She had made some mistake, maybe, and therefore wasn’t “worthy” to be the last alchemist—whatever that was.
Or perhaps she was simply scribbling nonsense in those last days.
I pushed thoughts of my mother’s madness aside, folded the papers carefully, and slipped them into my dress next to Will’s letter. I looked doubtfully at the contents of my trunk, wishing there were some way to bring everything of value with me rather than leave anything here. I had brought as much as I could salvage from my mother’s workroom, all that would travel. There was none of the White Elixir left, and the Stone itself had been wrecked beyond repair. But I had vials of metals, and in particular one of the fine ruby-red transmuting agent. I thought of the months it had taken to prepare and decided to bring that with me as well.
In the parlor, my father was staring at the breakfast tray. He jumped to his feet when I entered, and I handed him Mother’s letter.
“I do not know what she wrote.” I tried to sound indifferent, and was aware I did not succeed.
“Thank you.” He took the letter tentatively, and his gaze lingered on her handwriting. She had addressed it, simply, to Edward. “Sit down, Thea, please.”
We both sat, and he stared at the letter. He was obviously as eager to read it as I was hesitant.
“Read it. I don’t mind.”
He did so at once, while I served myself a piece of toasted bread from the tray. I examined the greasy eggs and bacon, appetite mingling with suspicion. We ate almost nothing for breakfast at home. Mother said heavy food interfered with concentration. I glanced up at my father in time to catch him wiping at his misty eyes.
“I want to apologize, Thea,” he said. “For my dreadful behavior yesterday.”
I stared down at the breakfast tray. One of the eggs had burst, and the yolk had pooled around it and begun to harden. I was at a loss. I had very little practice at receiving apologies, and even less at attempting to forgive.
“It is no excuse,” my father continued. “But I was shocked–I have never been so shocked. To suddenly find out that I have been a father for seventeen years without knowing it.”
But this sounded like an excuse, and one that did not fit his behavior. Last night, all his concern had been for his reputation, for the damage an illegitimate daughter would do to his position at the university. My defenses tightened again, and I felt more sure of myself.
“I hope you can forgive me,” said Vellacott.
“You had every reason to be worried,” I said. “But I think you will agree that saying I am your niece resolves your concerns neatly. I look enough like you that no one will doubt we are related. Besides that, I will keep to the laboratory. I assume my mother assured you of my abilities there?”
I could not restrain a nervous glance at him, and I was surprised to see him looking back at me with a bleak expression.
“Oh yes,” he said, folding the letter. “I have no doubts at all on that score. But, Thea—”
Whatever he wanted to say, I was certain I did not want to hear it. I cut him off. “I’d like to get to work, sir.”
I pushed the congealing eggs away. My mother had the right idea about breakfast.
My father nodded. We left the inn together, but very far apart.
We walked farther into the town, away from the college. We did not go far, but the scenery changed remarkably in that short time. Streets narrowed, as did the houses and shops. There was less stone and more wood, fewer high towers, coats of arms, and paned windows. Down High Street, and away from Oriel, we had clearly entered the part of Oxford that was inhabited by those of the town rather than the gown. There were more women here, house- and shop-wives, and my father grew visibly more relaxed the farther we walked.
Close to the edge of town, we passed down a narrow alley and into a wooden outbuilding, where a steady column of opaque pure white smoke poured from the chimney. I paused on the threshold to examine it a moment and to take in its scent. Vellacott cocked his head and watched me, and when I looked at him he wore a small smile.
“You know what it means, don’t you?” he asked.
“The White Elixir.” I was impressed in spite of myself. “You’ve almost made it.”
“Almost?” Vellacott’s high brow rose even higher. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ve seen the finished product?”
I was tempted to tell him that I’d not only seen it, but watched it transform into the Philosopher’s Stone itself. But an alchemist’s instinct for secrecy held me back, and I merely nodded again.
Vellacott unlocked the door and held it open for me. I entered my father’s laboratory. At once the familiar sights and scents filled me with assurance. Dominic was there, standing at a large table in the center and carefully measuring mercury into a glass vial. Against the wall was a large fireplace where another man stood over a brass brazier, which emitted the white smoke. The man was tall and broad, and he snapped bad-tempered instructions at Dominic in heavily accented English. Bookcases lined the farthest wall from the hearth, and several books lay open on the table. Dominic looked from one of them to his task, and back. Mr. Vellacott cleared his throat, and the alchemists looked up at me.
I met Dominic’s gaze, and he smiled for half a second before dropping his eyes to his work again. The man by the brazier, however, scowled. I made a quick and careful study of him. He was middle aged, older than my father, also larger and less handsome. His eyes were a beady black and his strong-featured face had an unhealthily pale cast to it. His velvet waistcoat and feathered black hat were too fine for the laboratory, though he certainly moved and spoke like one who knew his business. As I watched him, his hand moved to a talisman that hung around his neck, a serpent staff of Hermes Trismegistus. My mother never wore talismans, nor let me wear one. It was the sort of thing that encouraged people to see alchemy as nothing more than an occult religion, a perception her sort of alchemists constantly fought. She scorned the whole legend of Hermes the Thrice-Great: the first alchemist, an Egyptian priest who became a god. But it never seemed contemptible to me. After all, it was the most honest account of the Great Work, no matter how we alchemists chose to describe it. The Philosopher’s Stone offered endless wealth, perfect health, and immortality, and we dared to seek it. Didn’t that mean we wanted to become gods, just as Hermes had?