The Alchemist’s Curse. No one knew quite what it was, though Brother Basil, a fifteenth-century alchemist-friar, had written a sermon of that name warning that it would befall unworthy adepts. I touched the image again, and a shiver of apprehension went through me.
Behind me, the fire began to crackle. On an instinct, I folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of my dress. There were red sparks in the flames. I picked up the tongs and moved the egg-shaped vase buried in the ashes, so I could see the inside. The liquid inside was a pure, dense white. My breath caught. The White Elixir. The last step before the Philosopher’s Stone.
All my life I had dreamed of it. Some children were raised on stories of saints and filled with the hope of heaven. I was raised on the stories of alchemists and filled with the hope of the Philosopher’s Stone. The Stone could turn any base metal into gold, cure any ill, and ward off old age, perhaps forever. My mother had made a name for herself with her skills, and that was no small thing, but no practitioner of alchemy could ever be satisfied with anything less than its ultimate prize.
No illness, no want, no death. The Philosopher’s Stone gave everything humankind wanted but did not believe we could have in this life. With such a reward, it was not hard to see how so many great minds had wrecked themselves in its pursuit. But though these legendary outcomes transfixed me as much as any other adept, the lesser consequences were just as alluring. If we achieved this, we would become more than just women, even successful ones. There would be no more depending on patrons. No one would dare exclude us from any academy or salon. No one could deny our value. We would have respect. And not just from other alchemists—from the men who thought even male alchemists were fools and frauds. As much as I had longed for it, I had never really believed we would come this close.
My reverie was interrupted by another crackle, and another shower of red sparks. Then, as I watched in amazement, the edges of the White Elixir began to glow gold, then turn red. My pulse raced as my mind struggled to accept that it was happening, it was truly happening. This was the final step Jābir had described in making the Philosopher’s Stone.
“We did it,” I whispered.
“I did it,” said my mother.
I turned, my hands tightening on the tongs. Absorbed in the wonder in front of me, I hadn’t heard her come in. I straightened, anger stiffening my spine, and prepared myself for another battle.
“You could never have done it without me, whatever you want to pretend now,” I said.
“I could never have done it without you?” Her voice was already shrill. Her eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, and her beautiful face shone with sweat. “And what would you be without me, you ungrateful girl? You did not make yourself an alchemist!”
“Ungrateful?” I wanted to stay calm, to be different than she was, but my voice was rising against my will. “And what should I be grateful for? Should I be grateful that I worked like a slave for this, only to be cast out just before the end result? Should I be grateful to you for shutting me off from everything and everyone, for making your work my whole life, and then taking even that from me?”
“Yes!” Her hands were shaking. “You should kneel at my feet and thank me! I made you different, I made you strong! And now you want to be like every other girl? With no training, nothing to do but marry the first man who’ll have you?”
I shook my head. That wasn’t what I wanted at all.
“I have kept you safe and strong. And if I should—if I—”
She broke off into a scream. She bent double, clutching her head.
“Mother—” I started toward her, but she held out her hand to stop me and looked up with wild eyes.
“Get out, Thea.” Her voice was strange, strangled and rough. I had never seen her like this before.
“You need a doctor—”
“Do as I say!” she screamed.
I didn’t move. She was crumpling, arms wrapped around her legs now.
“Get out, get out, get out,” she muttered, shaking her lowered head in a frenzy, her golden hair falling into her face.
I looked toward the glass ovum in the fire, where the White Elixir was entirely red now. Mother needed a doctor, clearly, but there it was—the Philosopher’s Stone—impossibly, indescribably precious. I couldn’t leave now. I turned back to my mother, and she lifted her head. I backed up at the look in her eyes, and held the tongs in front of me in both hands.
“Mother?” My voice shook.
A sound came out of her mouth—a growl. It wasn’t a human sound, not even an animal one. I looked into her eyes, but I didn’t see her there. Then she sprang.
I swiped at her with the tongs, knocking her aside. The tongs were hot from the fire, and her clothes sizzled where I had hit them. But she was up again in an instant, then on me, stronger than she ever had been. I grappled with her as she seized me by the throat, wrapping her fingers around it, closing off the air. I clawed at her wild face, drawing blood she didn’t seem to feel. I couldn’t move her. Her breath was hot on my face, smelling, inexplicably, of sulfur. She was strong, too strong. How was she so strong?
And then she was lifted off me. I rolled, gasping, toward the tongs. I heard her shrieking before I saw her, across the table from the Comte, hands bared like claws. She leapt across it, but the Comte dodged her and ran toward me.
“Go, Thea!” he cried. “She has gone mad!”
Comte Adrien du Porre had a habit of stating the obvious.
“We have to restrain her!” The words were painful coming out, and I seized my throat.
She attacked the Comte again, throwing him easily to the ground. He was a strong man, but she tossed him like a child and leapt atop him. He threw her off, toward the hearth. She sprang back into a crouch. Before she attacked again, she reached behind her into the fire. She seized the glass ovum containing the substance, her fingers sizzling from the heat, and hurled it across the room.
I screamed then, though little sound came out of my swollen throat. I knew what would happen before it did. The Stone wasn’t hardened yet. It was vulnerable. The glass shattered, and the Stone became a red smear dripping down the brick wall. I wanted to run to it, though I knew there was no hope. But Mother was upon Adrien again, and I swung the tongs at her with all my strength. She dropped onto the Comte, insensible.
Adrien pushed her off of him, but gently. He rolled her onto her back and felt her throat for a pulse. His fingers seemed to find what he hoped for, and he looked up at me with relief and reproach.
“Mon dieu, Thea, you could have killed her.”
“She could have killed you,” I retorted. But guilt gnawed at me, not so much for the blow itself—that had been necessary—but for how easy it had been to do. I had not even hesitated.
“We shall have to restrain her,” murmured Adrien. “We cannot know if the fit will have passed when she awakes.”
I stared down at her, my heart still thrashing in my chest like a caged thing. Whatever had just happened, the Comte was taking a more positive view of it than I. It had not occurred to me that this was a mere “fit” that might pass.
“What—?” I didn’t know what to ask. “She tried to kill me. What madness is that? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Men and women suffering madness can become violent, certainly,” said Adrien.