Darlington decided to put her out of her misery. “I’m giving Alex the tour and then I’ll take her across campus to the Hutch.”
“The Hutch?” asked Alex.
“Rooms we keep at the corner of York and Elm. It’s not much, but it’s convenient when you don’t want to trek too far from your dorm. And it’s warded too.”
“It’s stocked,” Dawes said faintly, already scooting back into the parlor and safety.
Darlington gestured for Alex to follow him upstairs.
“Who was Bathsheba Smith?” Alex asked on his heels.
Then she had been reading her Life of Lethe. He was pleased she remembered the name, but, if memory served, Bathsheba appeared on the first page of the first chapter, so he wasn’t going to get too excited. “The seventeen-year-old daughter of a local farmer. Her body was found in the basement of the Yale Medical School in 1824. She’d been dug up for study by the students.”
“Jesus.”
“It wasn’t uncommon. Doctors needed to study anatomy and they needed cadavers to do that. But we think Bathsheba was an early attempt to communicate with the dead. A medical assistant took the fall, and Yale’s students learned to keep their activities more quiet. After the discovery of the girl’s body, the locals nearly burned Yale to the ground.”
“Maybe they should have,” murmured Alex.
Maybe. They’d called it the Resurrection Riot, but it hadn’t turned truly nasty. Boom or bust, New Haven was a town forever on the brink of things.
Darlington toured Alex around the rest of Il Bastone: the grand parlor, with the old map of New Haven above the fireplace; the kitchen and pantry; the downstairs training rooms; and the second-floor armory, with its wall of apothecary drawers, all of them stocked with herbs and sacred objects.
It was left to Dawes to make sure they were kept well supplied, that any perishable items were freshened or disposed of before they turned foul, and to maintain any artifacts that required it. Cuthbert’s Pearls of Protection had to be worn for a few hours every month or they lost both their luster and their power to protect the wearer from lightning strikes. A Lethe alum named Lee De Forest, who had once been suspended as an undergrad for causing a campus-wide blackout, had left Lethe with countless inventions, including the Revolution Clock, which showed an accurate-to-the-minute countdown to armed revolt in countries around the globe. It had twenty-two faces and seventy-six hands and had to be wound regularly or it would simply begin screaming.
Darlington pointed out the stores of bone dust and graveyard dirt, with which they would provision themselves on Thursday nights, and the rare vials of Perdition Water, said to come from the seven rivers of hell and that were to be used only in case of emergency. Darlington had never had cause to tap into any of them, but he kept hoping.
At the center of the room sat Hiram’s Crucible, or, as the delegates of Lethe liked to call it, “the Golden Bowl.” It was the circumference of a tractor wheel and made of beaten twenty-two-karat gold.
“For years, Lethe knew there were ghosts in New Haven. There were hauntings, rumors of sightings, and some of the societies had managed to pierce the Veil through séances and summonings. But Lethe knew there was more, a secret world operating beside ours and frequently interfering with it.”
“Interfering with it how?” Alex asked, and he could see the narrow line of her shoulders tighten, that slightly hunched fighter’s stance.
“At the time, no one was sure. They suspected that the presence of Grays in sacred circles and temple halls was disrupting the spells and rituals of the societies. There were signs that stray magic loosed from rituals by the interference of Grays could cause anything from a sudden frost ten miles away to violent outbursts in schoolchildren. But Lethe had no proof and no way to prevent it. Year after year they attempted to perfect an elixir that would allow them to see spirits, experimenting on themselves through sometimes-deadly trial and error. Still, they had nothing to show for their work. Until Hiram’s Crucible.”
Alex ran her finger against the gilded edge of the basin. “It looks like a sun.”
“Many of the structures in Machu Picchu were dedicated to the worship of the sun god.”
“This thing came from Peru?” Alex asked. “You don’t need to look so surprised. I know where Machu Picchu is. I can even find Texas on a map if you give me enough time.”
“You’ll have to forgive my lack of familiarity with the curriculum of the Los Angeles School District or your interest in same.”
“Forgiven.”
Maybe, thought Darlington. But Alex Stern looked like the type to hold a grudge.
“Hiram Bingham was one of the founding members of Lethe. He ‘discovered’ Machu Picchu in 1911, though that word tends to ruffle feathers, since the locals were perfectly aware of its existence.” When Alex said nothing, he added, “He was also rumored to be the inspiration for Indiana Jones.”
“Nice,” said Alex.
Darlington held back a sigh. Of course that would be what got her attention. “Bingham stole about forty thousand artifacts.”
“And brought them back here?”
“Yes, to Yale, to be studied at the Peabody. He said they would be returned after eighteen months. It took literally one hundred years for Peru to get them back.”
Alex flicked her finger against the crucible and it emitted a low hum. “They forget this in the return shipment? It seems pretty hard to miss.”
“The crucible was never documented because it was never given to Yale. It was brought to Lethe.”
“Stolen goods.”
“Very much so, I’m afraid. But it’s the key to the Orozcerio. The problem with Lethe’s elixir wasn’t the recipe; it was the vessel.”
“So it’s a magical mixing bowl?”
Such a little heathen. “I might not put it that way, but yes.” “And it’s gold all the way through?”
“Before you think about trying to run off with it, keep in mind that it weighs twice as much as you do and that the whole house is warded against theft.”
“If you say so.”
With his luck she’d find a way to roll the crucible down the stairs into the back of a truck and melt it down for earrings.
“The elixir has plenty of other names besides Orozcerio,” he said. “The Golden Trial. Hiram’s Bullet. Every time a member of Lethe drinks it, every time the crucible is used, he takes his life in his hands. The mixture is toxic and the process incredibly painful. But we do it. Again and again. For a glimpse behind the Veil.”
“I get it,” said Alex. “I’ve met users before.”
It isn’t like that, he wanted to protest. But maybe it was.
The rest of the tour was uneventful. Darlington showed her the storage and research rooms in the upper stories, how to use the library—though he warned her not to use it on her own until the house got to know her—and finally the bedroom and adjoining bath, tidied and readied for her as Lethe’s new Dante. He’d moved his own things to Virgil’s suite at the end of last year, back when he’d still believed he’d have a proper protégé. He’d felt embarrassingly sentimental about it all. Virgil’s quarters were a floor above Dante’s and twice as large. When he graduated, they would be left empty so that they would be available to him if he chose to visit. The vanity had belonged to Eleazar Wheelock. Half of the wall facing the bed was taken up by a stained-glass window depicting a hemlock wood, positioned so that as the sun rose and set throughout the day, the colors of the glass trees and the sky above it seemed to change as well. When he’d moved in, he discovered that Michelle had left him a bottle of brandy and a note on her last visit: