The alchemist stared at him. “You ignorant boy! Don’t you know about the Philosopher’s Stone?” He turned to Crispin. “Does he not know?”
“Clearly,” said Crispin.
The alchemist shook his head, disgusted. He grabbed more sticks and tossed them on his fire. They sparked with green and purple flames before billowing a black cloud up the athanor’s flue. “Some alchemists have spent their entire lives searching for the answers to its creation. It isn’t merely a simple combination of formulas. No! Everything must be perfection. The position of the moon and stars, the time of day, the time of year, the purest ingredients. Salt, sulfur, mercury … It is said that even pulverized unicorn horn might be used in the process-extremely rare, you understand. But such ingredients might be mere mythos, to send a lesser Adept off the scent. Hard to say. In order to achieve the Grand Arcanum, the Lapis Philosophorum, one must dedicate one’s life to this research, to experimentation.” He nodded with a greedy look in his eye. “Few Adepts can be found who truly understand the Lesser and Greater Circulations. A clear understanding of roots, herbs, plants … even poisons. And then the metals, so important, so complicated in nature.… Ah, but I have gotten off my course. The Philosopher’s Stone, the Lapis Philosophorum. Many men wish to possess it for its use in turning simple metals into the most precious of all, into gold. If that were all it did, then perhaps lesser Adepts might be able to accomplish it.”
“Isn’t that enough?” asked Jack, entranced.
“For fools,” spat the alchemist. “But for true Adepts educated in the highest Arcana, that is only the beginning of knowledge. The true, the purest, use of obtaining the Lapis Philosophorum is to create the Elixir of Life.”
Jack leaned forward. Quietly, he asked, “What does that do?”
“Those who drink of the Elixir of Life are given immortality.”
“God blind me!”
“Indeed.”
Crispin’s hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of his sheathed dagger. “But such a thing is a myth. A fool’s errand. Why would you believe such mad babbling? Unicorns, indeed!”
“Why should I believe? I can see that you are a man with little understanding, Crispin Guest.” He pointed an accusatory finger. “You are not an Adept. One would have thought that a man with your education could be more accepting. But I see,” he said with haughty pique, “that you are not.”
“Never mind me, you fool. What makes you think that Flamel has made this Stone?”
“All of the continent know it. I met some Greek travelers only last year who mentioned having met him in Paris. Oh, they did not mention the Stone, of course, talked around it. But I have a wily mind, you understand?” He tapped his temple. “I could see it behind their eyes and between their words. There are many and many who speak of the Philosopher’s Stone and Nicholas Flamel all in the same breath.”
“Nonsense. This is utter nonsense.”
Jack sucked on his lip. “Aye, Master, but if others believe it, like this man, then that makes Master Flamel just as vulnerable as if he did possess it.”
He nodded. “That’s true enough, Jack. Master Bartholomew, what does such a Stone look like?”
His brows clustered over his forehead. “Well … I have never actually seen it for myself, you understand. Rumor has it that it is a simple stone. Something nondescript. Like a lump of tin or of coal. And yet, I have also heard that it can be a very lovely stone, like a crystal.”
“So it would not appear as a fabulous gem?”
“It might. But with the materials used to make it, I should think not. And I would never attempt to facet it. That might render it useless.”
“I thank you, Master Bartholomew, for assisting me.”
“If you seek the Stone yourself, I should warn you, Master Guest. It is protected, not just by the secret nature of it, or by the spirits that watch over such things. But by the communion of other alchemists. I know nothing about it in other places, but in England the alchemists communicate with one another. We are a … a guild of sorts. We protect what is ours. Our secret knowledge that we have accumulated with toil and sweat is not to be given to just anyone. A man must earn his right to be allowed into the circle. It would be wiser if you left that which you little understand alone.”
“I understand murder, sir. And the abduction of an innocent woman. Would you shield these crimes behind your guild’s need for secrecy? Loyalty should only take you so far.”
“I … I had no idea…”
“If I thought you did, I would haul you before the hangman myself.” He smiled unpleasantly. “What do you know of the murder of the apprentice of Nicholas Flamel?”
“Why, nothing! I never even knew Master Flamel was in London until you told me. Neither did I know of the man’s murder until you also related that information.”
“Why would his servant bring me to you, then?”
“How should I know that! You said yourself that she is deaf and dumb. And mad, most likely.”
He could tell Jack was about to agree, but he interrupted. “I do not think her mad. The way about her, perhaps, but I am of a mind that she is cannier than anyone thus far has given her credit for.”
Crispin knew that he was allowing his sentiments to get the better of him. “Be that as it may, I believe she drew me here for your help. Not just with telling us of the Philosopher’s Stone, of which the old alchemist did not tell us, but with the symbols that have been cropping up all over the city.”
“Eh? Symbols? What are you talking about?”
“Have you not seen them?”
“I do not leave the confines of my shop very often, Master Guest. I am at my own Great Work, you understand.” He tapped a leather-bound volume sitting on his table. A symbol was etched on its cover.
“I will show you if you will come.”
The alchemist nodded and followed Crispin out the door.
“It is only this way,” said Crispin. “There are many more throughout London. I have no idea how many.” They arrived at the house on the corner, and Crispin pointed. The symbols were scratched over hastily but still easily read. The light was fading, but they were clear enough when the sun breached the low swag of clouds. “There. What do you make of it?”
The man’s eyes grew fearful and he tugged his cap low over his head. He pushed Crispin aside and marched back to his shop.
“Master Bartholomew!”
He waved his fist over his shoulder. Crispin and Jack exchanged a look before they trotted after. The alchemist met him at the doorway, blocking it. “I cannot help you, Master Guest. I pray that you go elsewhere for your information from now on. Please. Do not trouble me again. I have my own work to do.” He slammed the door and bolted it for good measure, leaving Crispin staring at the worn wood.
“God’s blood. What ails the man?”
“It meant something to him,” Jack pointed out.
“Indeed it did. But what? Jack, there may be other alchemists in the city. He said as much. They are a guild. Perhaps we can reason with their leaders, come to some mutual agreement.”
“What if they are all scared of them markings?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps we can persuade Master Flamel-”
A boy dragging a priest through the street was shoving people out of the way and making a ruckus.
“Slow down, boy,” said the old cleric.
“But my lord, my sister is dying. She can’t die without the sacraments!”
“God will help us, child.”
“Can I help?” said Crispin, trotting forward.
The cleric looked him up and down. “Oh! Well, perhaps you can clear a path. Where are we off to, boy?”
“Down on Thames Street. Hurry, my lord, by the grace of God!”