“And the Elixir? Have you … have you made that?”
He raised the phial again, unable to look away from it, turning it, letting the firelight play off its surface, first the rough side and then the faceted side. “No. Not yet. My permutations have been unsuccessful. My wife and I were close to achieving it. Very close.” His fingers closed over the phial, and he lowered his hand, hiding the Stone from view in the drapery of his gown. “You see, Maître,” he said quietly, as quietly as the soft crackle of the flames or the caress of the wind against the shutter, “alchemy is more than science, more than the transmuting of one element into another. It is Humanity itself, the spiritual progress that transforms us. I was not far wrong when I spoke of it as a metaphorical quest. For it is that and more. When you create, when you use such Prima Materia, you begin to understand the intricacies of Life itself. How can you not?” His face darkened. “But it is not a plaything for the greedy, a toy for the bored nobleman. Instead, it is a sacred duty, a keen responsibility for the initiated, and I take that responsibility very seriously. I would never share this knowledge with just anyone. Oh no. And surely you, Maître Guest, covet your knowledge the same. For I cannot imagine that you would share your art with one who was not a worthy apprentice.”
Jack squared his shoulders and raised his spotted chin. Crispin gave him a glance and a soft smile. “I may be a skeptic as to the veracity of your claims about the Stone itself, Master Flamel, but I can understand your sentiments as concerns your work.” He bowed. “Can you tell me, then, who is it that wants this Stone? Surely you must have an inkling.” Crispin’s gray eyes met the pale blue of the alchemist’s.
“I have many acolytes, Maître, as you might have surmised. But many enemies as well. Greedy men, men with no fortitude, no scruples, who would use the power of this Stone for selfish ends. It is not to be trifled with. So many vile men I cannot count them all, have tried to wrest this Stone for themselves. But they will not have it!”
“Is that why you put the false ransom in the bag?”
“Yes, yes. I knew it would buy us time, for he would think it was the Philosopher’s Stone. You see, no one knows what it truly looks like. No one … but the four of us here … and my wife.” His eyes tracked from face to startled face. Only Avelyn showed no signs of amazement at all.
“And if what you say is true concerning these signs and sigils,” the alchemist went on, “then my wife’s abductor must be an alchemist himself … or he is using an alchemist for his ends. In which case, more than my wife will be in danger. You must solve this, Maître. You must get my Perenelle back in all haste. We must not let him get the Stone.”
Crispin and Jack made it home before the market bells rang for the start of the business day. Wearily, they stumbled into the room. Jack sank onto the stool. He yawned loudly. “I’m bone weary, Master. I can’t think no more.”
“You can’t think anymore,” Crispin corrected absently. “And neither can I.” But thoughts of the Stone played in his mind like a minstrel’s song, tumbling over and over again in an endless refrain in his thoughts. He dug into his scrip and pulled out his money pouch. He untied the string and poured its contents onto the table beside the chessboard. Out spun silver coins of various sizes, the image of the king imprinted upon them. But also there were the gold key, spoon, and nail. He picked them up, having forgotten all about them, and examined each of them carefully.
He could understand someone wishing to have a gold key or even a gold spoon, but a golden nail? What would be the purpose?
He turned the nail in his hand, startled when Tucker lit the candle on the table, giving him more light.
Jack tossed the lit straw into the fire and sat back down. “What are these, Master?”
“Payment.” He did nothing as Jack took up each one, turned them in his hands, and then set them down again.
“Strange. Who gave them to you?”
“Nicholas Flamel.” They exchanged glances.
“You don’t mean to say…”
“These could have been made out of gold in the first place, Jack. Who’s to say they were not? The man has that broach, after all. It is likely that the King of France or some other eccentric French noble had them made and gave these to him.”
“But Master! Who would have cause to make this nail? In gold? It must be that Stone he has. It does work! What a man could do with that!”
“And for that he would kill. And steal a man’s wife.”
Jack’s expression suddenly turned hard. “Even if he were already a rich and noble lord?”
Crispin felt sick. How many times could a man be betrayed? How many times could he allow his heart to be so used?
“You’re thinking of Henry.”
Jack jumped from his stool. “Of course I’m thinking of Lord Henry! But you’re too stubborn to consider him.”
Crispin slammed his hand to the table. “Watch it, Tucker.”
“No. It’s my task to be your conscience, sir. For if you will not listen to the wisdom inside you, it is up to me to point it out. You must go to Lord Henry and ask him straightaway.”
“Don’t you think I already have? And do you think for one moment he would tell me the truth?”
He hadn’t wanted to say it, to think it. He was too afraid that it was true, that Henry had lied and that Crispin had believed that lie. Because he had wanted to.
Crispin scrubbed his face. “I’m too tired to think. Let us get at least a few hours of sleep before we begin again. You have a preacher to find, after all.”
Jack slumped. He nodded. The boy was tired, too. And just as the two of them meandered to their separate corners, there was a knock at the door.
They froze, hands on hilts. Jack went first and opened the door a fraction.
“Is this the home of Crispin Guest? That Tracker fellow?”
The voice was familiar, and Crispin moved Jack aside and opened the door. It was the priest he had met on the street the day before. “My lord?” he said, stepping aside to let him in.
The priest stepped over the threshold and looked around the small room. “I must say, I expected something … more.”
“Yes, well. What can I do for you, Father?”
“I should have introduced myself before. I am Father Edmund from St. Aelred’s church. We talked of the deaths yesterday.…”
“I remember you, Father. Please, sit.” The old priest lowered himself to the chair. “Jack, bring wine for this good priest.”
The priest didn’t argue as Jack scrambled. He grabbed a bowl and wiped its rim with his sleeve and then went to the back window and stopped short, marveling at the jug left by Derby. He shook himself loose and quickly uncorked the wooden stopper and poured.
While Jack brought the wine, Crispin poked the fire and got it going. “It is late, Father Edmund. What brings you to the Shambles?”
“Late? Why, it’s early.” He sipped the wine and his brows rose in surprise at the fine taste.
Crispin chuckled tiredly. “So it is. It only seems late to me.”
Father Edmund set the bowl aside. “My mind has been capering on those deaths, Master Guest. I cannot seem to forget them. I have learned from my fellow priests of many more. Twenty-five so far.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
“So many more than I could ever have imagined. Blessed Virgin. I prayed on it and the Divine presence seemed to hint to me that this was no mere plague.”
“Father…” His brief suspicion suddenly rose up again. “Have you any reason to believe that they might have been … poisoned?”
“Poisoned? To what end? Why should a weaver, a cordwainer, a cobbler, and any number of other craftsmen’s children have been poisoned?”