“There is one thing more. You have a crusade against these commissioners appointed by Parliament. Against … against Lord Derby, it would seem, in particular. Why?”
“I am a law-abiding man, Master Guest. My king is my sovereign, not his Parliament. And these councillors would seem to want to take his crown, to make him nothing but a figurehead. No. No man who loves God can abide it.”
“I see. You realize that these appointed men are only trying to make certain that the king conforms to his vows made before God? That the taxes collected were to be for the good running and defense of the kingdom, not for the use of his favorites?”
Pickthorn turned his reddened eyes to Crispin, peering steadily. “That, Master, is treasonous talk. And I hear that you were once a man who stepped into the cesspool of treason yourself. Is that why you support these usurpers?”
Crispin stepped back, chastened. “I assure you…” His voice was unsteady and he cursed it. “My loyalties are with the crown. I will not make that mistake again.” He heaved an angry breath and stared at the ground, toeing the mud with his boot. “And now what to do with you.”
Pickthorn sagged against the wall. The red marks Crispin had made to his cheeks were fading in the cold air. “I will turn myself in to the sheriffs, of course. I … I have sinned against my fellow man-” His voice choked off with a whimper.
“Not of your own devising. I tell you what you must do instead, Master Pickthorn. You must lay low, forget your preaching for a time.”
He raised his face. “But-”
“I tell you, you must lay low! I will smooth this over with the sheriffs. It is this alchemist to blame. I will take care of him. Go back to the Cockerel’s Tail Inn.”
He took Crispin’s hand and laid his cheek upon it. “Bless you, Master Guest. I shall pray for your kind soul, and for your deep repentance. And I shall further pray to soften your hardened heart so that you may truly see. For I fear you are blinded by your past loyalties. You must see the evil that Lancaster and his son are spilling into the heart of London, just as surely as if they poisoned the waters themselves.”
Crispin snatched his hand away. “Pray if you must for my soul, but leave the rest. Now begone. I will do what I can.”
“Thank you, Master Guest. May the Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you peace.”
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled, watching Pickthorn out of the corner of his eye as the preacher scurried away. Something about the man unsettled him, and it wasn’t merely his politics. He shook it off. He had other work to do. “Bartholomew of Oxford,” he sneered. He looked up, assessing the gray sun disappearing behind the heavy drapery of cloud. “You’re next.”
It was drizzling by the time Crispin neared the alchemist’s street. The drifts of dirty snow along the lane were melting away.
Crispin had worked himself up into full indignation. The man had looked him in the eye and lied. Lied for days. Told him fantasies of the Stone and how devoted he was to his craft. “Witchcraft, more like,” he muttered. What was his game? Was he in league with this abductor, this killer?
The drizzle became a steady rain, and though his leather hood protected most of his head, his face was spattered with droplets and his lashes were sticky and damp. He pulled his dagger and was stomping toward the shop when someone grabbed his dagger arm.
He spun, yanking his arm away from those grasping fingers. Turning, he readied to strike at his attacker-and stumbled to a stop instead.
He lowered the blade and made a growl of exasperation. “You damned woman!” He sheathed the blade and took Avelyn by her shoulders. “I nearly killed you.”
She ignored his warning and took his hand, dragging him away.
“Wait,” he said, digging in his heels. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She tried to sign it to him, but he closed his hands over her wildly gesticulating fingers. “I can’t understand you.” He glanced once at the shop with the sign of Mercury over the door and relented to Avelyn’s endless tugging.
They hurried over the rainy streets to Flamel’s shop. Avelyn reached the porch and waited for Crispin. When he arrived, she shoved him through.
“Master Flamel? What is it? I was in the middle of-”
Flamel turned to him, his face pale as bone. Crispin moved his gaze from his face to what was in his hand. Another scrap of parchment … and a lock of hair.
23
Her hands were nearly free. She could feel the rope loosening. But then a light shone from under the door. He had returned. And now she heard his furious stomping about the room, heard glass retorts and metal instruments clatter behind the wall. With the sound of fuel snapping and a poker pushing around coals, she knew he was busy at that fire, at his athanor, concocting his ridiculous work. Fear still coiled in her belly, but it was tempered now by anger and indignation. How could he? How could he do this to her?
She wrapped up the loosened end of rope in her hands and waited.
Her door slammed open, hitting the wall behind it, and he stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the flickering light from the hearth in the outer room. His hands opened and closed, fingers curled angrily.
She allowed a brief spike of envy for the warmth she saw flooding the outer room, a warmth she was not allowed unless she “won” it with one of his senseless games.
“You have a champion,” he said.
She turned away, feigning disinterest. She knew this irked him the most, that she did not hang on his every word. She had given him her full attention at first but soon learned it played into his deepest desires. And now he had the Stone. He had showed it to her last night, bragged about how he would soon use it. But by his words she suspected he hadn’t the faintest idea how to use it.
“Madame, did you hear? A most renowned man in London. I have just learned of him and his feats. Have you heard of him? He is called the Tracker. And he is tracking us.” He laughed. “It’s delightful. And most invigorating. It makes the game that much more entertaining, don’t you agree?”
She said nothing, relishing the aggravation surely building with her silence.
He went on, heedless of her stillness, or so it seemed. “Tracker.” He laughed. “His name is Crispin Guest. He’s a private sheriff, tracking for hire. These English.” He shook his head affectionately. “I’ve asked about him. Seems most of the London citizenry have heard of him. He was a traitor, but his life was spared by none other than Lancaster himself. Is that not amusing, mon amour? Is that not ironic? He finds lost things, lost people. Do you think he will be clever enough to find you?”
“You’re a fool. And I don’t care what you think. Will you release me? My bones ache from being in this position for so long.”
“Dear, dear. Shall we toss for it?”
“No more games! For the love of the Holy Virgin! Do a kindness for kindness’ sake. Can you not do that, at least? For the sake of our pasts.”
But as soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. His strangely jovial demeanor hardened. “For the sake of our pasts?” he whispered. “For that sake, I would keep you tied up forever, Madame!”
“I did not mean-”
“For all eternity!” He moved with such speed, such agility, it was hard to fathom that he was nearly the same age as Nicholas. He got down on one knee beside her so that his face could be close to her ear. She pulled at her restraints to get as far away from him as possible. “I have the Stone now.” His voice was harsh at her ear. His spittle pelted her hair, now disarrayed and falling from her careful coiffure. “I can do what I have planned. These other things are merely an amusing distraction. The cauldron is bubbling, my love. The retorts are full of the compounds I need.”
“It is a shame, then, that you do not know what you are doing.”