“Or?”
“Or … well. I shouldn’t like to think of the consequences. It shall certainly devolve into war.”
“War? Here?”
“Yes. At our very door. London will not be spared. Lord Henry’s army already awaits outside the city.”
Jack becrossed himself. “I pray it shall not come to that.”
“As do I.” But I think it inevitable. He would not say it aloud. He feared that the dread he saw in Jack’s eyes was contagious. He cast about the room one last time, hoping for further inspiration but finding nothing more. “I think we should go home and to bed. We’ve been up late enough.”
“Aye, Master. We both have a busy day ahead of us.”
They crept out, checking the empty street first before doing the best they could to lock the door behind them. With snow-dampened steps, they returned to the Shambles.
With the dawn of the day, both Crispin and Jack were silent as they prepared themselves. As usual, Jack heated water for Crispin’s shave, warmed the wine, and toasted some heels of bread for both of them before smearing them with slices of pungent cheese. Then they ate in silence.
By some mutual signal, they both rose at the same time. Jack banked the coals in the fire and helped Crispin on with his cloak before he shrugged on his own. Together, they trudged down the steps.
They both traveled up Fleet, found Flamel’s shop, and knocked on the door. Avelyn greeted Crispin and curtseyed as he pushed inside. Jack followed.
“Maître! Is there any hope? On this the Lord’s day, have you come to tell me to prepare for the worst?”
“Of course not. But it is time for answers, Master Flamel. I fear you have still not confided in me.”
Flamel’s deadened eyes looked him over, and without a word, he retreated to his athanor. He stood over the bubbling vessels, the steaming retorts, and silently took up an iron pincher. With the instrument, he carefully removed each vessel from the fire and set them on the stone of the high hearth, off the heat.
With a heavy sigh, he laid the pincher beside the hot kettles and shuffled to the table. The lines of his face seemed scored deeper since the first day Crispin had met him. He sat at the table and motioned for Avelyn to approach. She attended him less like a servant and more like a dutiful daughter.
The alchemist sighed. “Piers was more than a colleague to me, as you have already guessed, Maître. He was more like a brother.” Flamel opened his hand, and what Crispin at first took for a rosary was instead a gold button. He turned it in his fingers absently, just as one might finger the beads of a paternoster. “He came from England,” he went on, “but was born of French parents. He lived here many years, in London, in fact. But as a young man, he traveled to France and it was there that we met. He knew his alchemy and we bonded instantly. We worked together for many years. We even began together on the Great Work some twenty years ago. He was a genius with compounds. He understood their character, their formulations. He was the perfect master of cupellation, that is, separating base metals from precious metals. In other words, Maître, he had the touch! So few truly do. These alchemists in London.” He shook his head and frowned. “They play their games, they make their potions, but they have no true understanding, no true feel for it. Do you catch my meaning? They are mere apprentices. Piers was a master. But…”
Flamel looked down at the button in his hand, worn smooth by his stained fingers, and slowly stuffed it back in his scrip. “Piers was envious of any talent greater than his own. For such a man, his pride sometimes overtakes his better judgment. Alas, I was the master of him. I could do such alchemy that he could only dream of, and look on with craving. I soon surpassed him, and this he could not stand, though he tried to hide his feelings from me. Alchemy is a secret thing, Maître, as I have intimated before. And only shared between master and apprentice. But we-Piers and I-worked as one. Yet I could not make him understand the finer points of the Great Work. He could not open himself to it. His mind was only a narrow channel and would not branch out to embrace that which he could not easily grasp.” His eyes flicked upward toward the slowly rotating brass planets, suspended in the air. “Alchemy demands such thinking, I am afraid.”
“I already surmised he was a master alchemist.”
“Yes, but it went much further even than that. You see, when I met Perenelle, she was still married. But I fell in love with her. It was a chaste love, Maître, for we would not cross the boundaries of the marriage vow. But Piers fell in love with her, too. If there was something I coveted, he would covet it as well, much like competing brothers. And yet, he desired to do me one better. He wooed her, but she refused him. And then when her husband suddenly died, he pressed that much more. But now I was also free to woo her.” A faint smile passed his lips as he recalled it.
“Master Flamel, is it possible that this Piers … murdered Perenelle’s husband?”
He looked up at Crispin, eyes heavy with sorrow. “It never once crossed my mind before. But now…” He lowered his face and becrossed himself. With his face lowered and in shadow, he continued his tale. “We used to play many games and wagers to decide this and that, Piers and I, as young men do. Our competitions and puzzles often became fierce. But it was always only in fun. Yet this time, he challenged me to a game of chess to decide who should woo the fair Perenelle and who should step aside. I won that game, Maître Guest, and never was I so happy to have been a champion.”
“How did he take that news?”
“He was furious, naturally. But he did stand aside as I won her hand and married her. He remained friends with us. I thought he had put it behind him, for he had found a woman of his own and married her. They had a son. Perenelle and I, alas. We could never have children. It is perhaps why I indulge our Avelyn here as I do.” He chucked her chin and she smiled at him. “But when the child was three, his wife was taken ill from a fever and died. He moved to estates in Limoges. Not long after that, English troops marched into France. Limoges was sacked, burned. He and his son burned to death. It was a great tragedy. I mourned their passing for years. It was over.”
He passed a hand over his face and stared at the candles on the table.
“Were you a witness to this, Master Flamel?”
“No. I was not living in Limoges at the time. Perenelle and I had moved to Paris by then. But there were many witnesses. Many who saw him in the flaming house, running from window to window. And I saw nothing of him more. He was dead. Dead. Or so I thought.”
“This man who has captured Madam Flamel likes to play games. And he is an alchemist. He knows his poisons,” Crispin said ruefully. “Is it possible he survived after all?”
“I suppose. It must be!” Desperation glittered his eyes. “And he will have his revenge.”
“What sort of revenge does he desire, Master Flamel? Do you think he means to keep Perenelle?”
“This is my greatest fear,” he said quietly. “But he wanted the Stone, too. This, he could never achieve on his own. But what he did not realize is that Perenelle was instrumental in helping me achieve it. Her mind is keen, more than any other woman I have ever met. I had notes from my grand-père. It was said that he had made the Stone once before he died. But his notes … They were a jumble, the rambling of an old man. It was Perenelle who made sense of all the dross. Without her, I could not have made the Philosopher’s Stone. We were on the verge of creating the Elixir of Life. But without her I cannot.”