Chapter 25 Sam
Sam
Nicolas isn’t in class the next day.
For the first time in her life, Sam finds all eyes in the room fixed on her.
Esme and Philip look at her warily, and when she walks down the Observatory’s halls, there are whispers of her name.
She doesn’t quite know how to handle the new attention, so she keeps to herself, wringing her hands over and over in her lap at her desk, trying to forget the feeling of skin crisping under her fingers.
The memory of last night’s incident feels like a train of fragmented images in her head: someone helping Nicolas to his feet, another pressing their hands against his neck to heal the wound as much as possible.
But there were parts so badly burned that the tissue was dead, and the dead cannot be made living again.
So they struggled with him as more help arrived, until he was taken away on a stretcher.
The transmutation had come to her so quickly, but in that moment, she hadn’t felt it. She had seen the formula in her mind and moved her hand accordingly, and her soul had responded without hesitation.
And why not? Of course it did. She would do it again, if to defend herself.
After class, Will is waiting for her out in the hall.
Sam freezes at the sight of him leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
The other students pause in their conversations too, but Will ignores their attention, nodding only at Sam before he begins walking away. Her cue to follow him.
“Miss Lang,” he greets as she hurries after him.
Sam can feel the others’ eyes on her back as she tries to match his stride. “What’s this about?” she asks.
He looks sidelong at her. “I think you know.”
Her cheeks burn, and she starts to explain herself. “He attacked me,” she says. “In the courtyard last night, he grabbed me, so I—”
“I know,” Will interrupts, and she stops. “One of our alchiatrists checked on him this morning. She showed me the wound.”
He knew exactly what she’d done. She takes another deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for defending myself—”
“I’m not looking for an apology,” Will replies. “I’m here because you’ve performed bioalchemy with no formal training, and that is deserving of some attention.”
Sam turns silent. Is he saying that he’s impressed, or that she’s in trouble? It’s hard for her to tell, his voice is so critical, but she shivers in anticipation anyway.
They exit the Observatory and head toward the hill, to a building on the estate that she has never visited before.
As they go, Will says, “The reason why we wait to train you in bioalchemy is because beginners should practice it in a controlled environment. As you now know, it’s quite dangerous.
I could tell what you were trying to do; I saw your books scattered in the courtyard, and the alchiatrist pointed out trace splinters of wood in Nicolas’s skin.
The specific transmutation you wanted to perform calls for skin to be changed into wood, which, as two organic things, could have mostly been repaired.
But transmuting large amounts of organic carbon is an advanced bioalchemical skill, and your soul couldn’t handle it, so instead, you instinctively pivoted to transmuting the skin’s phosphorus, which you accidentally turned into white phosphorus.
White phosphorus is a chemical weapon. It is highly unstable in air and leads to severe burns.
You were lucky. Had you not pulled your hand away as quickly as you did, you might have burned yourself, or disintegrated Nicolas’s entire neck with a runaway reaction on the rest of his skin. ”
Sam shudders, imagining white phosphorus eating away at her own skin, or watching Nicolas die right before her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
Will shrugs. “It would have been unfortunate, yes, if you’d killed one of our potential philosophers. But I’m more concerned that you won’t survive another one of your unsupervised attempts.”
At that, Sam looks quizzically at Will, wondering why he would care more for her well-being. But he doesn’t explain his answer.
“Alchemy is not chemistry,” Will continues.
“Chemistry is predictable. Every step will always lead to the same next step. But each transmutation is different, because each transmutation bears a unique fragment of an alchemist’s soul.
It is more than memorizing a formula. It is understanding who you are. ”
“So what are we doing now?” she asks.
“You want to prove your value?”
Her heart leaps. Maybe Will sensed her bitter promise, after all, her determination to prove her worth to him.
“I—” she begins.
“Good. Because I’m about to give you your chance.”
Will reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small black container tied with a silk ribbon. “From Diamond,” he says.
For a moment, Sam just stares down at the box. She unties the ribbon delicately, and when she opens it, she sees a glass vial filled with small silver-white pills. Sand.
Sam feels a sudden surge of anticipation at the sight of sand. She had forgotten about it over the past few months, but now the feeling that had enveloped her during her first test in the courtyard comes back to her in a rush. It had felt so good; she can feel it again.
In the box is a brief note in Diamond’s elegant handwriting:
Become your true self.—D
Sam has no idea how much a vial of top-quality sand like this must cost. Tens of thousands of dollars. Her stomach flutters. She can’t tell if she likes the gift or Diamond’s attention more.
Sam opens the vial and removes a single pill, admiring how it shimmers in the light. Then she puts it in her mouth. Before she can attempt to swallow it, it dissolves on her tongue.
They reach the bottom of the hill. She can see more details now of the building there, three stories of white stone and terra-cotta roofs, the grounds surrounded by lines of olive trees.
Will called it the Hotel on her first day at the estate, where guests are invited to stay.
Sometimes she has seen people come and go down this pathway, from suited syndicate members coming in for meetings, to women with short skirts and young men with beautiful faces.
A cool breeze streams by them as they walk down its corridors.
Sam lets out a breath as she feels the effects of the sand starting to flow through her veins, sharpening the world around her, sharpening her senses, sharpening her excitement. Everything suddenly feels possible.
“Has someone come to visit us?” she asks him.
“In a manner of speaking,” he answers.
Instead of taking her up to the higher stories, he leads her down a flight of stairs that spiral below the ground and lead to a basement level.
Here, the air is cool and the stone tiles lining the floors are so cold that they seem damp.
The ceiling is high and edged with intricate crown molding. Doors line either side of the hall.
They stop at the end. There are two guards standing outside one of the doors. At the sight of Will, they snap to attention. Will waves them off with a casual gesture, and they step aside with respectful bows. Sam waits for them to notice her, but they act as if she isn’t here at all.
“Are you ready?” Will asks her.
Sam’s heart pounds. She isn’t sure, but she isn’t about to say this to him. So she nods.
Will opens the door.
They step inside an empty room. Large marble tiles line the floors, and stone columns decorate the walls, but otherwise, there is nothing else in here. No windows, no plants, no furniture.
Nothing but a shivering man lying in the middle of the floor, stripped naked, gagged and blindfolded, his hands and feet bound by duct tape.
“The lowest floor of the Hotel,” Will says, “houses what we call our Confession Rooms.”
Sam freezes. She stares at the man, uncomprehending.
“Listen carefully, Miss Lang,” Will tells her. “This isn’t your classroom, nor is it your skirmish in the courtyard. When you perform a transmutation on the job, you’ll need to do it with a clear head and stay nimble on your feet. You’ll need to adapt to the situation. Do you understand?”
She doesn’t answer. She’s still staring at the naked man. Her mind has gone blank.
“Who is he?” she whispers.
Will nods at him. “Grand Central employs thousands of workers. This occasionally emboldens some of them to act behind our backs, thinking we won’t notice.
Mr. Clarkson is a manager working in the east division of the Winged Towers, for our finance department.
Lately, our numbers haven’t quite been adding up.
So we’ve been watching him a little more closely. ”
Sam swallows hard. Her head is starting to spin. She can feel the tingling of her senses, can sense the cold marble beneath her boots. The cold air stings her nose. “What,” she says, stops, and starts again. “What are we doing in here?”
Will’s eyes are so green that they look poisonous. “Giving you a controlled environment,” he says.
As Sam looks numbly on, Will bends down to the shivering man, loosens his mouth gag, and says, “It’s afternoon, Mr. Clarkson.”
The man startles, trembling. His cracked lips part. “Can I go now?” he asks in a shaky whisper.
“I don’t think so. You still haven’t told us why your car wasn’t at your home last night.”
The man’s teeth are chattering now. “But I did,” he says fiercely. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Couldn’t sleep, so you went to see a friend?”
“I just went out and came back.”
Will glances up at Sam, then gestures for her to stoop down beside him.
Sam snaps out of her reverie and does as Will asks. Her skin tingles. She desperately needs a window in here.
“Mr. Clarkson,” he says, “let me introduce you to Samantha Lang, one of our apprentices. She’s with me today to help you remember what really happened last night, when you should have been sleeping.”
The man starts shaking his head rapidly. “But I’ve already told you,” he whispers hoarsely, tears creeping into his voice. “I’ve already told you.”