Chapter 22
The Alchemist
A lone here, I spiral. Panic takes over. There’s no way out. This is like the last time. Like every time. There’s no way out, and I’m helpless. I’m stuck. I’m stuck in here in the pitch-dark, no way out, there’s no way—
‘Stop,’ I choke out, forcing the word through my teeth. ‘Just … stop.’
It takes all of me to calm myself enough to fill my lungs, to tame the fear exploding inside me. I’m shaking. The terror poisoning my body, my thoughts, and I have to stop .
‘Not the vault, not the vault …’ I say over and over, my voice getting surer, stronger. I pull in another breath, then another, my thrashing heart calming, little by little. ‘It’s an Ordeal. You’re in an Ordeal. Come on. It’s not the vault.’
This is a test. Somehow, it’s testing my one true fear, the culmination of years of panic and horror. An enclosed, stifling space, with no way out of it and no control, no choices.
Being powerless.
I bring my hands up to my face, counting as I breathe in, then out, regulating myself, inch by inch.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here when the spell dissipates, and I’m left with my mind and thoughts intact once more.
When I open my eyes, darkness – thick and endless – greets me.
This archive room is designed to withstand storms, flame …
It’s designed to keep the materials inside safe.
It’s meant to keep everything in … until someone on the outside opens the door.
‘Well, there’s no hope of that,’ I say softly, placing my hands on the floor at my sides.
Pushing up, I gradually rise, blood rushing to my head like the tide.
I swoon, but find the door handle at my back, using it to keep myself upright, to cling to.
I have to get out of here; I have to settle my thoughts. Find some order and form a plan.
There’s only one way in and out of this archive room; I’ve already established that.
But there needn’t be a total absence of light.
If only someone has left a lamp … I move slowly around the walls, feeling my way, attuning my senses.
In the centre is a table, along the far wall, archive materials, labelled and organised by date and publication.
I reach for the table, running my fingertips over it and find what I hoped for.
An oil lamp. My pulse quickens as I fumble for it, and turn it on.
Light, flickering and low, washes the small room, and I see what I have to work with.
The table, the rows of archive materials and then …
I gasp. Above the door, in a fine line of paint is a word, surrounded by cobwebs.
Veritas.
My code word.
A huff of laughter escapes my mouth, disbelief that I’ve found it.
Hidden in the depths of my fear, in a place that presses pure horror into my heart, I’ve found the code word.
It was in the library as I suspected, I just had to contain my own panic first to find it.
And now I know what it is, it’s time to get out, and find Alden.
But the door …
I walk over to it, examining the hinges, bending low to peer at the lock.
I haven’t pinned up my hair, so I cannot pick the lock.
Next, I run my fingers over the hinges, searching for a way I can lift the door away.
But the hinges are old, the door is solid and heavy, and I discard this plan almost immediately.
Then I clamber on the table itself, examining the ceiling, and find a small grate in the corner …
but it’s so small, all I could fit through is my arm.
I swear softly, gather up the silk of my dress and hop to the floor. There isn’t an obvious escape route.
Then I remember. Of course. The librarian keeps two copies of each of the archive room keys.
One in the possession of the scholar or hopeful who books the room, the other safe behind the librarian’s desk.
If, somehow, it’s been left in here, if the second key has been left somewhere …
I scan the walls, then the table again, but I come up empty.
Determined to scour every inch of the room, I feel along the floor, narrowing my gaze, searching, searching.
Then I rifle through the archive materials, shaking out boxes, before carefully stacking clippings back inside.
Nothing. My head snaps up and I turn slowly back to the door.
I huff a laugh.
Crossing to the door, I reach up, my fingers closing around the key. Hanging on the hook, next to the door, waiting for me all along. The truth right there, if only you can first see through the lies.
This Ordeal … it’s a test of control. How I can remain calm enough to think, to act, even in the midst of my own personal trauma.
As I turn the key in the lock, pulling open the door, I allow myself a small smile.
This is only one step in the Ordeal, one component of the test. I still have to discern the truth from lies and find the right person to give my code word to.
It’s not over. It’s far from over. I have a masquier ball to return to but, first, I need to find my partner.
Twenty minutes later I’m less sure of myself.
Alden is nowhere to be found. I’ve searched every stack, every archive room, and the whole place is drowning in silence.
No other hopefuls, no scholars or professors, or wandering guests of the masquier ball.
As I move to the corridor, reluctantly leaving the sanctity of the library, I glance down at the courtyard through the windows flanking the corridor, and find the door to Keeper’s Hall open, light spilling out, and several hopefuls stalking towards it.
They must have their code words too, I realise. Maybe Alden found his, then when he couldn’t find me, he went back there, maybe thinking I had gone back there …
When I reach Keeper’s Hall, I find the masquier ball in full swing.
Toquay sloshes from glasses, the dancing far wilder than before, and the crowd presses in with every footstep, cutting off my view every few feet.
I begin moving more purposefully, ducking and weaving through the guests and hopefuls, too many faces I don’t recognise, magic limning almost everyone, as though everyone is caught up in a lie.
Making it all the way to the string quartet at the front, I turn to survey the hall and scan every face, again, desperately hoping to spot Alden—
When my heart stops.
There, there , standing in the far corner … it can’t be.
He raises his hand.
‘You’ve got to be fucking joking,’ I say quietly.
Here in the third Ordeal, the Ordeal of Lies no less, is the Collector.
My heart jolts in my chest, then I note the gold weaving over him.
A masquier … or an illusion? I’m unsure, but his likeness here, if not his presence, is far too worrying and I shoulder my way through the crowd, not bothering to be polite.
Perhaps it’s foolish of me, perhaps I should hesitate before doing something so potentially reckless, but I have to be sure.
I have to know why I’m seeing him here, why now.
People sway in and out ahead of me and I lose sight of him in the melee.
By the time I reach the place where he was standing, he’s gone.
I whip around, scanning the hall, searching for his face, for his nimble gait …
I see him.
Just as he steps through a door on the other side of the hall by the raised platform.
I release a soft string of curse words and begin the tortuous journey around the hall, eyes fixed on the door he disappeared through.
The crowd is raucous, the music somehow louder than before, and as I slip through the door on the other side of the platform, I know I’ve taken too long.
The masquier or the illusion, whatever it was, will be long gone.
A corridor leads away from the hall, the noise of the Ordeal stuttering out to silence.
I make my way along the dimly lit space, wooden floorboards creaking beneath my heels.
It’s as cold as the winter night outside and I move more swiftly.
I walk through a door at the end of the corridor and find a room holding the two full-length mirrors used in the first Ordeal, a velvet drape half concealing them. And in the corner of the room—
‘Hello, Sophia.’
I bolt backwards, jamming into the door at my back.
It’s him.
It’s really him; I’m sure of it. Despite the shimmer of gold, despite my surety that there is magic at play.
A rush of shock laced with anger and hurt and grief all tumbles through me and I’m suddenly a lit match.
A match, sparked and burning, ready to be consumed by flame.
I want to shout at him. I want to bellow.
I want to prise an apology from his jaw and hear a flood of regret for what happened to Dolly.
But the fear holds me back. Fear of this man who moulded me, who I ran from instead of confronting. I have to remind myself that I’m safe here. That bracelet, the weight of the contract around my wrist has been broken. He no longer has a hold over me.
He’s sitting on a chair in the corner, as though waiting for me, perfectly at ease amidst this dust and silence.
It’s the Collector, at Killmarth College, and we’re alone.
I suddenly remember, perhaps a little too late, that no one knows where I am.
That this could be a masquier who knows far too much.
It could even be the murderer … but I have to be sure. ‘Why are you here?’
He considers me with those calculating eyes. ‘You got the trunk I sent down?’
‘And your note, yes,’ I snap, crossing my arms, as though I can hold the tidal wave inside myself. ‘ Prove it’s really you.’
‘Prove it’s …’ He chuckles. ‘All right. Ask me a question.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Where did we go when I was twelve?’
‘When you were …’ He considers then his features darken, as though a storm has drawn in. ‘The Morlagh. Eight years ago. We stayed in a hunting lodge – you, me and Dolly.’