Chapter 4 #2
“I…” I blinked at him. Then I gave my head a firm shake. “No. Ridiculous.” I spun away from him and began sorting the sheets of parchment on my desk into stacks that felt little more than random. “The Philosopher’s Stone is a myth. An alchemist’s fairy tale.”
Wilder shrugged. “You always did like a good story.”
“I like good science. And…” I frowned at him. “That doesn’t even make any sense. The Philosopher’s Stone doesn’t fall under the field of Transmutation. If it were possible to create the stone, it would require principles from all three disciplines.”
Transmutation, Apotheosis, and Panacea.
“But it isn’t possible,” I continued. “So, I was…what? Trying to bring a fable to life?”
“Maybe.” Wilder finally stood and snatched a stack of parchment out of my hands before I could crumple it in frustration.
He grinned down at me, and though his back was to the light from the window, his eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement.
“Maybe it is impossible. And yet, it certainly isn’t boring. ”
“Unlike Apotheosis,” I muttered, thinking of stern-looking Desmond and his devastatingly uninteresting academic pursuits.
Wilder laughed. “You said that to his face, when he told us what discipline he’d chosen.”
I found that thought oddly comforting; it seemed to mean that I hadn’t changed, fundamentally. That I was still the same person I’d been the day before, even if I couldn’t remember becoming that person.
And if I were still the same person, there was hope that my memories and skills could be recovered. That I could still accomplish the goal I’d set for myself long before I’d truly understood what life and work at the Alchemary would be like.
That I could succeed where my mother had failed.
Before I could interpret the bitter taste that thought left in my mouth, a melodic tone sounded through the room, echoing from under the door and through the open shutters.
It was the clock tower. Not the big one in the Seminary, though that was no doubt also ringing, across campus. We were hearing the smaller one built into the center of the Dormitory itself, facing the interior courtyard.
It rang again and again, until I’d counted twelve chimes.
Noon. I had one hour until class. One hour to come to as much of an understanding as possible about alchemy in general and my research specifically. The urgent, hollow feeling in my belly made all of that feel impossible.
“Wilder.” I turned away from the window. “I’ve identified the Refectory, but…can I afford to eat?” I hadn’t found any currency among my belongings.
His smile was very kind, and a little sad. “Yes, of course. Admission to the Alchemary includes both room and board, at no upfront cost. Though as alumni we will both be expected to contribute to the institution someday, either as staff researchers, like Desmond, or through donations.”
Those donations, I knew, were not purely tokens of generosity.
An Alchemary-accredited alchemist who practiced outside of the institution itself, as my mother had, would only be granted permission to fly the Alchemary’s seal in exchange for those yearly donations.
The seal was a great advantage, but it wasn’t cheap.
“And do I just…show up at the Refectory?”
“Of course—you’re starving,” he said, frowning.
“I am, too. They’ll be serving the midday meal now, but…
” Wilder’s focus settled on me with an assessing weight.
“Are you sure you’re up to that? People will ask questions, especially considering that before this morning, you never missed a single class.
Have you…” He cleared his throat. “Have you decided what you want to tell people? How much you want to tell them?”
In fact, I hadn’t even considered the issue. Nor had I considered how I would react when strangers called me by name and expected to be recognized. How terribly rude would I seem, if I couldn’t name a single person standing in front of me?
“Could you possibly go eat, and bring something small back for me? Perhaps…pocket a roll from your plate? Or an apple?”
Wilder snorted. “Those huge gears in your brain will only turn on real food; you’ve told me that more than once.” He stood and leaned down to kiss my forehead, a gesture that reminded me of our adolescence, even if his lips felt warmer than I remembered. Even if they lingered longer.
Even if my hand wanted to reach for his, just to feel its warmth.
“I’ll tell the staff you’re ill and ask them to pack you a proper meal.”
Wilder peered out the window briefly and then turned toward my door.
He looked relieved as he headed out on his mission, and truth be told, I envied his quest for food, whereas I could only turn back to the pile of largely incomprehensible notebooks and stacks of parchment.
The only thing I truly recognized among them was my own handwriting.
As far as I could tell, I had written every single word of this sizable collection of theorems, axioms, theses, charts full of data, and innumerable, indecipherable alchemical formulas and notations.
It was months’ worth of research. Maybe years.
Was this standard? Had Wilder accumulated a similar pile of original research over his course of studies?
That seemed difficult to believe of the Wilder Gregory I’d grown up with.
It also seemed like quite a lot for any student just starting their Mastery year, considering my classmates had just moved into their dedicated lab spaces.
How could I have already amassed such a body of work?
You were…ambitious. Wilder’s worlds floated back to me, a newly created memory, and for a moment, I worried that I’d lose that one as well. That I might lie down for a nap and wake up missing even more of my life.
I shoved that fear aside. It was counterproductive, and I had no time to waste.
The logical conclusion, based on Wilder’s assessment of my ambition and the evidence of it in my own handwriting, was that I’d started my Mastery-year independent research project earlier than most. Very early.
The Philosopher’s Stone.
A skeptical huff exploded from deep in my soul. I might as well have been trying to reverse time. Or bring my mother back from the dead. Surely I hadn’t worked to get into the Alchemary—to get to the top of my class—only to waste my time on a mythical object.
But the records—what little I could comprehend of them—seemed very serious. Very organized.
Driven.
I sorted the papers into separate stacks of charts, graphs, and data sets.
One of known theorems and principles. One stack of theories and brainstorms, words packed densely onto every page, so that hardly a glimpse of parchment could be seen through scratchy strokes of ink, even in the margins, where my handwriting trailed vertically in addendums as meandering as the print itself.
But then I realized the pages were marked with a somewhat complicated numerical code, and I reorganized them all chronologically so I could experience my work in the order I’d done it, allowing me to learn along with Past Amber, as she hopefully explained her thoughts and theories in the order she’d come up with them.
Progressing in complexity and difficulty.
As I stared at the stacks, leaning into the flickering light of the desktop lamp, my gaze landed on the small wooden chest I’d been using as a paperweight. It was no longer than my forearm. The hinged top was slightly arched, with a simple clasp on the front.
A warm tightness spread beneath my rib cage as an old memory settled into place.
The chest had belonged to my mother. When I was little, she’d kept her most valuable and difficult-to-acquire alchemical components inside, in carefully corked and labeled vials and bottles.
So that was what I expected to find when I opened the latch and lifted the lid.
Instead, I found only two things: a ring with a single lustrous, clear gem, and a small book of parchment bound with a soft leather cover.
The ring was a simple gold band, the stone distinctive for its size and its round shape with few, large planes.
Rose cut. The words echoed through my mind. The rose cut prized luster over glitter, though I had no idea how I knew that.
Curious, I tried the ring on, but while it was too big for my smallest finger, it was too small for the others.
It must have been my mother’s. If it were a diamond, that thought would feel ridiculous.
My parents had never been wealthy. But this was almost certainly lead glass, produced through an alchemical process of the sort my mother had had a particular knack for, which she would occasionally make and sell to women in our village who could not afford precious stones.
I had no memory of her wearing this piece, but I’d discovered after her death that there were several things I hadn’t known about her.
Holding the ring gave me a vague feeling of nostalgia. I missed her enormously.
The book was plain by the standards of any library volume—I knew that, though I couldn’t recall having been in the Alchemary’s library—still, it was quite an expensive personal possession.
My hands shook as I lifted it, noting that its pages formed a thickness equal to two of my fingers. It felt…important. Like that feeling I’d had earlier, that there was something I was forgetting. Something beyond the bulk of my recent memories.
I flipped carefully through the pages, expecting to find instructions or theories. I expected the book to be an alchemical text I’d borrowed from the library or from one of my professors— something I could study as I worked to catch up with my classmates and recover lost knowledge.
But the book was not what I’d expected, in several ways. First, nearly one-third of the pages were blank; it was a journal, not a textbook. And oddly, while I recognized the curves and truncations particular to my own handwriting, I could not recognize the language I’d written in.
I knew some of the letters, but others appeared foreign. Some of the symbols were just that—not letters, truly, and not numbers, but some other form of notation.
Given that I had written the contents—of that, I had no doubt—I should be able to understand it. So why…
A firm knock echoed against the door. I dropped the journal on my desk and leapt up to answer it, expecting to see Wilder, his arms loaded with food.
Instead, I found Desmond standing alone on the dark landing.