Chapter 19
That afternoon, as I crept silently up the Conservatory’s grand spiral staircase, I couldn’t help but stare at the bright images painted on the curved walls from sunlight shining through the stained glass tableaux overhead.
I had no time to linger, but the images were so striking, and the queen’s death scene in particular was astoundingly clear and detailed, despite being stretched by the angle of the sun.
Most of the staff researchers took Sunday off, but the infirmary on the first floor never closed, and it was entirely likely that Desmond worked every day of the week.
But he had offered to let me use his lab.
Obviously he intended for me to use the space for schoolwork and to prepare for the Black Trial, and I would have to claim that’s why I’d come, if he was working.
But I held out hope, as I snuck down the second-floor hallway, that he had taken the afternoon off.
I needed privacy, in order to work on the secret bone plaque formula.
I could never reveal my discovery—and my defacing of the Conservatory plaques—to Desmond, but my instinct to hide it from Wilder had taken me by surprise. As if Past Amber wasn’t sure I should trust him.
Wilder and I had parted ways after breaking our fast, and I’d spent half the day poring over Past Amber’s notes.
I discovered only one formula that contained all of the components I’d found symbols for.
I had no idea what the formula was for, or what it would do.
Unlike the rest of my notes, that particular sheet of parchment had no heading declaring its subject, and it was undated.
If it weren’t in the same handwriting as the rest—my handwriting—I’d likely have assumed it was someone else’s work.
The fact that it was clearly mine, despite lacking my usual annotation, only amplified my curiosity.
Thanks to the shattered stained glass window, I could be kicked out of the Alchemary at any moment.
My dreams could already be over, along with any chance of recovering my memory.
For all I knew, this little project was the academic version of a chicken flapping uselessly around the farmyard, not yet aware that it had already lost its head.
But if so, I would flap away at alchemy until they plucked my plumage and dragged me bodily through the gate, across the bridge, and off the island.
I hesitated at the door to Desmond’s suite, my heart racing. Then I let myself into the foyer. The door to the lab stood ajar. The space looked empty, but there was every chance he was in the office, going over notes.
“Hello?” I called, stepping partway into the lab. “Desmond? Are you in here? Is it okay if I…?”
The door to his office also stood open, but a glance inside told me the small, neat room was empty.
I exhaled, buoyed by relief even as I made a conscious effort to ignore an undercurrent of deep suspicion.
As far as I knew, Desmond Gregory had no hobbies, other than training with soldiers. What on earth could he be doing on a Sunday afternoon?
Whatever was occupying him likely wouldn’t take long. That knowledge spurred me into action, and I set my satchel on the nearest lab table.
The necessary components and supplies were pretty basic.
At least, I assumed they must be, since I knew what they all were.
It was the specific combination of components that felt unusual, based on what I had thus far relearned of alchemy, and that, in addition to the fact that the component symbols had been literally written on the Conservatory walls, hastened me as I gathered the required equipment.
The supply closet was impeccably well organized, and I was careful to take no more than I needed, hoping such small portions would go entirely unnoticed. The only one I was unsure of was Desmond’s supply of beyn.
I had yet to remaster my own beyn formula—my notes on the matter were distressingly vague—so I had no choice but to borrow a dropperful of Desmond’s.
The stronger the beyn used, the more powerful the elixir would be, but I had no idea how strong his was.
Or what source materials he’d used. Or how they could affect the potion.
Under normal circumstances I would never use an ingredient without any understanding of what it would do to my formula.
But I could practically feel the clock winding down toward Desmond’s return, and I couldn’t be sure I’d ever be allowed in an Alchemary lab again.
Or that I would even still be a student by the end of the day.
So there was no time to debate my options.
Excitement bubbled just beneath my skin as I lit burners and measured ingredients. As I checked and double-checked instructions, then squinted at the simmering fluids to assess the colors as they gradually changed from one bright hue to the next.
Finally, to my relief and unending excitement, I bent to peer into the bulbed beaker as my mystery concoction cooled within it. The color was compelling—a pale but almost fluorescent blue that seemed to virtually glow within the vial. Though surely that was the light from the candles I’d lit.
While it cooled, I cleaned everything I’d used, careful to position the equipment exactly as I’d found it.
Then, nearly two hours after I’d begun, as late-afternoon sun shifted slowly across the floor from the laboratory window, I realized I had no idea what to do with…whatever I’d just made.
Was it invisible ink? To test the theory, I dipped an edge of parchment into the vial.
The color stained it but failed to fade.
Maybe it only works on bone.…It was not beyond the realm of possibility that this formula was specifically designed to react with the material composition of the bone plaques. Maybe that was why the formula had felt so odd, despite my lack of remembered experience.
Excited by that thought. I gathered my satchel and took the warm beaker and a small horsehair brush into the hall, where I had to remind myself to be quiet, despite the rush of blood through my veins.
Any plaque would probably do, but the one least likely to be seen by any researcher that stepped into the hall was at the back of the building, outside an unoccupied office suite.
That plaque was the only one that had revealed no hidden symbol, so it seemed like the perfect place to leave one myself.
What would I want to write for some intrepid future student to find? Or future researcher, more likely, considering that few students had access to the Conservatory.
While I considered the question, I dipped a scrap of cloth into the beaker and used it to dab a bit of the warm solution on the lower left corner of the scroll-shaped plaque, to test it. To my surprise, the ink disappeared almost immediately.
I frowned at the plaque. The invisible ink Wilder and I had made as kids had taken several minutes to fade from visibility. Clearly this was a different and much more complicated formula, assuming that was what I’d actually made, but…
What if it wasn’t? We’d made invisible ink as children, with far fewer and simpler ingredients, and no flame required. So why…?
An odd, anxious anticipation seized me as I carefully set the beaker on the floor and scratched open the scab from the cut I’d made inside my elbow. A drop of fresh blood welled up, and I smeared it on the plaque, directly over where I’d painted the formula, using my right index finger.
But the “invisible ink” did not reappear. Nor did my blood stain the plaque. Instead, it beaded up like sweat where it had been smeared over the substance, though there was no color change on the plaque itself.
Maybe this plaque was different somehow. Maybe that was why it was the only one with no symbol. Or maybe the original had been replaced at some point.
If that was the case, had I missed whatever symbol had been painted on the original plaque? Was my concoction missing an ingredient?
No. Past Amber’s weird formula was the only one I’d found that used all of the other symbols.
The formula felt complete. And if that were true…
there had to be some other reason this plaque had revealed no symbol.
Some other reason the formula disappeared instantly and didn’t function like invisible ink.
Curious, I dipped the rag into the beaker again and smeared another streak boldly across the center of the plaque.
It immediately disappeared, to no effect.
Hmmm…Still holding the beaker, I pressed my right cheek against the wall next to the plaque, peering into the narrow, dark gap between the plaque and the marble wall. But I could see nothing.
An idea sparked, and I spun to grab the nearest torch from its wall mount.
Carefully, I held the torch up so that it cast light into the gap, and this time, with my face pressed against the marble, I could see that the hardware that held the plaque to the wall shone oddly in the firelight, with a bluish metallic glint.
Acting purely on instinct, and the knowledge that base metals are the primary target of any transfiguration attempts in alchemy, I carefully poured the bright blue concoction behind the plaque, doing my best to hit the glinting bits of metal. Whatever they were.
Despite my care, some of the thick liquid slid down the wall. I returned the torch to its mount, and as I was wiping up the bluish drips, a strange, soft hissing sound echoed from behind the plaque.
Startled, I popped up onto my feet just as the plaque swung away from the wall, opening on concealed hinges to reveal a neat, square compartment cut into the marble behind it.
Excitement spiked my pulse, and I realized two things at once: My pale blue concoction had dissolved the small bits of metal that had held the plaque in place, and there was something in the hidden compartment.
Something round, made of a standard metal that glinted softly—normally—in the torchlight.