Chapter 34
“Amber!”
I turned toward the sound of my name, my pulse spiking at the anticipation bouncing through each syllable. At the enthusiasm of the greeting.
Too late, I recognized the voice, and though unease washed over me when my gaze fell upon Wilder heading across the quadrangle toward me, my pulse did not slow.
He cut a daring figure, jogging in his waistcoat and breeches, his cloak tossed over one broad shoulder, moss-colored knife sheath rhythmically brushing his hip, blue eyes shining in the setting sunlight.
I’d spent three weeks avoiding further discussion on the subject of our kiss, while not avoiding him specifically, and the effort required to walk that particularly fine line—to keep a natural-sounding change of subject at the ready, at all times—had begun to take its toll.
I did not dread seeing him. But I did wish, fervently, that I could simply stare at his handsome figure unnoticed from across the quadrangle, free from the burden of talking, when I had no idea what to say.
He fell into step beside me, breathing easily despite his exertion.
The dirt beneath his nails and a stray hibiscus blossom caught in his hair told me that he’d been in the forest again, and that his satchel was likely full of carefully plucked and sorted plant matter, waiting to be dried and powdered or distilled into usable alchemical ingredients.
His recipe for beyn, I knew, was plant-forward.
Wilder was the only student, as far as I had heard, who collected his own elixir components, and while that was not strictly forbidden, it was plainly frowned upon by certain members of the faculty.
He grinned down at me as we rounded the statue of Eldon and Avalona at the center of the quadrangle. “So, I know I’m not supposed to ask, but have you given it any thought?”
“Naturally, I know precisely what you’re talking about, given that in addition to being a gifted alchemist, I can read minds…” I teased, careful to keep my tone light and approachable. Too late, I realized that if he was talking about that kiss, I’d walked face-first into my own doom.
Wilder laughed. “The White Trial, of course. It’s next week, Amber. How could there possibly be anything else on your mind?”
“There isn’t,” I lied. “I just…I didn’t think you’d be worried, considering how easily you managed the Black Trial.”
It took me a moment to interpret his silence, along with the intensity with which he held my gaze as we walked, as if he had no concern for where his feet would land on the path. “Oh. You’re worried for me, not for yourself.”
“That is not what I was going to say.” He pulled his knife from its sheath and began to twirl it between the first two fingers of his right hand and into his palm over and over as we walked. “Not precisely, anyway. I’m certain there’s a less offensive phrasing.…”
“And yet probably none more accurate,” I insisted.
“Don’t fret. I’m not offended.” I was concerned for myself as well, and the truth was that the trial had never been far from my mind.
It just wasn’t the only thing occupying my thoughts, with Wilder’s kiss in my memory, his brother waiting for me in the laboratory, and the mystery of Lord Calyx’s riddle providing a welcome if not exactly helpful distraction from everything else.
“And yes,” I added. “I’ve given it considerable thought. But I have no idea how the trial will interpret the concepts of purification and rebirth in order to put us in mortal peril while challenging us to do our very best alchemy.”
“Succinctly put.” He hesitated, his blade going still, and the tension in his arm as it brushed mine said that there were more words waiting on his tongue. “Has my brother said anything?”
“About…?” I hadn’t told Desmond about the kiss, and he’d been very busy in the lab, working on something for the Bluehelm. Something to do with the mysterious contagion causing aurums, to which the Alchemary had vowed to devote considerable resources.
“About the White Trial.”
“Oh. Not a word. He told me before the Black Trial that they’re different every year, so he couldn’t—”
“Not the White Trial,” Wilder interrupted.
“The Black Trial yes, and maybe the Red one. I’m not sure about that.
But the White and Gold Trials require equipment and some sort of momentous setup that keeps them static, year after year.
That’s why there’s such secrecy around them.
Last year’s Mastery students were required to take a temporary draught of memory drain after they passed so they couldn’t tell the rest of us what had happened. ”
“A temporary…?” My pulse spiked again, so strongly that the quadrangle warbled out of focus for a moment.
He sheathed his knife. “It’s precisely dosed to only take a few hours of memory, and it wears off after a few months. But by then, they’re all either gone from the Alchemary or they’ve taken oaths as permanent members.”
“Could that be what happened to me?” I asked. “Someone slipped me a draught of memory drain?”
Wilder shook his head. “I did consider that at first. But a draught that took years of your memory and has lasted this long would have had other noticeable effects on you.”
So either it was not a memory drain, or it was a very skilled memory drain, which did not seem beyond the realm of possibility, considering the expertise of every alchemist in residence on the island.
“But I am planning to take advantage of the fact that we’ll be forced to take one.”
“How so?”
“I have a client among our instructors who has agreed to get me an extra dose of the draught they’re going to make us take since I’ve assured him I won’t be using it on anyone.
Instead, I’m going to essentially engineer it in reverse, in order to develop a new elixir for you. To try to recover your memory.”
“Oh!” I seized his arm and squeezed it, unable to conceal my excitement. As desperate as I was, I’d felt too guilty to remind him of his promise to help. “Thank you!”
“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. My initial attempts were utter failures.”
“I appreciate those attempts anyway, and you owe me nothing,” I assured him.
“Thank you. Clearly Desmond believes that’s true for him as well.”
I let go of his arm. “Meaning?”
“He knows what the White Trial is, Amber. At least, he understands its basic construct. And I thought he might…I’m not asking for information for myself,” Wilder clarified.
“You just want me to know that he could be helping me more than he is.”
He frowned. “That isn’t precisely how I would have phrased that, either.”
I sighed. “He took an oath, Wilder. He can’t just tell me what’s going to happen in the trial any more than he can tell you.”
“Those are two different scenarios. You’re still operating at a memory—and thus a skill—deficit. He has the ability to keep you safe.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Wilder nodded, a little too hard. “I know. I know he took an oath, and I know that knowing what’s coming would be cheating, technically. But I could not care less. If I had information that could save your life, I would give it to you.”
I spent four hours in Desmond’s lab, struggling to concentrate on my own work instead of surreptitiously observing his confidential task before the seed Wilder had planted—whether intentionally or unintentionally—grew roots too big to be ignored.
“My wheels are spinning freely, Desmond,” I finally said as I replaced the last of my freshly washed beakers on the shelf, a task that required me to stand on the counter in order to reach.
He looked away from his work, his eyes still glazed with concentration, his nose crinkled rather fetchingly as he frowned at up me. “To what wheels are you referring?”
“In this metaphor, I am a cart stuck in the mud, and though my wheels may spin freely, they will not find purchase.”
He snorted and turned back to his work. “That is a rather laborious way to say that you feel you’re wasting your time.”
I lowered myself to sit on the countertop with my heels dangling against the cabinet doors. “And do you intend to address the heart of the matter or simply to criticize my phrasing?”
He looked up again. “What have your spinning wheels to do with me?”
“In this scenario, I am a cart with spinning wheels, and you are—” I hopped down onto the floor and crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, truth be told, I don’t know enough about cart construction to say what you would be, but it has come to my attention that you know at least approximately what I can expect in the White Trial, and you have been keeping that from me. Do you deny it?”
“Of course not. The very point of a secret is the keeping of it.”
“I know of several gossipy classmates who would disagree.”
Desmond’s gaze narrowed on me from across the room. He crossed thick arms over his broad chest, still holding a set of calipers. “Are you suggesting my solemn oath to the Alchemary shares some equivalence with the late-night whisperings of a schoolgirl?”
“I am not, but neither do I appreciate your condescending tone.” I mirrored his pose with my own arms crossed over my lab apron. “There isn’t a thing wrong with being a schoolgirl, and girls are not the only ones who gossip.”
“Point taken,” he assured me solemnly.
“I take your point as well: The information you have is far more vital than gossip. Still, you have a choice to make, and that choice could save my life.”
For a moment, Desmond regarded me in absolute silence, so unmoving that he could have been a statue in the quadrangle. Then he slowly, deliberately set down the calipers and planted both palms flat on his work surface.