Shadow of the Alchemist

18

The four of them made their way down to Thames Street, passed the Vintry and the Ropery, and finally arrived to Bridge Street. There was a queue to pay the toll to cross the bridge-which seemed to be held up by a man with an oxcart who had lost his cargo halfway through the gate.

Jack pushed his way through, jumping above the crowd to get a look at the archway. He turned back to Crispin and shook his head.

“Perhaps it isn’t on the arch,” he muttered to Flamel. Avelyn stayed at Crispin’s side like a dog with his master. It annoyed him, but she had proved observant before. After all, she seemed to have led him to the parchment in the niche. Had she seen it … or had she put it there for him to find?

He turned to watch her as she stumbled down the embankment, falling on her bum and sliding a little on the way down. How had she known it was there?

He went after her and grabbed her arm when they both slipped and rolled the rest of the way over the rough stones. He cursed and brushed himself off. She got to her feet, rubbing her temple. He grabbed her again and said to her face so she could read his mouth, “How did you know that parchment was there?”

She only smiled softly and shook her head. He tightened his grip and she looked down at his hand in puzzlement. “No, that’s not good enough. Did you put it there?”

Her mouth opened in an “O” and she shook her head slowly. Her long braid swayed from side to side like a donkey’s tail.

“If I find you are lying to me, you shall regret it.”

She shook her head again and signed to him.

“Master Flamel!” he called. “Come translate what this bitch of a servant has to say.”

Flamel clutched his gown and hiked it up, making his way slowly down to the shore. Jack came up beside him and anchored him.

They both reached the stony shore together, and Flamel turned the girl to face him. “What are you saying, child?”

Her hands flew and Flamel nodded, saying only occasionally, “Lentement, lentement.” At last she seemed to have finished, and Flamel turned to Crispin. “She says she is hurt that you should accuse her. She says she trusts you like none other-and insists that she is not a whore or a she-bitch. She says that she is more observant than you, who are more taken by the sounds of the wind and the people and the carts and the birds calling in the sky, and that all these things serve as a distraction to what is truly important. And she says also … that you must apologize to her or … or she will not … er … lay with you again.”

Mute, Crispin stared at her and her jutting chin. He saw now the hurt written on her face and deep in her wounded eyes.

“I trust her, Maître,” said the alchemist. His voice was as soft as the water of the rushing Thames. “I have known her too long not to.”

Crispin swallowed and cleared his throat. Flamel stared at him expectantly, as did Jack. Perhaps it was not a good precedent to apologize to a pretentious servant, but of course, he had already lost that battle long ago with Jack.

He took her hand, ignoring the men beside him. “Avelyn, I do apologize most humbly. I … spoke before thinking. Can you forgive me? And not because … because we lay together. But because I was wrong in accusing you.”

She lowered her eyes for a long time before she brought his hand up to her cheek and used it to caress its smoothness. She kissed his scarred knuckles and fingertips before lowering his captured hand, swinging it in her own. When she looked up again, her mouth had spread into a wide smile.

Crispin felt like the biggest fool, especially when he released her hand and looked at Tucker, twisting his lips as if trying to keep from bursting out with a laugh. It was bad enough he indulged his apprentice with an unusual amount of camaraderie, but it was much worse to treat a servant girl like a lover. He didn’t know why he did it, except that the hurt on her face ached his heart and her smile gladdened it.

This is what comes of loneliness, Crispin. Abbot Nicholas may have been right; ’tis better to marry than to burn.

Jack placed a neutral expression on his face and cleared his throat. “Er … Master … did you find anything?”

“Hadn’t had time to look yet,” he muttered, and then moved toward the piers revealed by the low tide.

The smell of wet, sandy riverbed and fish was strong in the air. River plants and reeds lay exposed and pungent on the shore, and the smell of the privies downstream made his eyes water.

They all searched, and it was Tucker who cried out, calling them over.

Crispin trotted toward him, followed by Flamel and Avelyn. She was holding the alchemist’s elbow, unmindful of her skirts trailing in the mud.

Crispin arrived and looked where Jack pointed. More symbols. Crispin searched against the wall, hands reaching and feeling. He reached well above his head when he found it. He pulled the parchment out, heart pounding with the thrill of discovery.

He opened the damp kidskin and held it up to the fading light of late afternoon. This time there were no sigils, just carefully penned Latin.

And here you are, having found the second parchment. You are clever to have found it. The game proceeds.

Crispin turned it over and held it to the light, searching for shadow writing, but there was nothing there. “He tells us we are right, but he leaves no clue.” He shoved it into Jack’s hands. The boy turned it over and over.

“But that’s … that’s not playing fair!”

Crispin shook his head, thinking. “No, he is playing. And so it will be fair. That is the game he wants to play.” He scrambled back to the place they’d found the symbols and searched the stones. There! A tile. The other stones were worn and mossy, but this was new. A tile with the raised image of a lion’s head.

“Look here.” He ran his fingers over it. The tile was definitely new. The mortar for it was clean and unblemished by the rot from the river. This had been recently set and for no discernible reason.

Jack came up beside him and peered at the tile. Crispin continued to explore it with his fingers. He took out his knife and pried it loose. The mortar was still fresh and hadn’t had time to set properly. Crispin fished around behind it but found nothing. With his knife, he scraped the mortar from the back of the tile, but there was nothing there, not even a tiler’s mark. He turned it over and over in his hands.

“A lion’s head,” said Jack. “What could that mean?”

“It must be the message, for there is no place beside it or behind it to hide a parchment.” He came out from under the bridge and joined the others as they helped one another up the embankment. When they reached the street again, meeting the curious looks from the others still waiting to pass through the gate, they huddled together out of the wind near an alehouse, looking at the tile.

“A lion’s head,” said Crispin. “Something in London that has to do with a lion.”

Jack threw up his hands. “That could be anything, sir, from the king to … to…”

“Yes. It is ambiguous. Thoughts?”

“The Lion Tower at the Tower of London,” said Jack.

“Impossible to get to. He wouldn’t make it that difficult.”

Jack snapped his fingers. “The Lion’s Head Inn!”

“Better. Simple. Let us go there now.”