The Apothecary's Curse (35 page)

“But why so many languages?”

“These texts were meant
not
to illuminate and explicate; they were meant to be decipherable only by other adepts—colleagues, associates, apprentices, family, if they were so inclined, as it were, to follow in the family trade. To be an able alchemist—a gifted alchemist—would have been to wield a certain power. So why, as it were, ‘spread the wealth'? Of course, alchemy was discredited centuries ago and replaced by chemistry.” But would any alchemist have been able to parse these pages? Gaelan doubted it.

He returned to the first recipe: a page decorated by a barren hawthorn tree, its thorns slim as needles, its branches thick and rendered in bright white-blue metallic ink extending across the page. The writing, uniquely all in Latin, was scripted in a tiny, neat hand, crammed into the spaces between the tree's sprawl.

“Ah,” remarked Gaelan, nodding. “You see, this is
Arbor Dianae
, Diana's tree. It is also called
Arbor Philosophorum
, the philosopher's tree.” He could almost hear his own father describing the page to him as he was now to Dr. Shawe. It was akin to suddenly discovering a favorite book of fairy stories hidden long ago in a forgotten cedar chest.

Everything was new to him again; he grasped meaning now through the prism of twenty-first-century eyes as he plunged into the intricate workings of the book. But just the same, he enjoyed playing the wise tutor, absorbing the freshening delight of an enchanted pupil . . . honey direct from the hive.

“But the writing . . . here, and here,” Gaelan pointed out, his finger moving deftly, symbol to symbol, guiding Dr. Shawe's eye. “Here is the formulation for it. Diana's tree. Are you familiar with it from your studies?”

“Sorry, no, I'm afraid not.”

Slightly disappointed that she wasn't, he explained. “It doesn't matter. You see? Mercury, dissolved in silver nitrate, crystallized into an amalgam. Hence the arborescence of it—the tree. Diana's hunting bow—”

Anne shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I don't . . .” Then her eyes lit with recognition. “Diana?
Oh!
From mythology? Wasn't she a Greek goddess of . . . something? I do recall the bow of—”

“Silver. And you see here, in the corner of the page . . . there is Diana, her bow gleaming in a metallic ink of some sort, probably saturated with silver or a silver compound.”

He took in the remainder of the page, vaguely aware he almost seemed too expert at a manuscript he'd supposedly never before seen. He brushed off the feeling. “I wonder . . .” he said almost to himself. “An ounce of pure silver in
aqua fortis
—that would be nitric acid in our terminology—then diluted with distilled water. Add to that, two ounces of mercury. From this solution, it says, will grow a living tree, thus proving that life itself originates in the minerals.” He shrugged. “I suppose that is true in a sense, since everything is composed of minerals at some elemental level, and . . . ?”

Wait a minute!
What if the illuminations weren't
only
decorative? What if they were actual ingredients embedded within the page's design? It was a completely mad idea, but what else would explain the precise layout of the page—and the particular colors chosen for the design? Of course, there existed illuminated manuscripts using metallic inks, but not to this extent, at least not in his experience. He'd never heard any such claim about alchemy texts, but this book was unique—in the extreme. Fucking brilliant—a complete apothecary, or an alchemist's laboratory—completely portable. And completely invisible to all but the few who held its key.

Then what had been the point of his father's apothecary box, all those jars with the odd symbols? Now, Gaelan's mind nearly exploded with the possibilities. Might they have been concentrates or raw materials to create new inks as they depleted from the page with use? He'd never considered it. Of course not; the very idea he was considering was completely absurd. But if true . . . He needed to stop the speculation and return to earth. Immediately.

He closed the book gently. “Dr. Shawe,” he said calmly as he could, “you said, did you not, that you discovered this book in an attic? Discarded and forgotten? You know nothing, then, of the book's origins? How your family happened to acquire it?”

“I—” Her phone rang. “Please excuse me.”

“The signal is better outside, so—”

She nodded as she opened the door, leaving the book with Gaelan.

CHAPTER 42

There was a chill in the early April air, and Anne wished she'd brought her jacket. Fucking Paul. Again. She affected her best “piss off” voice possible. “What do you want now?”

“What've you learned about our Miracle Man?”

Our Miracle Man?
Just who the hell was pulling the strings? She hadn't said anything to Lloyd, in fact, been completely noncommittal about even looking him up.

“Nothing at all. Why?”

“Hammersmith wants to know.”

“Who appointed you his bloody surrogate?”

“Don't evade the question.”

“I never said I was going to find out a bloody thing about him. I've no interest in your project, Paul, in case you didn't already know. If you're so interested, you track him down.” She stopped herself before letting slip her intention to resign from Transdiff altogether.
Once I've put the bloody lot of you out of business!

“Then why have you not shown up in La Jolla—”

“I'm hanging up, Paul. You're not my boss, and what I do on my own time is of no interest to
you
, most particularly.” She thought a moment. “I'm seeing an old boyfriend. A professor at University of Chicago. There. Satisfied? My. Own. Business. Now piss off.”

“Look. Fine. That bloke who's interested in your book? In Chicago. How's that for coincidence? At least you should look him up whilst you're in town. Maybe he knows something and can help you with it—even if you're not interested in selling.” She wasn't about to tell him that she'd found someone perfectly capable of deciphering her manuscript, much less that it was the Miracle Man Paul Gilles and Lloyd Hammersmith had been pursuing. She needed not one bit of assistance from Paul—or anyone else.

But she had to throw him some sort of bone, if only so he'd bugger off and leave her the fuck alone. “Fine. Send me his e-mail address and phone number. If I've a chance, I'll ring him up, but I'm leaving for California day after tomorrow.”

There was a silence on the line.

“Anne. Don't hang up yet. We've found something. In those Bedlam diaries. A pretty good description of the patient. It appears the man was missing three fingers on his left hand. I'm telling you, luv . . . you should locate him. . . . Fame and fortune await us all.”

“The book person?”

“No, the Miracle Man, darling. Don't purposely misinterpret what I'm saying. I've seen his photo. Like our Bedlam inmate, he too, happens to be missing three fingers. From his left hand.”

What was Paul suggesting, that Gaelan Erceldoune was somehow connected to his nineteenth-century lunatic? That he
was
that man? “You can't seriously be thinking those diaries have some connection to that poor sod who crashed his motorbike.”

“I didn't say he
is
our guy. I'm only just saying, luv. Find him. Talk to him. Please. Maybe there's some sort of genetic defect. Maybe he's a descendent. Maybe along with the regenerative ability comes a genetic deformation of the left hand. Just find him!”

“You can't be bloody serious, Paul!” A genetic mutation that causes both a congenital malformation and rapid wound recovery? “It's science fiction.”

“Who the hell knows? It's an odd coincidence, and don't deny it. And we've seen weirder stuff. Much. That's all I'm saying. And what if there is a connection? Aren't you at all curious about what Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune's telomeres tell us?”

Anne couldn't tell if Paul was being at all serious. She hoped not, but knew his—and Transdiff's—latest obsession. She wished she'd never heard the word
telomere
, nor proposed the idea that infinite cell regeneration was
theoretically
possible in humans. No cell death. No death. Live forever. Infinite tissue repair. Immortality—unless of course you got decapitated. Or bled out before the cells could regenerate. Ridiculous. Bollocks. Humans were not jellyfish, and her research had no human application. That, if ever, would be years away. But how, then, to explain Gaelan Erceldoune? Paul wasn't wrong about that. She was more curious than she'd dare let on to him.

“Good-bye, Paul.” She knew him well enough to understand that if he really thought he was onto something, he would soon be on his way to Chicago to investigate for himself. She shuddered, feeling unexpectedly protective of the man on the other side of the shop door, so guarded and wary of her, yet when he opened that book, he'd changed completely. She couldn't let Paul near him. The poor man would be consumed whole.

Anne clicked “End” and opened her e-mail app to write a preemptive note to Hammersmith. That should stall them for a day or two at least. “Dear Lloyd, Investigating Miracle Man. Very difficult to locate, despite hospital records. Have read his file. Extraordinary tissue regenerative abilities. Never seen anything like in a human. Refuses consent for DNA testing. Will let you know if I can find and convince. Give me a few days. Annie.” She opened the door and returned to Gaelan Erceldoune.

“Dr. Shawe.” Gaelan ushered Anne back to her seat with a sweep of his hand and the most charming smile he could muster. The interruption had been welcome, a chance to gather his wits—and rehearse his best pitch. It was worth a shot, although he doubted she would part with the thing. “I very much would like to buy this book from you.” He did not wait for her response before continuing. “For my personal library. I'd never sell nor trade it. Not ever. I have longed . . . longed for one of its sort—for years. I have examined it whilst you've been on the phone. Although it appears at first glance to be an alchemist's bible, I believe it is more than that.

“It is . . . the sort of work . . . a . . . collector . . . an aficionado of medical antiquities, as I am, seeks his whole lifetime. I would love to take a stab at it . . . analyze . . . deconstruct . . . rudimentary, I'm certain, but . . .” He gazed at the volume, now open between them, hoping he would not give away his desperate longing for it.

“I hope you might entertain an offer to sell it. Price is no object, and I am willing to pay you much more, I am certain, than you would receive from any other buyer.” He would sell his entire library—worth millions—to have it, if that was what it took.

“It is not for sale. At any price.”

“Be assured, I will translate it for you, every page, annotate it in readable English, so you, given your own interests and background, might also benefit immensely from its contents. It is a fair trade. Just name your price.” It was too much; he'd pushed too hard. She would suspect something.

But she did not react, simply reiterated her refusal to part with it. “It's not for sale. I am sorry if you misunderstood my intention. I would, however, greatly appreciate your assistance both in deciphering the pages and helping me to understand its origins—if that is even possible. I would pay you, of course, as a consultant—whatever your going rate is. Name
your
fee for helping me. Beyond purely academic interest, I have a feeling that this manuscript might be a clue, however slight, to my own family's history. So I offer you a collaboration; we shall
both
benefit from it. But, I'm afraid, it's not for sale.”

Gaelan was mute. He rose from his seat, struggling against quickly gathering resentment. Dr. Shawe was right in her decision. Who would part willingly with such a prize? He felt it slipping through his fingers.

The book had literally fallen into his lap, yet would now be lost to him forever? Inconceivable. There must be a way. . . . He stepped behind the counter so she could not observe the depth of his disappointment.

“Here, Mr. Erceldoune,” Dr. Shawe said finally, breaking the silence, beckoning him back to the table. “What do you think this means?” She pointed to an image of a crow with an olive branch in its beak.

“I have no bloody idea!” he snapped petulantly. He refused to be treated as some sort of interloper.
Consultant? Indeed not!
“I would have to have more time to study it.”
Calm yourself, Erceldoune.
It would do no good if she walked out now, with that book. He'd never see it again if she did that. But if he was, indeed, the only one who could help her, why would she bolt? No, she was as determined to untangle the manuscript as he was to possess it.

“That olive branch. Does it not look to you like a strand of DNA? They're everywhere if you look closely enough!”