The Masquerading Magician (17 page)

Thirty-Three

“I shouldn't judge,” Tobias
said. It was clear he regretted his directive from a moment before. “I haven't seen you in two lifetimes. I don't know what's going on with you.”

“You're right that I'm sick,” I said. “But don't worry. It won't last much longer.” I spoke the truth. Either I'd figure out how to get Dorian back and cure him, or I'd die trying.

“I always wondered something,” Tobias said. “I feel bad even asking, since you gave so much of yourself to the cause … ”

“You can ask me anything. You're probably the oldest friend I've got.” I reached for my locket. I'd lost so many people I cared about. It was nice, for once, to find someone.

When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, so soft I could barely hear him over the hum of traffic around us. “We were all so poor.”

“You're wondering,” I said, “why I didn't simply make gold?”

“Knowing what I know now, it's a fair question.”

“I'm great at spagyrics—”

“Plant alchemy, sure.”

“The thing is … ” I paused as I pulled into the driveway. “I never got the hang of making gold.”

“Truly?”

I sighed as I turned off the engine. “Why does everyone think making gold is easy?”

“Damn, woman,
nothing
worthwhile is easy to come by.”

“Did you forget you're talking to the woman who saved your life?”

He laughed heartily. “I wish I had some gold left to say thanks. It looks like this house could use a top-notch repairman.” He stepped out of the truck and eyed the tarp that covered a sizable chunk of the roof. As he reached back inside to lift his overnight bag, I was again struck by his physique. Tobias was at once the same good man I'd known 150 years before, and also a completely different person.

I pointed at the roof. “That's why I'm wearing ill-fitted clothing. A winter storm did in a section of the house and ruined most of my clothes. I haven't had time to shop for anything that fits properly.”

I led him into the house. Tobias dropped his bag next to the green velvet couch and followed me to the kitchen. Out of habit, I looked around for Dorian, even though I knew he was across town in police custody. The gargoyle was either in an evidence locker or in a lab being examined for trace evidence. If I ever saw him again, I'd never hear the end of it.

“You looking for someone?” Tobias asked. “You live here with someone?”

“That,” I said, “is a more complicated question than you realize. Let me get us some sustenance first. Coffee or tea?”

“I've never met an alchemist who could stomach coffee.”

“Come to think of it, I believe you're right.” I opened the curtains, lit a burner, and set a kettle on the stove. “But that espresso maker isn't mine.”

“Oh, the mysterious roommate.” Tobias stood in front of the espresso machine and breathed deeply.

“You said you didn't like coffee.”

“I didn't say I don't
like
coffee. I said I can't drink it. The scent of coffee is one of my favorite things on earth. Sometimes I'll brew a pot to act as potpourri. But the last time I fell off the wagon and drank a double espresso, I was awake for days.”

“The trace amounts of caffeine in chocolate is all I can take,” I agreed. “I didn't realize that metalurgic alchemists were sensitive to plant compounds.”

“I'm primarily a spiritual alchemist. Couldn't you tell from the lyrics of ‘Accidental Life'?”

“But you mentioned you've been making gold.”

“I've become somewhat of a generalist—by necessity. You been to Detroit lately? They need all the help they can get.”

“Your email didn't mention what you're doing there. You said you help acutely sick people, and I noticed you wear a bloodstone on a necklace chain. Let me guess. ER doctor?”

“EMT. An emergency medical tech. The paperwork is easier than if I were a doctor, but I still get to heal people. Some of the guys who ride with me in the ambulance were wary that I keep a bag of herbal remedies with me, but ever since I saved a man from bleeding to death using cayenne pepper, they don't give me grief.”

“Ouch. You didn't learn that one from me. I prefer less painful ways to slow bleeding.”

Tobias moved away from the espresso maker and looked past the glass window box above the sink into the backyard garden. “Your backyard is both a medicine cabinet and a chef's dream garden.”

“Speaking of which, have you eaten breakfast?” I lifted a domed copper lid from a platter of misshapen blueberry scones, oatmeal nut cakes, and whole grain three-seed muffins. Dorian always brought home the less aesthetically pleasing baked goods from Blue Sky Teas. He was convinced that only the most perfectly shaped creations were worthy of being sold to customers at the teashop. Personally I preferred the misfit pastries. “They're all vegan. And none of them have coffee in them.” At my insistence, Dorian had ceased making espresso ginger cookies that looked identical to chocolate cookies. The ginger masked the smell of coffee, and I'd accidentally nibbled on them more than once.

But Tobias wasn't paying attention to the platter. He was still staring out the window. “What happened to that corner of the garden?” He tilted his head toward the section I'd pulled to make Dorian's life-saving tea.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about. It's—” The kettle gave a high-pitched scream. “Why don't you pick a tea, then I'll get the book I wanted to show you and explain everything.” I opened the cabinet that held an assortment of loose-leaf teas. They were hand-dried herbs stored in glass jars.

Tobias selected a flower blend of goldenseal, calendula, and chamomile. The kitchen was bursting with fresh and preserved foods and had no room left for a kitchen table, so Tobias carried the platter of breakfast pastries to the dining table in the large living/dining room. I brought a steeping teapot along with two mugs looped around my fingers to the solid oak dining table, then went to retrieve Dorian's book.

Tobias was already biting into a second deformed pastry when I sat down at the table.

“Ignoring their odd shape, these oat cakes are heaven on earth, Zoe. Heaven on earth.” He gave a contented sigh as he ran his calloused fingertips along the edge of the table. “And this table is older than I am.”

“Not quite. I bought it from the man who carved it in France shortly after the Railroad wrapped up and I was no longer needed.”

“You were still needed, Zoe. I wished I'd had you around so many times … Now—” He clapped his hands together. “Is this old book what's making you look so sick and sad today?”

With a dangerous backward alchemy book, a dead man, a dying gargoyle, and missing loot … “I don't know where to start,” I said.

“I do,” a deep French voice cut in. “She needs help because of me.”

Thirty-Four

saint-gervais, france, 1860

Under the moonlit sky, the shadow creeping slowly across the roof might have been mistaken for a man. But this man was smaller than most—and had wings.

Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin wondered if his years of creating illusions had played with his mind. Was the belief that he had brought a stone gargoyle to life some form of insanity? The creature seemed so real! But perhaps it was an illusion. He, of all people, knew the power of illusions. They convinced the mind that the impossible was true. This could be an elaborate hoax constructed to fool him. Yes! That must have been what was going on, for what other explanation could there be?

It took him several days to revise his opinion. There was no illusion on earth that could explain the living, breathing creature who looked to him for answers he didn't have. Nothing except for the possibility that the alchemy book he'd read from contained
real
magic.

His wife had a strong constitution, so Robert-­Houdin considered sharing the secret with her. But he knew what she would do. She would say it was the work of the Devil and send the gargoyle away. But Robert-­Houdin knew the creature was no devil. He was as innocent as his own children upon their birth.

The creature did not cry like a baby, but in other ways he was much like a child. He craved food and attention, as all newborns did.

However, unlike a newborn, the gargoyle spoke some Latin and possessed an acute intelligence; though Robert-­Houdin's Latin was poor, that much was clear. It was impossible to deny the creature's existence, nor would he relegate him to a freak show. He would raise the creature as his own flesh and blood. Was it not his own work that had brought the gargoyle to life?

But calling him “creature” wouldn't do.

“Dorian,” Robert-­Houdin said. “I will call you Dorian.”

To his family, it appeared that Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin isolated himself as he worked in secrecy on the greatest illusion of his career. Nobody was allowed to enter his studio. No one. Under any circumstances. If anyone dared defy him, they would be written out of his will.

Needless to say, they all obeyed.

In the solitude of his studio, the old magician taught Dorian, whom he came to think of as Dorian Robert-­Houdin. Dorian quickly picked up several additional languages, and also excelled at stage magic.

Unlike most men who worked in seclusion, Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin didn't forget to eat. If anything, his family observed that his appetite doubled, perhaps even tripled, in size. On top of that, he became a picky eater, insisting on the highest-quality foods.

In truth, Robert-­Houdin's appetite lessened as he came to grips with the import of what he'd done, and he cared not what he ate. It was Dorian who had a voracious appetite and who craved superior meals. When not given the finest foods, he would sneak out at night to obtain them himself. It wouldn't do to have Dorian seen, so Robert-­Houdin made sure to bring the gargoyle his favorite foods.

In this way, the gargoyle's unique personality became apparent, convincing Robert-­Houdin that Dorian was as much a man as any other. Robert-­Houdin was happy that some of Dorian's preferences mimicked his own. Like his father—which is how Dorian came to think of the man who had given him life—Dorian devoured great books. Authors like Flaubert, Baudelaire, Moli
è
re, and Dumas opened up a whole new world to him. He grew into a proper French gentleman.

Thirty-Five

I jumped up. “Dorian!”

The gargoyle descended the stairs with a limp so pronounced it was painful to watch. He thought of himself as a self-reliant gentleman, so I knew how much it pained him emotionally to show such physical weakness. Staying still in stone must have sped up his progression back into stone.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs I threw my arms around him. “You escaped!”

Tobias handled the appearance of a living gargoyle better than I could have hoped. He broke only one mug as he pushed back from the table to stand defensively. The solid oak dining chair remained in one piece as it hit the floor with force.

“Don't be frightened,” I said. “He's a friend.”

“Ah.” Tobias chuckled nervously. “Channeling Georges Méliès, are you?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “He's not an automaton.”

Tobias's face clouded. “Damn, Zoe. What are you messing with? You can't control a homunculus. Surely you know that. You need me to help you kill it? Why didn't you say so in the first place?”

Dorian's eyes opened wide with distress. “Zoe?”

“Nobody is killing anyone,” I said.

“You sure?” Tobias said.

Dorian pinched the ridge of his snout and shook his head. “I am not a homunculus, nor am I a golem, a robot, or an automaton. I am a gargoyle.”

Tobias stood in a fighting stance as he stared at Dorian.

“Tobias Freeman,” I said, “meet Dorian Robert-­Houdin.”

“A man trapped in stone?” Tobias asked, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“He's a good soul,” I said. “The two of you are among the best men I've known in my life.”

Tobias stepped forward hesitantly, then stuck out his hand for Dorian to shake.

“We are not sure
what
I am,” Dorian said, “yet I appreciate and will accept your gesture of friendship.”

The formerly stone gargoyle and the former slave shook hands.

“Amazing,” Tobias said, gripping Dorian's rough gray skin. “You didn't think this little man was worth mentioning until now, Zoe? I thought he'd be the first thing you told me about when we walked through your door.”

“Speaking of which—” I ran through the house to make sure the curtains were drawn and returned a minute later, breathless. “It's no longer safe to stay here.”

“What have you pulled me into, Zoe?”

“We should tell him,” Dorian said to me, then looked up at Tobias. “I believe you are trustworthy, Monsieur
Alchemist.”

“You heard him praise your cooking, huh?” I said. If the gargoyle continued to use an endorsement of his cooking as a signal to trust people, we were in big trouble.

“
Mais oui
. From the bannister above, I spied his reaction.”

Tobias looked from the half-empty platter to the gargoyle. “
This
little fellow cooked all this? You've gotta give me the recipe for the oat cakes. The muffins too.”

Dorian puffed up his gray chest.

“Don't encourage him,” I said.

“You're right. I don't know what came over me asking about food when there's a living gargoyle in front of me.”

Dorian blinked at Tobias. “That makes more sense than anything that has befallen me, Monsieur Freeman. Food is the key to understanding the soul—”

“Dorian,” I cut in.

“
Oui
?”

“Why don't you skip the philosophy and tell Tobias what's going on. You also need to tell me how you escaped. Did anyone see you? Do they know you're gone?”

The gargoyle sighed. “Americans. Always so impatient.” He flexed his shoulders, causing his wings to partially unfurl.

Tobias's jaw dropped.

“Let's get upstairs into the attic,” I said. “If the police raid the house in search of their missing statue, you can crawl out the hole in the roof to hide where they won't find you.”

“But I wish to go to the kitchen,” Dorian protested. “I am hungry. They did not feed me—”

“I'll bring food,” I said. “Tobias, can you take Dorian and this book up to the attic?”

I joined the two of them five minutes later, carrying a platter of day-old bread along with curried hummus, sliced cucumbers, and olives. They had their heads together over the alchemy book, and Dorian was pointing at the disturbing woodcut illustration of bees swarming around dead animals.

“No fruit?” Dorian asked, looking up.

“He's a particular little fellow,” Tobias said.

“One who's about to tell us how he escaped from police custody.”

“The
police
in this town know about him?” Tobias asked.

“Not exactly.” I briefly told Tobias how Dorian was brought to life with the backward alchemy book, then explained how he could shift back into stone at will, and that it was his stone statue form that was thought to have been used in a crime. “But what I don't know,” I finished, “is how he found his way back here from police custody.”

Tobias and I looked expectantly at the gargoyle as he finished eating a mouthful of bread slathered in hummus.

A small burp escaped Dorian's lips. “
Pardon
.”

“Amazing,” Tobias whispered.

“I do not wish to relive the humiliating ordeal,” Dorian said, “but for the sake of our investigation, I will. The first indignity was a fine powder they dusted over my whole body.”

“Looking for fingerprints?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “
Oui
. They did not find any. This frustrated them. They were not very nice when they carted me to a storage facility. It was from this room that I escaped.”

“You were careful?”

“Am I not always careful? I took care of myself long before I met you, Zoe. It took me quite some time to make all of my limbs move again after being still for so long. Once I was confident I would be able to walk, I took a blanket and covered myself, in case there were video cameras. This was shortly before sunrise—”

“That was hours ago!”

“Yes, I made it to my attic entrance before the sun rose.”

“You've been here this whole time? Why didn't you come downstairs?”

“I could not get my legs to move,” Dorian said slowly, his wings wilting at his sides. “You see, Monsieur Freeman, I am dying.”

“I'm going to find a way to save you, Dorian,” I said. “I'm getting closer.”

“That's why you wanted my help,” Tobias said.

I nodded. “But now a murder has gotten in the way—”

“A murder?” Tobias repeated. “What on earth is going on here, Zoe?”

“I
t's a long story,” I said.

“
Ah!” Dorian said. “I nearly forgot.” He scampered, lopsided, to a corner of the attic. He retrieved a gallon-size plastic bag with a shiny object inside, which he then handed to me.

“A
knife
?” I said, a horrible realization dawning on me. “You took this knife from the evidence room?”

“
Oui
. This is the knife used to kill Monsieur
Mason. You did not wish the police to learn the secret of the alchemist, and this is his knife—”

“He's not an alchemist, Dorian!”

“
Pardon
?”

“I was so worried about you that I went to confront him last night.” I explained how Peter Silverman was the son of Franklin Thorne, and that although we were right that Peter and Penelope had returned to Portland because of the discovery of the sapphire necklace, the real reason they wanted to come back was to clear Peter's father's name.

“He's just a regular guy who can't help us with your book,” I concluded.

Dorian's wings crumpled. His whole body seemed to deflate, from his horns down to the stone foot that was missing its toe.

“Why did you think this man in particular would be able to help you?” Tobias asked. “I get that you thought he was an alchemist, but it sounds like you thought he was a special kind.”

“You did not tell him what is peculiar about my book?” Dorian asked.

“Tell me what?” Tobias asked.

“Perhaps,” Dorian said, “I should leave the two alchemists to discuss matters further.”

“You're staying right here in the attic, Dorian. And keep the knife with you. If the police come and you have to flee, take it with you. You can't let the police find it—or you—here.”

“So,” Tobias said, “our only chance to save this little fellow is to keep him out of sight while the two of us figure out what's going on with his book. Shouldn't we get started?”