The Masquerading Magician (3 page)

Four

“Um … ” Brixton
appeared suddenly fascinated with the criss-crossed scratches in the linoleum floor.

“Brix.”

“Well, the thing is … He looks really familiar.”

“
He looks really familiar
? That's all you've got this time?”

“This isn't like the meth dealer or Mrs. Andrews.”

“You probably saw posters of the magic show online before it came to Portland,” I pointed out.

“Would you let me finish? The magician is familiar from
history
. I swear I've seen him in a history book.” He paused to lift the last coconut cookie from the magic-lamp-shaped cookie jar on the counter and pop it into his mouth.

“A former president, perhaps?”

“Not funny, Zoe. Not funny. I'm being serious!” With a mouthful of gooey cookie in his mouth, Brixton wasn't making his case very effectively. “You didn't recognize him? There's not, like, a registry of alchemists?”

“It doesn't work like that.”

“Well, it should. How am I supposed to remember everyone I've seen in a history book?”

“If this man is an alchemist who's discovered the Elixir of Life, do you really think he'd choose a profession where he could be famous? Wouldn't that make it much more difficult for him to keep his secret?”

“I know you've been good at making sure you never get publicity or anything, but there are a lot of people with bigger egos than yours. People who want the attention. And don't you remember how he said he needed a volunteer of legal age ‘in these modern times,' like he'd known
previous
times?”

I frowned. The magic show that night was straight out of the 1800s, it had sparked an uncomfortable sense of familiarity, and Prometheus clearly enjoyed the spotlight. Was it possible Brixton was right this time? I shook my head. “Living out of the spotlight isn't a matter of personal preference,” I said. “It's about survival.”

“Immortals are always famous in the movies—”

“Exactly. In the movies. Not in real life. There are only a handful of alchemists out there who've succeeded in extending their lives. They stay so well-hidden that I haven't managed to find a single one since I started looking earlier this year.”

“Which is totally why it's awesome that an alchemist is here in town. You should invite him over to the teashop.”

Brixton was right that I needed help, but if he was also right about this man being a figure from history, that meant this alchemist was a dangerous wild card. Before approaching him, I needed to know more. Not only whether Prometheus could be an alchemist, but if he could be trusted.

I tried to think about how best to explain my concerns, but Brixton was no longer paying attention to me. “That's weird,” he said, staring at the screen of his phone.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just a website that got hacked.” He tucked the phone into the pocket of his jeans.

“Don't go anywhere,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

I climbed two flights of stairs to reach my attic office. A three-foot section of the roof was missing, but had been patched with a quick fix—like everything else in my life these days. The attic flooring below the rooftop hole had collapsed too. The gaping hole, located directly above my bedroom closet, was now covered with a sturdy wooden plank and a Qalicheh Persian rug.

A combination of plastic, plywood, and decorative coverings kept the rain out until I could reverse Dorian's deterioration and resume work on the fixer-upper house. Saving Dorian's life was a bigger priority than saving the house from dry rot. Besides, this hole in the roof provided an easier way for Dorian to come and go from the house without being seen. Unlike the rooftop opening he used to squeeze through, this one was large enough that he could maneuver through it and replace the tarp even with a stiff leg.

With the storm damage, my attic office rivaled the basement alchemy lab as a work-in-progress. The top of the Craftsman house contained my public persona; the lower regions hid my private one: Zoe Faust, the twenty-eight-year-old proprietor of the online secondhand shop Elixir, a descendant of the woman who'd started an apothecary shop named Elixir in Paris in 1872; and Zoe Faust, the 340-year-old alchemist who'd accidentally discovered the Elixir of Life 312 years ago, and who ran an online business because she was no good at transmuting lead into gold.

Stepping past a collection of antique books on herbal remedies, a row of Japanese puzzle boxes, and the articulated skeleton of a pelican, I grabbed my laptop computer. When I entered the kitchen a minute later, the fridge door stood open but Brixton was nowhere to be seen.

Then the crown of his head popped into view from where he stood behind the fridge door, and he kicked the door shut with his foot. In each hand he was balancing a stainless-steel storage container with a platter of treats on top.

“The desserts wouldn't have run away in the few moments you took to come back for them,” I commented.

“Yeah, that coconut cookie made me wicked hungry and I couldn't decide what I wanted. It's cool, right? Dorian said there was more than you two could eat.”

I lifted the more precariously-perched platter with my free hand and led the way to the dining table.

“I already looked them up while we were at the theater,” Brixton said. “I knew that magician looked familiar as soon as I saw him, but it wasn't until the intermission that I could use my phone without Veronica punching me. But then I couldn't find you to tell you. Anyway, the magicians Prometheus and Persephone are a married couple, Peter and Penelope Silverman. They didn't announce their secret identities or anything.”

“Now you think they're
both
alchemists?”

He shrugged. “I only recognized Prometheus, but who knows? That's why you should look into it. With two alchemists helping you, that could totally save Dorian.”

I opened the laptop while Brixton inhaled a piece of chocolate zucchini bread. Peter Silverman's website bio was short, but as a magician he was well-known enough that an online encyclopedia had listings for both himself and Penelope, who was both his wife and magic show partner. They were both in their early fifties, and Peter was the child of Marge and Herb Silverman of Silver Springs, Ohio. Penelope Silverman,
née
Fitzgerald, began her career as a circus performer and she'd been an expert lion tamer and knife thrower before she ran away from the circus to become a magician.

Peter and Penelope met in Las Vegas, where they each had their own stage show. Penelope's page had a photograph from her solo show, and Peter's showed an illustrated poster of their joint
Phantasmagoria
act, similar to the one I'd seen that night. Before the two met, both of them were struggling, performing only as opening acts or at hotels nobody sober would stay at. About five years ago, they'd become the marginally successful team of Persephone & Prometheus. There was nothing controversial except for one thing: Peter had once punched a theater patron for taking a photo of the show.

I looked again at the poster illustrations. Their likenesses were approximate, but not photographic quality. There were no photographs on either their own website
or
the external listings. That was odd. I typed in an image search. Hundreds of images of Penelope popped up, most of them showing her as a young woman in a skimpy costume with a whip. Though Penelope was stunning in her fifties, she'd aged normally.

But I couldn't find a single photograph of Peter Silverman.

“What is it?” Brixton asked.

“Nothing.” I tried one more quick search, finding more of the same. Penelope had several social media accounts, but Peter had none.

“What are you looking at?”

I closed the laptop. “I'm sure your mom is worried that you're not home yet. Let me put your bike in the back of the truck and give you a ride home.”

It was a fifteen-minute drive to the cottage where Brixton and his mother were staying while Blue was gone. Brixton slipped on headphones as soon as he sat down in the passenger seat, which was fine with me. I needed time to think.

Peter Silverman was hiding something. That didn't necessarily mean he was an alchemist. In fact, it was more likely to mean any one of a dozen other things that had nothing to do with alchemy. Maybe he'd changed his name to get away from a life of crime. Or perhaps he was running away from alimony payments. I briefly considered that he could be a hero in the Witness Protection Program, but they'd never let him appear on stage.

Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

After I dropped Brixton off at the cottage, I selected one of my favorite songs to listen to on the drive home. I had installed a compact cassette player in the early 1970s, about thirty years after buying the truck. I had a sentimental attachment to the countless mixed tapes I'd made myself for my long drives across the country, so I'd never upgraded. I found the cassette that included “Accidental Life,” a 1950s song by an artist who called himself The Philosopher. It combined a spiritual sound with the danceable rock rhythms gaining popularity in the fifties. What I loved most about it was how The Philosopher used his deep, soulful voice to tell the story of a man who wandered the earth for a thousand years. It wasn't only the lyrics that spoke to me; there are some voices that simply feel like home.

The song ended long before I pulled into the driveway. I drove the rest of the way home through side streets, enjoying the late-night silence. In the driveway, I took a moment to breathe in the crisp night air. The spring scents of cherry blossoms, daffodils, and hyacinths came on a gust of wind.

Inside, I walked through the house to check that all the doors and windows were locked. After being burglarized shortly after I bought the house, it had become my nightly ritual. Despite the break-in, this dilapidated house felt like a real home. Aside from my Airstream trailer that I'd lived out of for decades, this was the first place that had felt like home in the last century.

Just as I was about to turn off the kitchen light, I spotted a wooden spoon that had fallen in the crack between the Wedgewood oven and counter. I reached it easily enough, but paused before washing it. The scent of vanilla, cloves, and cardamom wafted up from the spoon, along with a scent I couldn't place. Though I'd been cooking for many more years than Dorian, he was the one who knew how to bring different flavors together in unexpected, complementary ways. Once I came to think of myself as worthy of a good life, I began using vegetables, herbs, and spices to make healthful meals. But my own purpose of cooking was to be healthy, not necessarily to enjoy the taste. Though I know how to dry high-quality herbs and spices for my alchemical transformations, and can create healing tinctures, teas, and salves, before Dorian entered my life I'd never thought about using the same ingredients to transform simple foods into heavenly masterpieces. My little gargoyle gourmet was a culinary alchemist.

These days, I'm considered a vegan. When I began eating a plant-based diet around the turn of the twentieth century, it was known as a Pythagorean diet, named for the mathematician Pythagoras, who advocated eliminating animal products from one's diet. Dorian was horrified when he learned I didn't stock bacon, butter, and heavy cream as kitchen staples. He'd been taught to cook with the traditional French methods, so learning to cook with the ingredients in my kitchen had been an adjustment. He rose to the challenge, though, and now declared that his vegan creations were the most impressive gastronomic feats in this hemisphere. Not only the best
vegan
creations, but the most delectable foods,
period
. I never said he was modest.

Dorian was still off on a nocturnal walk. He didn't need sleep, so after his nightly walks he spent the hours before sunrise baking pastries at Blue Sky Teas, slipping out before anyone saw him. Baking vegan treats for the local teashop was Dorian's contribution to our household expenses. Because nobody could know he existed, I was his front. Everyone besides Dorian and Brixton thought I was the chef who rose before dawn to bake fresh breads and delicacies. I hated all the lies I had to tell to fit into normal society, but this untruth provided a reasonable explanation for why I'd been so tired lately. With that thought, I yawned.

My last stop of the night was the basement. When I opened the door I kept locked at all times, my senses perked up. The second yawn that had been about to surface disappeared, replaced with a surge of adrenaline.

“Dorian?” I called out.

Silence.

I descended the stairs.

Standing on the bottom step, I had a full view of the room. The scent of home-brewed beer that had been so strong when I moved in had been gone for months, as were the putrid scents of my earlier failed experiments. After accidentally poisoning myself, I was now rigorous in my cleaning and storage of alchemical ingredients, and I kept the room locked at all times. Yet the harsh scent of sulfur dominated the basement. How could that be?

I stepped farther into the room, thinking I must have been so tired I couldn't smell straight. This wasn't sulfur. It was the pungent scent of cloves. No, that couldn't be right either. It must have been mold from an old book. Figuring out which one wasn't important right now. I had enough mysteries to deal with without worrying about the natural decomposition of an antique book. Besides, I couldn't be sure what I smelled. The only thing I felt sure of that night was that the perplexing odor came from a bookshelf in the far corner. I paused before turning off the light, with one last thought flitting through my mind: how strange it was that the scent seemed to be getting sweeter, rather than more foul, with age.

Five

When I walked into
my kitchen sanctuary shortly after sunrise, Dorian was already there, wearing an apron and standing tall on his stepping stool as he fixed himself an espresso. I took a deep breath and savored the energizing scents surrounding me. A bowl of freshly made wild blackberry compote mingled with the fragrances of yeast from a loaf of sourdough bread in the oven and freshly ground French roast coffee beans. Next to the espresso machine sat two grinders, one for coffee beans and one for aromatic spices.

I tugged at the sleeve of my blouse, which was poking out from an ill-fitted sweater. I hated nearly all of the new clothing that I'd picked up at a local secondhand shop after my clothes were ruined. I supposed it was better the splintered wood had fallen into my closet rather than my bed, but I was unhappy nonetheless. I've never gotten used to wearing off-the-rack clothes. Even when ready-to-wear clothing supposedly fits properly, no two bodies are alike; it's impossible to get a perfect fit without tailoring.

I hitched up my high-waisted, oversize jeans to avoid tripping, but my superficial concerns were forgotten as soon as my gaze fell to Dorian's left foot. Not only was it fully stone, but another claw had broken off. Would it grow back after I healed him?

“Morning, Dorian,” I said, hesitating to mention his foot. I also thought better of mentioning the fact that there was a chance there might be another alchemist in town. It was much more likely that Peter Silverman was a criminal hiding from his past; that would explain why he hated photographs and shunned social media. Dorian had a habit of overreacting.

“If you visit Blue Sky Teas today,” he said, tamping down the coffee grounds, “you will see a new cake named after Brixton. I found a large patch of ‘wild treasure' blackberries, which the boy loves. Brixton's Blackberry Bread will be on the menu.” He turned from the espresso machine and his black eyes grew wide. “
Mon dieu.
I thought you were a morning person.”

“That bad, huh?” I hadn't lived with another person in nearly a century. I wasn't used to making myself presentable before breakfast. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair. I gave a start as a clump of hair pulled out into my hand.
It was happening again.
I quickly tossed the hair ball into the trash. Thankfully, Dorian didn't appear to have noticed.

“I would be happy to make you an espresso. Perhaps one that is
très petite
?”

Dorian had ordered the espresso maker on my credit card—without asking me. Since I don't drink coffee, the existence of the contraption caused people to think I had a “friend” who stayed overnight. Brixton's efforts had cemented the gossip that I had a secret French boyfriend. Before he realized he needed to protect Dorian from the world, he'd tried to expose the gargoyle. Though I'd foiled Brixton's attempts to share a video of Dorian, he'd gotten a voice recording of Dorian's deep French-accented voice that he shared with his friends. I couldn't completely deny the existence of a Frenchman, so I made up a story about a platonic friend who was disfigured and therefore shy of meeting anyone new. It was a messy lie, and one I hadn't wanted to tell, but I'd had to act on the spur of the moment to protect Dorian. I especially hated that Max thought I was keeping a male friend from him, though technically that was the case.

“Thanks, but I'll stick with tea.” Since the plants and drugs I put into my body affect me so strongly, I've never been able to drink coffee. Decaf would work, but then what's the point? The amount of caffeine in black tea, green tea, or chocolate gives me a boost without turning me into a Berserker. I got myself a glass of water and turned back to the sickly gargoyle. Even though the transformation was hurting me in ways that scared me, I knew what I had to do. “I'll do another plant transformation today, to make your Tea of Ashes.”

“
Non
.”

“What do you mean,
no
? Your foot—”

“It is killing you, Zoe.” He stepped, rather than hopped, down from the stepping stool. “You think I cannot see what is happening to you? I can no longer ask you to do this for me.”

“You're not asking. I'm offering.”

The gargoyle's gray lips quivered. “I do not wish us both to die.”

“
Neither
of us is going to die,” I said firmly. I didn't think it would help anything to mention the fact that if I died it would be a natural death—nothing compared to Dorian's tragic fate of being alive yet trapped in unmoving stone.

“You are a good woman, Zoe. I thank you for trying.”

“Dorian—”

“
Un moment
.” He opened the oven door and placed the loaf of bread onto a wooden cutting board. “Do you not wish to tend to your
potager
?”

Though he suggested it to avoid a painful subject, he was right that I wanted to check on my backyard vegetable garden.

“I will be in the dining room with breakfast and the newspaper,” Dorian said. “If you wish to join me and speak of other things, I would be happy to save some bread for you.”

Denial wasn't healthy, but who was I to judge? I'd done it myself for decades. I desperately wanted to be able to heal Dorian, but after I'd run from alchemy for so long, I didn't know if I alone was capable of that. Was it worth it to speak with the stage magician, just in case Brixton was right?

I left Dorian to his espresso and zucchini bread and went to check on my two gardens: the indoor window-box herb garden and the edible plants in the backyard. Though I'd started my new garden in the midst of a cold and rainy Portland winter, I knew how to coax the best out of plants. Because I wanted to get a good volume in a short amount of time to create Dorian's Tea of Ashes, I'd planted several quick-growing herbs and vegetables, including lemon balm, parsley, leaf lettuces, spinach, sorrel, nettles, and fennel. Most of them could easily take over the garden if not harvested, but that wasn't a problem. The thriving plants gave me a few minutes of peace, but they didn't tell me what I should do about approaching Peter Silverman.

After making sure the plants were tended, I made myself a green smoothie in my vintage Vitamix with greens from the garden plus a green apple for sweetness and a knob of ginger for kick. I whole-heartedly believe that both cars and blenders were perfected in the 1940s. In the modern world of disposable everything, I missed the time when things were built to last.

I found Dorian sitting at the dining table, an empty espresso mug at his side and flaky crumbs from the freshly baked bread scattered across the entire table. Ever the gentleman, he'd saved a quarter of the small loaf on a plate for me.

Directly in front of him were
Le Monde
and two local newspapers. He'd been obsessively reading every word of
Le Monde
for months, ever since the French paper reported gold thefts from European museums. It was an important story to follow because Dorian and I believed the “thefts” not to be thefts at all, but rather the handiwork of unscrupulous alchemists who'd died centuries ago but left false gold behind. Unlike real gold that could be created by true alchemists, the shortcuts of backward alchemy could be used to create false gold. Because intent is important in alchemical transformations, and the intentions of these backward alchemists weren't pure, their false gold was now turning to dust. There hadn't been any recent developments, but after so many years living itinerantly, I enjoyed having newspapers delivered to my doorstep.

“Good riddance!” Dorian declared.

“Did I miss something?”

“This local newspaper reports the last of the treasure hunters have left. My woods can now go back to normal.”

The woods near River View Cemetery were one of Dorian's favorite places for nocturnal exploration, and it caused him grief that so many interlopers were sneaking around “his” domain.

“Did someone find the hoard?” I asked.

“That does not appear to be the case.” He chortled.

“What's so funny?” I looked over his shoulder. “
THREE INJURED IN FALL NEAR RIVER VIEW CEMETERY.
That headline doesn't sound very amusing to me.”

“Not that dreary article.” Dorian pointed a claw at another column. “The gossip columnist is much more dramatic, writing of monsoons and masterminds.
Écoute
.”

LAKE LOOT TREASURE HUNTERS GIVE UP HOPE. Amateur treasure hunters from throughout the Pacific Northwest flooded to Portland in February, after monsoon-like rains led to the discovery of jewels from a 1969 train robbery. Two months later, those treasure hunters have abandoned their quest. Graphic images of injuries sustained by three men caught in a second landslide were leaked to the press. Since then, no treasure hunters have been seen on the hillside.

A source close to the police department told this reporter that the photographs were purposefully released to scare other amateur treasure hunters away from exploring the cordoned-off area still considered a high risk for landslides.

“What else does the columnist say of interest? Mmm …
Oui … Bon
.
”

I took the newspaper from his hands.

“I was reading!” he protested.

“You stopped reading aloud. Let me do it.
”

In 1969, mastermind Franklin Thorne robbed the wealthy Lake family's private train car and killed guard Arnold Burke. Thorne was subsequently killed in a shoot-out with the police. Since the brazen train heist, the stolen jewels, dubbed the Lake Loot, remained elusive … until February of this year, when torrential rains caused a landslide in the hills near River View Cemetery. Days later, a sapphire necklace from the robbery was discovered near the Willamette River by two boys playing at the river's edge. Since the boys found this small portion of the Lake Loot, treasure hunters flocked to the area.

“Zoe,” Dorian cut in.

I looked up.

He held out a clawed hand. “May I?”

“What's the matter with how I'm reading it?”

“Your voice lacks a certain
je ne sais quoi
.”

“I'm not reading melodramatically enough for you?”

Dorian blinked at me. “It is a dramatic story. It calls for a dramatic reading.”

“Here.” I handed over the newspaper.

Worried about another landslide, authorities blocked off the area and declared they would arrest anyone caught trespassing. But the lure of missing train-heist loot was too great. This announcement was clearly a misstep, one that simply caused the treasure hunters to return under cover of darkness, under more dangerous conditions that led to three men sustaining critical injuries. Was it the thrill of the chase that lured Oregonians to danger? If found, the distinctive jewels must be returned to their rightful owners, the Lake family, who have offered a small reward. Julian Lake, the 80-year-old survivor of the 1969 robbery, had no comment on recent developments …

“That's not the end. Why did you stop reading?”

“Forty-six years,” Dorian murmured. “People speak of this as if it is a long time!” He tossed aside the newspaper and cleared the table.

It was time for me to descend the stairs to my basement alchemy lab. Dorian may object to my continued production of his tea, but I wasn't about to let him simply return to stone. Instead of turning on the overhead light, I lit an oil lamp. It put me in a better frame of mind to practice alchemy.

But instead of peace, I felt confusion. The scent from the night before had vanished. It must have been my overly active imagination. Since I'm not a night person, I must have been too tired to think straight. I wished that my own body's reaction to creating Dorian's Tea of Ashes was nothing but my imagination. I was much sicker than I wanted to admit to either Dorian or to myself. If I didn't find a true solution, soon I would waste away as completely as the plants I was about to turn to ash.