“But you saw me later. After the lab setup. Clearly,” I added, gesturing a bit awkwardly toward the freshly made bed.
“Yes. The rest of us crossed the bridge into Saltstrand for a drink afterward. One last hurrah to the end of break and the beginning of Mastery year.”
“And did I show up for that?”
Of course not. I could see the answer on his face.
“Hours later, I saw you as I was making my way to my room,” he said. “I was…a bit unsteady. You were kind enough to help me upstairs.”
“Tomyroom?”
He only lifted one brow, which seemed connected to the matching corner of his mouth.
We would certainly be talking aboutthatin more detail later. But in less than two hours, I was meant to help a professor I couldn’t remember meeting with a class I couldn’t remember anything about, and despite my apprehension and need to understand as much as possible, as soon as possible, the rumbling of my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t yet eaten.
There didn’t appear to be so much as an apple core or crust of bread in my room.
“What was I researching?” I sank into the chair in front of the simple wooden plank forming my desk. There were so many stacks of parchment that I hardly knew where to begin. What to read first. Which was why it took me at least a minute to realize he hadn’t answered.
I twisted in my chair to find Wilder watching me with an oddly pensive look, and for a second, I was surprised by the strong resemblance to his brother. Part of that was the silence. Even when we were children, Desmond had been much more likely to make me wait for his reply. To give me a chance to think of an answer myself. To almostdemandthat of me, without a word.
Wilder, though…He’d hardly had a thought that hadn’t spewed forth unbidden, whether or not it was suitable for whatever company we were in.
“What is it?” I finally asked, unnerved by his silence.
“I…” He exhaled. “I suppose I thought that if anything were likely to jog your memory, it would be your research. You were…ambitious.”
That felt true, and yet also a bit insulting. He saidambitiousas if I’d been reaching for stars forever out of my grasp.
I wasdriven.
Yet I could not recall what I’d been working on. In fact, the harder I tried to remember, the further the information seemed to recede into the dark vacuum of my memory. But I knew that I’d beendrivento get there. Wherever I’d been going.
Wilder sat forward in the chair. “So…you don’t remember?”
My huff sounded exasperated. “I suspect we’re both going to get very weary of you asking me that.No,” I confirmed, looking up from the thin sheets of parchment in my hands—a fortune in paper, such as could likely only be afforded by an institute like the Alchemary. “I do not remember, and the truth is that I can make neither heads nor tails out of anything written here.”
The individual words I understood. But the sum of them?
My complete incomprehension of what had clearly been my passion sent a cold shiver up my spine.
“Amber.” Wilder’s voice was oddly even, as if he were trying to imply neither approval nor judgment in whatever he was about to say. “You chose Transmutation as your discipline before we even started our Proficiency year. But…you…you were trying to create the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“I…” I blinked at him. Then I gave my head a firm shake. “No. Ridiculous.” I spun away from him and began sorting the sheets of parchment on my desk into stacks that felt little more than random. “The Philosopher’s Stone is amyth. An alchemist’s fairy tale.”
Wilder shrugged. “You always did like a good story.”
“I like goodscience. And…” I frowned at him. “That doesn’t even make any sense. The Philosopher’s Stone doesn’t fall under the field of Transmutation. If itwerepossible to create the stone, it would require principles from all three disciplines.”
Transmutation, Apotheosis, and Panacea.
“But itisn’tpossible,” I continued. “So, I was…what? Trying to bring a fable to life?”
“Maybe.” Wilder finally stood and snatched a stack of parchment out of my hands before I could crumple it in frustration. He grinned down at me, and though his back was to the light from the window, his eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement. “Maybe itisimpossible. And yet, it certainly isn’t boring.”
“Unlike Apotheosis,” I muttered, thinking of stern-looking Desmond and his devastatingly uninteresting academic pursuits.
Wilder laughed. “You said that to his face, when he told us what discipline he’d chosen.”
