I found that thought oddly comforting; it seemed to mean that I hadn’t changed, fundamentally. That I was still the same person I’d been the day before, even if I couldn’t remember becoming that person.
And if I were still the same person, there was hope that my memories and skills could be recovered. That I could still accomplish the goal I’d set for myself long before I’d truly understood what life and work at the Alchemary would be like.
That I could succeed where my mother had failed.
Before I could interpret the bitter taste that thought left in my mouth, a melodic tone sounded through the room, echoing from under the door and through the open shutters.
It was the clock tower. Not the big one in the Seminary, though that was no doubt also ringing, across campus. We were hearing the smaller one built into the center of the Dormitory itself, facing the interior courtyard.
It rang again and again, until I’d counted twelve chimes.
Noon. I had one hour until class. One hour to come to as much of an understanding as possible about alchemy in general and my research specifically. The urgent, hollow feeling in my belly made all of that feel impossible.
“Wilder.” I turned away from the window. “I’ve identified the Refectory, but…can I afford to eat?” I hadn’t found any currency among my belongings.
His smile was very kind, and a little sad. “Yes, of course. Admission to the Alchemary includes both room and board, at no upfront cost. Though as alumni we will both be expected to contribute to the institution someday, either as staff researchers, like Desmond, or through donations.”
Those donations, I knew, were not purely tokens of generosity. An Alchemary-accredited alchemist who practiced outside of the institution itself, as my mother had, would only be granted permission to fly the Alchemary’s seal in exchange for those yearly donations. The seal was a great advantage, but it wasn’t cheap.
“And do I just…show up at the Refectory?”
“Of course—you’re starving,” he said, frowning. “I am, too. They’ll be serving the midday meal now, but…” Wilder’s focus settled on me with an assessing weight. “Are you sure you’re up to that? People will ask questions, especially considering that before this morning, you never missed a single class. Have you…” He cleared his throat. “Have you decided what you want to tell people? Howmuchyou want to tell them?”
In fact, I hadn’t even considered the issue. Nor had I considered how I would react when strangers called me by name and expected to be recognized. How terribly rude would I seem, if I couldn’t name a single person standing in front of me?
“Could you possibly go eat, and bring something small back for me? Perhaps…pocket a roll from your plate? Or an apple?”
Wilder snorted. “Those huge gears in your brain will only turn on real food; you’ve told me that more than once.” He stood and leaned down to kiss my forehead, a gesture that reminded me of our adolescence, even if his lips felt warmer than I remembered. Even if they lingered longer.
Even if my hand wanted to reach for his, just to feel its warmth.
“I’ll tell the staff you’re ill and ask them to pack you a proper meal.”
Wilder peered out the window briefly and then turned toward my door. He looked relieved as he headed out on his mission, and truth be told, I envied his quest for food, whereas I could only turn back to the pile of largely incomprehensible notebooks and stacks of parchment. The only thing I truly recognized among them was my own handwriting.
As far as I could tell,Ihad written every single word of this sizable collection of theorems, axioms, theses, charts full of data, and innumerable, indecipherable alchemical formulas and notations.
It wasmonths’worth of research. Maybe years.
Was this standard? Had Wilder accumulated a similar pile of original research over his course of studies? That seemed difficult to believe of the Wilder Gregory I’d grown up with. It also seemed like quite a lot for any student just starting their Mastery year, considering my classmates hadjustmoved into their dedicated lab spaces.
How could I have already amassed such a body of work?
You were…ambitious.Wilder’s worlds floated back to me, a newly created memory, and for a moment, I worried that I’d lose that one as well. That I might lie down for a nap and wake up missing evenmoreof my life.
I shoved that fear aside. It was counterproductive, and I had no time to waste.
The logical conclusion, based on Wilder’s assessment of my ambition and the evidence of it in my own handwriting, was that I’d started my Mastery-year independent research project earlier than most.Veryearly.
The Philosopher’s Stone.
A skeptical huff exploded from deep in my soul. I might as well have been trying to reverse time. Or bring my mother back from the dead. Surely I hadn’t worked to get into the Alchemary—to get to the top of my class—only to waste my time on a mythical object.
But the records—what little I could comprehend of them—seemed very serious. Very organized.
Driven.
I sorted the papers into separate stacks of charts, graphs, and data sets. One of known theorems and principles. One stack of theories and brainstorms, words packed densely onto every page, so that hardly a glimpse of parchment could be seen through scratchy strokes of ink, even in the margins, where my handwriting trailed vertically in addendums as meandering as the print itself.
