The spiral-shaped series of images was a timeline of the legendary royal romance, brief though it had been. The choice, like that of the central statue in the quadrangle, might have seemed odd, if not for the fact that it was Emperor Eldon who had commissioned the construction of the Alchemary.
Why not dedicate such a beautiful work of art to his first marriage and fabled love?
“One of the less utilitarian uses of alchemy, to be sure,” a voice said from behind me, and I whirled to find Dr. Winhoof standing in front of the wooden doors, having just emerged from the Panacea wing.
I’d been so caught up in the beauty overhead that I’d heard neither footsteps nor the squeal of hinges.
“But visitors seem to appreciate it,” he continued, casting a fleeting glance upward before his gaze settled on me again.
“Uses of alchemy…?” I pondered softly. But then I understood. “The colors.”
He nodded. “Leaded glass. Though that’s a misnomer, at best. It took more than one hundred different alchemical compounds to create those colors, most either refined or harvested right here on the island, from the forest, from the menagerie, or in a laboratory.” He made a sad littletsksound. “It’s beyond me that the project ever found funding, considering that it performs no function. And yet…people still stare.”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, my gaze straying to the glass again. But then I dragged my attention back to him.
Dr. Winhoof studied me. “How are you feeling? Have you come for a checkup? You aren’t scheduled, but I could probably—”
“Oh, no, thank you, I’m—”
A familiar name caught my eye as I scanned the plaque set into the wall beside the base of the staircase, grasping desperately for an excuse to avoid another examination.
Desmond Gregory, Tier 1 Staff Researcher Apotheosis Division, room 208
“I’m here to see Desmond. Gregory. The researcher,” I added, gesturing aimlessly at the plaque, which was in the shape of a scroll, half rolled on top and bottom. “We’re old friends.”
“Indeed.” Something flickered behind Dr. Winhoof’s professional smile, but it was gone before I could interpret it. “I believe he’s on the second floor.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I said, though amnesia had rendered me forgetful, not illiterate.
I started up the stairs, one hand trailing the stone banister, and I didn’t exhale until I heard the wooden door close again one floor below. Would Dr. Winhoof hear my steps if I went back downstairs and out the front door?
I had dozens of questions about classwork and my research, and Desmond was the person most likely to be able to help me. But he was also the least likely to be willing. And the last thing I wanted was to give him another chance to tell me I didn’t belong at the Alchemary.
Still…maybe I could prey upon his sympathies.
No.
I needed his help, not his sympathy, and the Desmond Gregory I knew—at least the young man he’d once been—could be reasoned with. After all, we respected each other as rational individuals. Or so I’d heard.
Determined, now that I was just steps from his office, I marched down the hall, my heels echoing on yet more marble, my satchel thumping against my hip.
The entire second floor, it turned out, was the Apotheosis division. I wandered quietly past door after door, reading the names written on slates mounted to the right of each one, but Desmond’s was not on any of them. Of course, the titles indicated that these lab spaces belonged to senior researchers.
Desmond was a junior researcher, just beginning his second year.
I found his name around a corner at the back of the building. It was the only one written on its framed slate, though there was space for several more. I pushed open the heavy wooden door without knocking, bracing myself to see him…maybe standing at a lab table, wearing goggles and a lab coat. Maybe seated behind a desk, scribbling notes in a journal.
Instead, I found only an empty outer office, connecting a small suite of workspaces. On one end, the door to a private lab stood open. It appeared, at a glance, to be fully furnished and rather spacious, but empty.
Two other doors also stood open, but those rooms were both empty and sparsely furnished, as if they were not just unoccupied for the moment but entirely vacant. Unassigned.
The last door was closed, and from beyond it, two voices rose in heated conversation. I tiptoed toward the door, drawn, somewhat shamelessly, by the intensity of the discussion.
Desmond was angry with someone.
Shocking.
“—but she wouldn’t listen. She’s insisted on staying. On trying either to ‘jog loose’ her memories, as she calls it, or to relearn alchemy entirely. And the truth is that I wouldn’t put either of them past her. But it isn’t safe for her here.”
