“Inpart?”
“—given that goal, it would be hypocritical of me to abandon you to an unsafe work environment when I could offer you a secure space instead. Especially considering that I’ve made no headway with the Bluehelm. She’s decided you’re in no danger until the Black Trial, and she will reassess your progress at that time, assuming you continue to pass your classes.” He set the bloodstained cloth on his desk, then gently lowered my hand onto my own thigh. “Of course, this incident might change her mind.”
“And if it doesn’t? You clearly don’t enjoy my company,” I said, and Desmond huffed again, but he did not argue. “Is that because we did not get along, as lab partners? Would that be an issue this time?”
“That was never our issue, Amber. We’ve always been able to respect each other—”
“As ‘rational individuals.’ So you said. What was it, then? Why don’t I deserve to be here? You disapprove of my field of study? Of my work on the Philosopher’s Stone?”
Desmond’s gaze held mine with a weight I could not measure. With some internal conflict I could not understand, as if two discrete halves of him were at war. “I have no problem with your field of study. But I could not always condone your…methods.”
A strange tightness spread throughout my chest. Desmond’s disapproval felt bitter and humiliating, as if I’d disappointed a mentor or a favorite instructor.
Hadhe been my mentor?
How thoroughly must I have let him down, if he wanted me removed from the entire island even though I couldn’t remember my missteps?
“I don’t want to crowd you,” I finally whispered.
He gave me another look I could not interpret. “There’s plenty of space. You’ll have your own section of the lab, and your own supplies. I’ll have your proportion of the student allotment transferred here, and you’re welcome to anything of mine that you need.”
“Why?” I asked, before I could even fully work out what I meant. “Why would you do that for me, if you don’t believe I deserve to be here?”
Desmond’s focus seemed to narrow on me. To sharpen. “Because removing you from the student lab will keep you safe from Pryce Wishart.” His words, too, took on a honed edge. “And it will keep the rest of your cohort safe fromyou. Even if that means I’m forced to…supervise.”
Indignation blazed beneath my skin, but I swallowed it, denying him a glimpse of how deeply his words stung. “Why would they need to be protected fromme?”
“Because the fact that the Alchemary is a danger to you is only one half of the equation. The other half—equally relevant to my efforts to have you removed—is thatyouare a danger tothe Alchemary.”
I could not fathom how I could be a danger to the entire institution, but the fact that he clearly believed what he was saying left me too hurt and exhausted to argue further.
“Very well,” I said. “I will move in tomorrow. But consider yourself warned: You may be getting more than you bargained for.”
His narrow-eyed censure faded into a sad look that deepened the ache in my chest. “Alas, Amber, I knowexactlywhat I’m getting into.”
As I stepped down from the bottom stair tread into the Conservatory atrium, my gaze caught on the scroll-shaped plaque on the wall. Not on Desmond’s name and office number this time, but on an odd smear on the top right corner, just beneath the top roll of sculpted parchment. With a sinking feeling, I realized that the blood I’d accidentally smeared there had stained the plaque itself, to which the metal nameplates were attached.
How was that possible?
I moved closer to examine the plaque, wondering if it were made of some kind of porous stone, but it was smooth, both to the eye and to the touch. This one was about the height of my forearm and the width of three of them laid side by side.
Bone.
The answer came to me with a start.
Staff alchemists were permanently appointed to the Alchemary, and not just for life. When one died, hopefully after a long tenure spent serving the institution itself as well as the field of alchemy, that alchemist’s body went on to serve the cause in every way possible. That last sacrifice was considered a true honor and the sign of a scientist thoroughly dedicated to the craft.
Bones, I knew, had many uses, most of which required them to be purified, then dried and ground into a fine powder. Which could then be distilled, mixed into various solutions, or…used as the primary ingredient in a compound that could be baked into any shape, both functional and decorative.
Alchemists, I’d learned, could become forever a part of the Alchemary they’d served.
Buthowhad I learned that?
My father.
The memory came all at once. My mother had been regaling me with tales of the wondrous academy, of colorful elixirs and suspensions with miraculous properties, and my father had interrupted to accuse the founders of “ghoulish proclivities.” Of testing their arcane products on the bodies of deceased colleagues, distilling fluids from corpses donated to the institution, and sometimes using those same bodies to fertilize the soil. When my mother dismissed that as utter nonsense, he’d told us both about the bone plaques, and that he’d once seen the recipe for how they were created, in a tome of Toolkeeper secrets, which he should—admittedly—not have been revealing, even to his beloved family.
My mother had shrugged off his story as just that—legend with little basis in truth—and scolded him for telling such a gruesome tale to a child.
