But his story had stuck with me. And now I was staring at evidence of its accuracy. What else could this plaque be, sculpted into such a specific shape, beyond what was possible with molten metal poured into a mold?
Wonderful. I’d ruined another priceless and irreplaceable architectural element, this one formed from the final, corporeal donation of an alchemist so dedicated to his craft that he’d wanted to live on forever as a literal part of the Alchemary.
At least this time no one would know I was responsible. And considering how disinterested most of the staff alchemists seemed to be in anything that happened outside of their laboratories, it could be weeks before any of them even noticed.
I ran one finger over the top right edge of the plaque, above the nameplates, frowning at the strange shape my bloody handprint had left. Nearly a quarter of my palm had landed on the plaque, smearing most of the corner with my blood, but it hadn’t soaked in evenly. In fact, the stain seemed to have…
I sucked in a breath and backed away from the plaque. Then I stepped forward again, squinting. My blood had not simply been absorbed everywhere it had been smeared. Rather, it seemed to have reacted with the plaque in specific places. In faint but distinct shapes.
An upward pointing triangle mounted on a balanced cross: the alchemical symbol for sulfur.
My blood had revealedwritinghidden in the bone.
Idreamed of never-ending strands of alchemical scribbles—about bone and blood—and I woke before the sun came up on Sunday, desperate to know why the plaque in the Conservatory had been secretly marked with the symbol for sulfur, and why my blood had revealed it.
Could there be other, similar symbols concealed elsewhere on campus?
Unable to sleep further, my thoughts racing like a horse with its tail ablaze, I rose and went about my morning ablutions, eagerness buzzing in my fingertips and aching in my legs like cramped muscles impatient tomove. I felt driven.
No, I feltpulled. As if someone were tugging at a cord fastened around some memory, taunting me from the impenetrable recesses of my own brain.
Had I seen that symbol before? Or another like it? Why had it set my sleeping mind and my waking impulses afire? Because I’d already trodden this path, though I could no longer remember? Because it was related to the loss of my memory?
Or simply because my brain was fatigued from trying to relearn two years of concepts and skills? Of dissolution, purification, calcination, coagulation, and distillation. Of alembics, retorts, vials, flasks, crucibles, and athanors. Was it any wonder I felt pulled toward something entertaining?
According to Wilder, I’d always been more entertained by my own exploits than by any ordinary bacchanalia.…
I pulled my hair into an efficient but somewhat unkempt bun, slung my satchel over my shoulder, and proceeded straight to the Seminary, where I spent the last half hour before dawn exploring the building in search of any more plaques made of bone.
My probe uncovered several interesting alcoves I could not recall having seen before, as well as sundry supply closets, faculty- only spaces—both offices and a rather posh-looking lounge—and more portraits of Emperor Eldon and Queen Avalona than I could even count. The Alchemary was nothing if not grateful to its original benefactor.
But to my disappointment, I didn’t find a single plaque made from the ground bones of dead alchemists. Even the large, ornate decorative plaque in the Seminary’s rear courtyard, commemorating the planting of the massive Avalona Oak in memory of the dead queen, was made out of cast iron, with gilded lettering.
I already knew, by virtue of living there, that there were no bone plaques in the Dormitory, and there were no signs of any kind at the Refectory. Which meant the remainder of my search could safely be limited to the Conservatory.
The sun peeked over the lush forest behind the Refectory as I crossed the quadrangle. The island sloped gently toward the coast on the west and south sides, so gradually that the ocean was not visible in those directions.
Candlelight gleamed from the windows of the Refectory—the kitchen staff began their work quite early—but I had yet to see a single student, researcher, or faculty member out and about, which was both advantageous to my mission and unsurprising on a weekend.
Beneath the Conservatory portico, I peered at a plaque bolted to the marble front wall. It was identical to the one in the atrium: powdered bone, compressed with other binding ingredients into a malleable shape. The commemorative statement—the year the building had been completed, along with brief verbiage about what that completion meant for the Alchemary—had been hand-etched into the surface, each line filled with delicate yet sturdy gold filigree, which stood out sharply against the soft white of the plaque itself.
Before I could think better of what could only be described as a terrible and impulsive plan, I pulled a pair of shears from my satchel and opened them. For a moment, still largely shielded from the rising sun by the massive building, I held the blade over my open palm. But I used my hands every minute of the day, and a large cut down the center of my palm would invite questions. Especially if anyone noticed a bloody smear across the front of the plaque on the Conservatory’s portico.
I pushed up my left sleeve, then carefully—and somewhat hesitantly—I pressed the tip of one blade into the crook of my elbow. But I found it unaccountably difficult to actually break the skin. Cutting myself open felt counter to all instincts of self- preservation. And yet…I wanted answers. So I pressed harder, clenching my jaw, holding my breath until I felt the dull slice of pain and an eerie popping sensation as my skin split.
The shears were not particularly sharp.
Blood welled around the metal tip, and I made myself press harder, despite the unease squirming in my gut like a snake through a marsh puddle.
Heart thumping, terrified that someone would round the corner of a building and see me, I dipped the fingers of my right hand into the palette of my left elbow as if they were the bristles of a gruesome paintbrush.
I took a deep breath, mentally girding myself against the bevy of bizarre questions and accusations that would surely assail me if I were caught—if unaccountably losing years of my own memory weren’t enough to get me committed to the closest asylum, I was fairly certain that desecrating the Conservatory with my own blood would do just that. Then I swiped my messy fingers across the top right corner of the plaque in as orderly a manner as I could devise.
While I waited for a symbol to appear, I swiftly cut a strip of material from my underdress and used it to wipe excess blood from the plaque, cleaning up my mess as best I could. I folded the cloth and pressed it into my wound, pinning it in place with my arm bent to stop the sluggish flow of blood while I stared out into the quadrangle to make sure it was still empty.
On the weekend, the morning meal wasn’t served until nine, and while researchers seemed a devout and dedicated bunch who often worked weekends, I’d never seen the Conservatory windows lit up at dawn.
When I turned back to the plaque, I was elated yet somewhat surprised to see that a symbol had appeared in precisely the same position as on the one in the atrium. It was dim—a pale shadow of an image—and at a glance, since I’d wiped off the excess blood, all anyone would likely notice was a smudge on the corner of the plaque.
