I had yet to remaster my own beyn formula—my notes on the matter were distressingly vague—so I had no choice but to borrow a dropperful of Desmond’s.
The stronger the beyn used, the more powerful the elixir would be, but I had no idea how strong his was. Or what source materials he’d used. Or how they could affect the potion. Under normal circumstances I would never use an ingredient without any understanding of what it would do to my formula. But I could practically feel the clock winding down toward Desmond’s return, and I couldn’t be sure I’d ever be allowed in an Alchemary lab again. Or that I would even still be a student by the end of the day. So there was no time to debate my options.
Excitement bubbled just beneath my skin as I lit burners and measured ingredients. As I checked and double-checked instructions, then squinted at the simmering fluids to assess the colors as they gradually changed from one bright hue to the next.
Finally, to my relief and unending excitement, I bent to peer into the bulbed beaker as my mystery concoction cooled within it. The color was compelling—a pale but almost fluorescent blue that seemed to virtually glow within the vial. Though surely that was the light from the candles I’d lit.
While it cooled, I cleaned everything I’d used, careful to position the equipment exactly as I’d found it.
Then, nearly two hours after I’d begun, as late-afternoon sun shifted slowly across the floor from the laboratory window, I realized I had no idea what to do with…whatever I’d just made.
Was it invisible ink? To test the theory, I dipped an edge of parchment into the vial.
The color stained it but failed to fade.
Maybe it only works on bone.…It was not beyond the realm of possibility that this formula was specifically designed to react with the material composition of the bone plaques. Maybe that was why the formula had felt so odd, despite my lack of remembered experience.
Excited by that thought. I gathered my satchel and took the warm beaker and a small horsehair brush into the hall, where I had to remind myself to be quiet, despite the rush of blood through my veins.
Any plaque would probably do, but the one least likely to be seen by any researcher that stepped into the hall was at the back of the building, outside an unoccupied office suite. That plaque was the only one that had revealed no hidden symbol, so it seemed like the perfect place to leave one myself.
What would I want to write for some intrepid future student to find? Or future researcher, more likely, considering that few students had access to the Conservatory.
While I considered the question, I dipped a scrap of cloth into the beaker and used it to dab a bit of the warm solution on the lower left corner of the scroll-shaped plaque, to test it. To my surprise, the ink disappeared almost immediately.
I frowned at the plaque. The invisible ink Wilder and I had made as kids had taken several minutes to fade from visibility. Clearly this was a different and much more complicated formula, assuming that was what I’d actually made, but…
What if it wasn’t? We’d made invisible ink aschildren, with far fewer and simpler ingredients, and no flame required. So why…?
An odd, anxious anticipation seized me as I carefully set the beaker on the floor and scratched open the scab from the cut I’d made inside my elbow. A drop of fresh blood welled up, and I smeared it on the plaque, directly over where I’d painted the formula, using my right index finger.
But the “invisible ink” did not reappear. Nor did my blood stain the plaque. Instead, it beaded up like sweat where it had been smeared over the substance, though there was no color change on the plaque itself.
Maybe this plaque was different somehow. Maybe that was why it was the only one with no symbol. Or maybe the original had been replaced at some point.
If that was the case, had I missed whatever symbol had been painted on the original plaque? Was my concoction missing an ingredient?
No. Past Amber’s weird formula was the only one I’d found that used all of the other symbols. The formula felt complete. And if that were true…there had to be some other reason this plaque had revealed no symbol. Some other reason the formula disappeared instantly and didn’t function like invisible ink.
Curious, I dipped the rag into the beaker again and smeared another streak boldly across the center of the plaque.
It immediately disappeared, to no effect.
Hmmm…Still holding the beaker, I pressed my right cheek against the wall next to the plaque, peering into the narrow, dark gap between the plaque and the marble wall. But I could see nothing.
An idea sparked, and I spun to grab the nearest torch from its wall mount. Carefully, I held the torch up so that it cast light into the gap, and this time, with my face pressed against the marble, I could see that the hardware that held the plaque to the wall shone oddly in the firelight, with a bluish metallic glint.
Acting purely on instinct, and the knowledge that base metals are the primary target of any transfiguration attempts in alchemy, I carefully poured the bright blue concoction behind the plaque, doing my best to hit the glinting bits of metal. Whatever they were.
Despite my care, some of the thick liquid slid down the wall. I returned the torch to its mount, and as I was wiping up the bluish drips, a strange, soft hissing sound echoed from behind the plaque.
Startled, I popped up onto my feet just as the plaque swung away from the wall, opening on concealed hinges to reveal a neat, square compartment cut into the marble behind it.
Excitement spiked my pulse, and I realized two things at once: My pale blue concoction had dissolved the small bits of metal that had held the plaque in place, and there was somethinginthe hidden compartment. Something round, made of a standard metal that glinted softly—normally—in the torchlight.
I reached into the small hole, and my fingers closed around something curved and slightly warm. At first, the object resisted my effort, but then I pulled harder, and it came free with a soft click. From the inner wall of the compartment, a small metal clasp slid forward, protruding a fraction of an inch beyond the hole, and I realized that when the plaque was closed over the compartment again, the clasp would secure it in place.
I turned, careful not to knock over the beaker at my feet, and held my prize up to the light of the torch. Lying on my palm was a metal ring no bigger around than my fist. It took the shape of a snake swallowing its own tail.
