Past Amber must have had a reason to hide things from them, and without understanding that reason, I couldn’t be sure I should share the hidden symbols and the ouroboros bracelet with them either. Though I had no real understanding of my motivation, either before the amnesia or now.
All I had was a gut feeling, and the hunch that following it might be the thing that wound up unlocking my memories.
The Conservatory’s first floor was mostly taken up by the Panacea wing, behind its double doors. The second floor held suites of private labs: a semicircle of outward-facing spaces with exterior windows, as well as a cluster of oddly shaped spaces—including Desmond’s—in the center of the building, all accessible from a single corridor that arced around the floor.
The third floor boasted an identical semicircle of outward- facing laboratory spaces, but instead of the central windowless cluster of labs, the interior of the top floor was entirely taken up by the research library, a perfectly round room lined by shelves that curved with the shape of the walls.
The room could be accessed by a single door at the rear of the building, opposite the three-story atrium. Like the spiraling stained glass windows of the atrium, the library felt distinct from the Conservatory’s cold, straight white marble lines. It was a visually warm space full of endless arcs and curves, accented with dark, scrolling woodwork.
Above the bookshelves, the walls arched in a dome toward the ceiling, where a circle of clear glass—a window set into the roof—revealed a broad expanse of blue sky, clouds, and the sun, which was nearing the end of its morning arc.
Beneath the overhead window, a single large, round wooden table stood at the center of the room, surrounded by ornate and heavy-looking chairs, thickly padded with leather cushions.
Two researchers sat directly across from each other at the table, each half hidden by piles of books, scribbling swiftly on parchment with their quills. They ignored me just as pointedly as they ignored each other.
I walked past the librarian guarding the secure collection behind her desk, then past stacks of alchemical theory, history, and tome after tome containing records of practical application. Entire shelves were dedicated to the best practices in the procurement, processing, and preserving of every alchemical component known to mankind, and to the various general techniques for distilling beyn. Finally, I stood before a single shelf devoted to the history of the Alchemary itself.
The wordToolkeeperdid not appear in any of the titles.
I pulled several successive volumes from the shelf, carefully turning the old parchment pages, breathing in the distinctive scent of the preserved paper. But none of them were…
There, on the third shelf from the top, far above my head.The Historic Architecture of Alchemary Island.
Standing on my toes, I snatched the book, then I settled into an armchair near the door to read, well back from the table and its occupants.
I already knew a bit about the history of the Alchemary, from the stories my mother had told me of her time on the island. But seeing the words written was a bit of a shock.
She’d quoted entire passages to me verbatim, evidently, and I found myself wondering how many times she’d read this very book.
Many, it would seem. Or once, perhaps, if she was the source of my own stalwart memory.
Then I found myself wondering how she’d read this book at all. She would not have had access to the research library while she was here. Sheshouldnot have, at least.
And yet…I knew many of the words I was reading by heart, before my eyes even skimmed the page, because she’d spoken them to me, over and over.
I heard my mother’s voice, echoing from the nostalgic haven of my childhood, as I read about the history of my current residence.
More than one hundred fifty years ago, the infamous Emperor Eldon had married a young woman named Avalona, a commoner he’d met during a tour of the empire. He’d fallen for her swiftly and unreservedly. So entirely that their love was still an oft-told legend across the empire, entirely aside from the history of the Alchemary.
According to that legend, Emperor Eldon was so besotted by his beautiful new bride that he’d endeavored to give her everything a woman could possibly want. Jewel-encrusted gowns and tiaras. Sculptures and paintings commissioned to immortalize her beauty. Fine furnishings and lavish balls. Exotic pets imported from kingdoms afar. Opulent castles built all across Aethermere, so that she could travel as she pleased, yet never be far from home.
Within a few years of the royal wedding, the nursery remained distressingly empty, and the treasury was headed swiftly in that direction. The royal accountant warned the emperor that his spending habits must change, but Eldon was a jealous and insecure man, loathe to disappoint his bride for fear of losing her. Whether that potential loss involved another man or the heartbreak of an empty cradle, the legend did not specify.
Eldon understood the problem, and he undertook an unexpected solution.
He commissioned a grand academy, initially funded by the Crown, and he tasked his confidant, Lord Calyx, the royal alchemist, to head the institution. Lord Calyx was charged with hiring a staff of accomplished alchemists and enrolling a class of promising young students, all with the goal of furthering the practice of alchemy in order to develop the Philosopher’s Stone.
The Stone would allow the transmutation of base metals into silver and gold, which would fund both the Alchemary and the Crown, allowing the emperor to build limitless glorious tributes to his wife across the land.
“Greed,” my father had declared, upon listening to my mother tell the story.
She had only smiled at him, her gaze soft and half amused.
“Love,” she had insisted.
The emperor had risked it all—every coin he’d had, as well as the ire of his people—for a love that could be neither contained, nor defined, nor denied.
There was no record in any story I’d heard or text I could remember reading of whether the Queen Avalona had ever asked for such riches. Her desire, evidently, was far less important than the lengths to which her husband had been willing to go.
