Whether he had acted for greed or for love, the emperor’s story—like my parents’ union—had no happy ending. Despite giving birth to one doomed son, Avalona died young and childless, and though the emperor married again and produced several healthy heirs, history rarely even mentioned his second wife’s name.
Theirs, evidently, was not a legendary love.
The Alchemary had also failed him. Neither Lord Calyx nor his staff and students ever developed the Philosopher’s Stone, and in fact, over the years, the very concept had taken on the overblown tenor of myth, much like the emperor himself.
Which was why I’d laughed when Wilder had told me that my research project had that very aim.
Interestingly, though the Alchemary failed to produce the Philosopher’s Stone, ithadbecome a storied and well-respected academy—the premier institution of higher learning in the kingdom. It had also become largely self-sufficient, financially. Though I’d learned that not from my mother or from any book but from Wilder, who went on at length about the contribution his commercially viable work could make to an institution so focused on profit. On returning to the Crown its initial investment, in order to be free of any royal opinions about the direction of its research.
According toThe Historic Architecture of Alchemary Island, the Conservatory was the last major building erected on campus, and the only one Lord Calyx designed himself.
He gave up instructing entirely, turning the teaching arm of the institution over to his protégé, a woman named Iris, who started as dean of the Seminary but went on, after Lord Calyx’s death, to become the very first Bluehelm, in charge of the entire institution. While she led the Seminary, Calyx dedicated himself to the design and construction of the Conservatory, a space devoted not to teaching alchemy students but to the elite-level study of advanced alchemical theories by a permanently appointed staff of the cleverest, most dedicated alchemists in the world.
Subtext in the official written account hinted at Lord Calyx’s growing obsession and, toward the end, the decline of his lucidity.
I closed the book and stared at it, stunned.
The Toolkeepers’ legend was true: Lord Calyx, the father of alchemy,haddesigned the Conservatory himself. Every window, door, and roof tile of it, according to the text. Every stair, bench, and shelf.
And, presumably, every plaque.
Was it possible that Lord Calyxhimselfhad hidden the ouroboros bracelet and designed the code to its discovery? Could the hidden writing have survived that long?
Heart pounding, I turned to the back of the book and searched the appendix, but there was no mention of decorative or commemorative plaques. So I turned to the section of the book specifically about the construction of the Conservatory, scanning for any mention of the remains of alchemists used as building materials, making a mental note to go back and read more thoroughly.
At a glance, I found not a single mention of the bone plaques in the entire book. And yet…they existed. And they’d held a secret recipe, which had opened a secret compartment.
With a jolt, I noticed the angle of the sunlight shining through the curved pane of glass overhead. I’d been reading for far too long.
I slammed the book closed, ignoring the annoyed look from the scholars at the round table, and rushed across the room to stand on my toes and slide the volume back into place.
From the Conservatory portico, a glance at the Seminary’s clock tower showed exactly what I’d feared: I had less than five minutes until Professor Robards would close the classroom door and begin Intro without me.
To my astonishment, however, a great commotion had taken over the quadrangle—the beating heart of our campus.
Burly workers swarmed all over the lawn in leather aprons and tool belts carrying planks of wood and clanking bags, presumably filled with iron nails. Several carts had been parked on the grass—mules were grazing at Queen Avalona’s marble feet!—and they were full of folded bundles of thick, coarse fabric that could only be suitable for tarps and awnings.
At first, I could not fathom the occupation of our quadrangle. Then I noticed a cluster of staff members in their asymmetrical capes, huddled in front of the Conservatory with a couple of the workers—two men who were far older than the rest, and clearly displeased with the orders they were being issued.
And suddenly I understood: Family Weekend was only three days away. It would be half festival, half bazaar, and as such, it would need booths, stalls, and tables, all sturdy enough to be used, yet simple enough to be disassembled and stored away before the Black Trial, a scant week later.
Desmond was among the staff members evidently charged with imposing order upon chaos, and his gaze found me as I jogged down the Conservatory steps. I gave him a formal nod and was unnerved to realize that two of his colleagues—a balding man with a weak chin and a woman with wide-set eyes and a severe blond bun—were also staring at me.
But I had no time to parse through the interest two unfamiliar staff researchers might have in me.
With a groan, I lifted my satchel over my head and took off across the northwest corner of the quadrangle at a run, darting around animal-shaped shrubs and startled students, to whom I mumbled swift apologies. In the Seminary foyer, I stumbled to a stop to catch my breath, and when I looked to my right, I saw Wilder on a settee, his quill poised over a sheet of parchment on an adjacent tea table.
Yoslyn Savva sat perched on the edge of that table, beaming down at him as she fiddled suggestively with the edge of his quill while they watched the chaos through a window. Wilder looked up and met my gaze.
I frowned. Then the clock tower began to chime, and despite the bolt of irritation burning beneath my skin, I had no choice but to turn left and race down the corridor. Professor Robards raised one brow at me from the threshold of the lecture hall, but he let me slip past before he closed the door and began a lecture about the necessity of balance in any alchemical pursuit.
I hardly heard a word of it.
An hour later, I slid into my seat in Theories just as Professor Edmiston headed down the aisle toward her podium and the framed slate, fluffing her silver curls as she went.
“Where the devil were you?” Wilder demanded in a whisper as I began to unpack my supplies.
“Assisting Professor Robards. As I do three days a week.”
