“That so?”
“How can it be?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I…” Her voice fades away. She feels dizzy, even though she has witnessed it over and over again. “I’m not sure what to believe.”
“Then leave.” He looks away from her in disinterest and takes another sip.
She shakes her head, still confused, unsure how to reply. “No,” she answers with determination. “No,wait, I want to stay. I just mean… I don’t understand how it’s possible.”
At her blank expression, he smiles. “In theory,” he says, “anyone can become an alchemist, just like anyone can become a nuclear physicist. But some are obviously more suited for it than others. So it goes with alchemy. All you technically need is a soul, but most don’t have one strong enough for it, could attempt a transmutation their whole life and never successfully call upon that soul. Then there are those who have a particular kind of soul, one able to withstand the punishing nature of alchemy.” He points his drink at her. “My mother has a talent for identifying those with a natural gift for alchemy. And you’ve caught her eye.” He sighs. “So, Miss Lang, you’re here because we want to know if you’re worth teaching.”
Worth teaching. Teaching what—alchemy? They want her to learn this impossible thing? A bubble of panicked laughter wants to emerge from her lips. How many alchemists are out there? How many Wills?
Through her fog of thoughts, she realizes that they’ve reached the top of the hill. Will nods around them. “To the public, we are a corporation. In actuality, we are an alchemy syndicate. A secret society, of sorts. You happen to be on one of Grand Central’s properties, the Red City, fifty acres that we call home.”
Sam looks around, struck dumb with amazement. From the top, she can see all the way to downtown, has a perfect view of Diamond Taylor’s iconic Winged Towers dominating the landscape. Along the hill sit several mansions, each draped in roses and ivy.
“Are there others?” she asks.
“Properties?”
She shakes her head. “Alchemy syndicates.”
“Many others.”
Many others.“How long have you—they—been around?”
“Alchemical societies have existed for thousands of years. Alchemy was widely banned centuries ago, by both churches and states. Our science was considered sacrilegious, our scientists heretics, so secret societies were necessary for our survival. Babylonia, symbolized by the basilisk, was founded in Babylon at the height of its power. Belle Epoque, the stallion, was formed during its eponymous era in nineteenth-century France. Lumines, the fox, was born during the Dark Ages and directly influenced the start of the Renaissance.”
Sam suddenly thinks back to the men eating lunch, gold fox pins gleaming, tapping their Oxford shoes against the floor, changing forks into spoons.Lumines.So, they had belonged to another syndicate.
Her eyes go to the winged lion on Will’s lapel. “What about Grand Central, then?” Sam asks.
“We were founded thirty years ago, in the 1980s.”
So young.“Why…?” Sam starts to ask.
Will smiles at the surprise on her face. “Have you ever heard of the philosopher’s stone, Miss Lang?”
She has heard the term before, if only in movies and books. “It’s a magical object?” she ventures.
“It was alchemy’s holy grail for centuries.Calculus albus,or the ‘white stone.’ A symbol of the glory of heaven, a substance capable of gifting immortality and of changing metals into gold. The source of all perfection. The heart of alchemy.”
Sam notices his use of past tense. “But alchemy no longer seeks it?”
“Because we found it.”
She is ill with fascination. “Grand Central discovered it?”
“My father did,” Will says. “He met my mother at Harvard in the early eighties. She was attending the Business School; he was working on his chemistry PhD. He was also an alchemist and, like many other alchemists, searching obsessively for the philosopher’s stone. He discovered it during his graduate lab work, coming up with an equation so elegant and simple that it is often compared to Einstein’s equation of general relativity. Butat the time, the world was in the throes of a vicious recession. Alchemists needed to pay the bills as much as anyone else. What use was a single philosopher’s stone created in a lab?” Will nods at Sam. “My father discovered the philosopher’s stone. But it was my mother who thought of turning it into what we call sand.”
Sam shivers. “What is sand?”
“Sand is the philosopher’s stone—distilled into a drug. For a moment, sand enhances everything about who you are. Models who take sand will appear so beautiful they seem almost unreal, their eyes brighter, their hair glossier, their features perfected. Movie stars on sand become the most charming version of themselves, their talent enhanced to its full potential. Scientists on sand are so illuminated that they make startling breakthroughs. Technologists on sand created the phones in our hands and the Internet as we know it. Athletes on sand can push their bodies almost beyond feasibility, into the realm of the supernatural.”
Sam’s skin prickles. Sand. They had figured out how to manufacture perfection.
