Sam
Nicolas isn’t in class the next day.
For the first time in her life, Sam finds all eyes in the room fixed on her. Esme and Philip look at her warily, and when she walks down the Observatory’s halls, there are whispers of her name. She doesn’t quite know how to handle the new attention, so she keeps to herself, wringing her hands over and over in her lap at her desk, trying to forget the feeling of skin crisping under her fingers.
The memory of last night’s incident feels like a train of fragmented images in her head: someone helping Nicolas to his feet, another pressing their hands against his neck to heal the wound as much as possible. But there were parts so badly burned that the tissue was dead, and the dead cannot be made living again. So they struggled with him as more help arrived, until he was taken away on a stretcher.
The transmutation had come to her so quickly, but in that moment, she hadn’t felt it. She had seen the formula in her mind and moved her hand accordingly, and her soul had responded without hesitation.
And why not? Of course it did. She would do it again, if to defend herself.
After class, Will is waiting for her out in the hall. Sam freezes at the sight of him leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. The other students pause in their conversations too, but Will ignores their attention, nodding only at Sam before he begins walking away. Her cue to follow him.
“Miss Lang,” he greets as she hurries after him.
Sam can feel the others’ eyes on her back as she tries to match his stride. “What’s this about?” she asks.
He looks sidelong at her. “I think you know.”
Her cheeks burn, and she starts to explain herself. “He attacked me,” she says. “In the courtyard last night, he grabbed me, so I—”
“I know,” Will interrupts, and she stops. “One of our alchiatrists checked on him this morning. She showed me the wound.”
He knew exactly what she’d done. She takes another deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for defending myself—”
“I’m not looking for an apology,” Will replies. “I’m here because you’ve performed bioalchemy with no formal training, and that is deserving of some attention.”
Sam turns silent. Is he saying that he’s impressed, or that she’s in trouble? It’s hard for her to tell, his voice is so critical, but she shivers in anticipation anyway.
They exit the Observatory and head toward the hill, to a building on the estate that she has never visited before. As they go, Will says, “The reason why we wait to train you in bioalchemy is because beginners should practice it in a controlled environment. As you now know, it’s quite dangerous. I could tell what you were trying to do; I saw your books scattered in the courtyard, and the alchiatrist pointed out trace splinters of wood in Nicolas’s skin. The specific transmutation you wanted to perform calls for skin to be changed into wood, which, as two organic things, could have mostly been repaired. But transmuting large amounts of organic carbon is an advanced bioalchemical skill, and your soul couldn’t handle it, so instead, you instinctively pivoted to transmuting the skin’s phosphorus, which you accidentally turned into white phosphorus. White phosphorus is a chemical weapon. It is highly unstable in air and leads to severe burns. You were lucky. Had you not pulled your hand away as quickly as you did, you might have burned yourself, or disintegrated Nicolas’s entire neck with a runaway reaction on the rest of his skin.”
Sam shudders, imagining white phosphorus eating away at her own skin, or watching Nicolas die right before her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
Will shrugs. “It would have been unfortunate, yes, if you’d killed one of our potential philosophers. But I’m more concerned thatyouwon’t survive another one of your unsupervised attempts.”
At that, Sam looks quizzically at Will, wondering why he would care more for her well-being. But he doesn’t explain his answer.
“Alchemy is not chemistry,” Will continues. “Chemistry is predictable.Every step will always lead to the same next step. But each transmutation is different, because each transmutation bears a unique fragment of an alchemist’s soul. It is more than memorizing a formula. It is understanding who you are.”
“So what are we doing now?” she asks.
“You want to prove your value?”
Her heart leaps. Maybe Will sensed her bitter promise, after all, her determination to prove her worth to him.
“I—” she begins.
“Good. Because I’m about to give you your chance.”
Will reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small black container tied with a silk ribbon. “From Diamond,” he says.
For a moment, Sam just stares down at the box. She unties the ribbon delicately, and when she opens it, she sees a glass vial filled with small silver-white pills. Sand.
Sam feels a sudden surge of anticipation at the sight of sand. She had forgotten about it over the past few months, but now the feeling that had enveloped her during her first test in the courtyard comes back to her in a rush. It had felt so good; she can feel it again.
In the box is a brief note in Diamond’s elegant handwriting:
Become your true self.—D
