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PROLOGUE
…to have and to holde from this day forwarde, for better, for woorse, for richer, for poorer, in sickenes, and in health, to love, cherishe, and to obey, till death us departe…
Book of Common Prayer, 1549
“It’s nearly over, my love,” Bluebeard said, stroking her brow. Her face was milky white, translucent as bone china, even more beautiful now in repose than the day they wed, and despite her treacherous disobedience, he cherished her beauty. As her heart beat its last beat, and the last trace of life flowed from her body, he whispered, “Rest, my dearest, rest in eternal peace.” Her hand relaxed, and the Key fell to the floor, ringing out with a pure golden tone.
“And now, to work,” he said to himself, shedding his laughable pantomime of devotion and adopting his true calling, the mantle of the alchemist. Quickly, he launched into the calcination before her sacrifice spoiled. With confident motions, he dipped the first pint of blood from the basin, released the living iron with salts of ammonia, captured the mortal essence through the subtle interplay of spirits of wine and wood, decanted the liquors, and consigned the sediments to the purifying flame. As written in the Four Books of Democritus, his ancient guide to all things alchemical, Nature delights in Nature.
He found himself humming as he worked through the basin with well-practiced hands, adding spirits and salts to pint after precious pint of her blood, offering each in turn to the fire. What was that tune? Something from Mozart, he was almost certain, or perhaps Scarlatti? Something he hadn’t heard for centuries, overheard in some salon or another. Why would that ditty emerge at this moment? Perhaps the note from the dropping Key brought it to mind? Certainly not…that sound never changed, even though the faces did. Perhaps it was a favorite of one of his earlier wives, long since passed.
After much enjoyable work, he emptied the entire basin, releasing the volatile elements to rejoice in the steady cycle of life and death. White sulfur now, and aphroselenon, the foam of the moon, crafted over this last lunar cycle to ensure maximum potency. Then finely ground minerals of mercury and arsenic to imbue the mix with their alchemical magic, and back to the purifying flame for sublimation. This was always his favorite part, when the first hints of the final product would be revealed. Their marriage had spanned nearly two years before her curiosity overtook her, and that promised an abundant yield. He placed the cupful of dirty white ash into the shallow sublimation vessel and covered it with the upper bowl, sealing them together like two clamshells. Then onto the glowing coals to await the forcible transformation, splitting the exalted from the mundane. As written in the Four Books, Nature conquers Nature.
The tune returned as he swabbed cool water on the upper bowl, hearing the faint sizzle in the ashy treasure hidden within the sublimation vessel. Maybe it was something Thierry had been playing on his blasted phonograph. He must put a stop to that. Frivolity had no place in his castle. This wife also suffered from frivolous tastes, but just the same, he would miss her. She had been an excellent dancer, and the castle itself had danced under her touch—not to the level of his long-lost Annabella, his first and only true wife, but a tribute to him nonetheless.
As always, the temptation to peek was intolerable, but he battled it down, unwilling to let the slightest trace of vapor escape and be lost. While he swabbed, cooling the upper bowl and coaxing the vapors to crystallize, he did calculations in his mind. She had been a small woman, but mighty in her passions, a tigress in the bedchamber and a fury when angered. He hadn’t had such a worthy opponent in many years. Weighing these qualities, he estimated that two hours would suffice for the sublimation, so he’d give it three to ensure completion.
Well into the process, a call from the laboratory door broke his concentration.
“Mage Bluebeard! I have refreshments, and I have drafted the letters you requested.”
“Leave everything by the door!” Bluebeard shouted back, annoyed by the interruption but welcoming a small respite from his labors.
“As you wish.”
“Tell Hoyle I need a few sprigs of vervain,” Bluebeard directed. “And have Cook prepare a late lunch when I’m finished.”
“I’ll attend to it immediately,” came the muffled response from the other side of the door.
He gave the upper vessel one more swab of cool water, then hurried to the door, unlocking it with the Key. Outside, he found a flagon of wine and the two letters, arranged on a silver tray. Caught up in the pleasures of alchemical work, he softened. Perhaps he’d best not mention Thierry’s blasted phonograph just yet. The gods knew his trusted steward had few enough pleasures in life.
The clock counted out an additional three-quarters of an hour of continual lavage, the time stretching with delicious anticipation. How many times had he done this? A hundred? He’d stopped counting after two score, and stopped remembering individual faces soon after. He gazed back into the crypt, peering into the shadowy depths at the rear of the laboratory, trying to estimate the number of preserved sacrifices, each neatly ensconced on her shelf, with his lovely Annabella resting peacefully on her marble plinth at the center. He chuckled wryly to himself: Surely not a hundred…how could anyone be so wicked?
Even now, after so many repetitions, the same excitement overtook him. The material inside the vessel was silent, with no sizzle of the ashes, so he judged the sublimation complete. Lifting the upper bowl, he was greeted by shimmering flowers of vitality, petaled clusters of yellow crystals hanging from the inner surface, but disappointment soon followed. It was as he feared, the same as with his last wife and the five before. The yield was half what it should have been, and they were stained dark with ochre impurities. Was his magic failing? Surely not…more likely the fault lay at the feet of this wife. Their marriage had been strained at the end by months of discord, and it was easily apparent in the crystals. He inverted the bowl and set it aside, turning to the lower bowl, still resting in the coals. As he feared, a tarry residue of treachery coated the vessel, studded with sharp spicules of terror, even more than he expected. He took heart from the observation, despite the poor quality of the crystalline vitality. With the right buyer, he could demand a king’s ransom for refined fear.
Setting the tar-stained lower bowl aside to cool, he turned back to the crude crystals of vitality. Despite their impure state, they called to him from inside the upper bowl. Where was Hoyle with his bloody vervain? The vitality mustn’t be left exposed to air for long, or the final yield of Elixir would be even more disappointing. A quick trip to the door revealed his steward’s impeccable attention. A dozen fragrant sprigs, tied together with a red ribbon, lay on a small silver plate. Yes, this would serve nicely. The next step, the fermentation, was always the most creative part of the endeavor, and he was keen to continue, despite the substandard quality of his departed wife’s blood sacrifice. With luck and careful attention, the vervain should play nicely with the raw vitality, cutting through the residual impurities of willfulness and despair. Nature masters Nature.
His stomach growled as he dissolved the fragile crystals in spring water and crafted the fermentation brew. Days of painstaking work loomed ahead before the final exaltation and tincture through the Philosopher’s Stone. He glanced at the rough piles of rocks and rubble that littered the shady corners of his laboratory, and felt the Stone’s hunger as it sat among its mundane kin, hidden in plain sight. The Stone was more a collaborator than a tool. He had created it at the inception of his career as an alchemist, stumbling by sheer chance onto the proper disproportionation of sulfur and mercury missed by his colleagues, and it had been his companion through scores of wives. But would it yield enough Elixir of Life to appease his greedy clients? Only time would tell—there was no rushing the Great Work. However, being practical about the final outcome, he’d best schedule time with Thierry to decide which of his clients must go without.
He forcibly turned his mind from this loathsome wallowing. Look at him, like one of his silly wives, fretting over the most trivial setbacks. He had alchemy to do, and he had a grander plan beginning to congeal, a foolproof plan that would require his own special brand of cleverness and expertise. With luck, the continual scrambling for new wives and sufficient Elixir would soon be over. This plan, years in the making, was soon to come to fruition, ushering in a new era of alchemical abundance and profit.
Before taking a short interval for lunch, he stepped to the desk and reviewed the letters to his two soon-to-be apprentices. His discreet inquiries had identified them as the perfect candidates to fulfill his goal. Through various tragic and natural circumstances, both were unencumbered by familial responsibilities, so snipping their ties to the mainland would be trivial. But more importantly, they were poised to forge the romance he required for the success of his plan, carefully crafted to follow the requisite script of love and betrayal.
Thomas Dalton would be the most challenging of the pair. Recently awarded his doctorate in chemistry, he was being courted by universities around the world. He was tall and blond, boyish, not particularly athletic but tipping toward handsome, and with a naïveté that could only be classified as endearing. Zayan Sarim, by contrast, was the perfect complement to Dalton’s innocence, exotically handsome and currently unemployed due to exploitable gray areas in his morality. In summary, he had chosen his candidates perfectly. Sarim had a smoldering bad-boy charm that would prove irresistible to the inexperienced Dalton.
The letter to Sarim was straight-forward, centered around an impressive salary that would certainly ensnare him, but Dalton’s letter required additional incentives. He included just enough information to entice a clean-cut and motivated young scientist:
Dear Dr. Dalton,
Please accept my congratulations on your recent thesis defense. I have been following your work and would like to bring an opportunity to your attention. The Elixir brand of wellness spas is in the process of expanding, and I am seeking to fill a position for an innovative synthetic chemist with a specialty in aromatherapy and natural products. Naturally, I read your recent work on ethnobotany and odorant-enhancing compounds with great interest, and I would be interested in adding your expertise to our team.
The position includes a competitive salary, generous start-up funds for building a laboratory, and a housing allowance. A contract will be provided for two years and will be extensible indefinitely at the discretion of both parties.
If you are interested in pursuing this opportunity, please contact me at your earliest convenience, and we will arrange a visit to our facility.
With my best regards,
Giles Fortescue, Elixir Wellness Institute
