Page 48 of Bluebeard’s Key

For the love potion, he honed the protocol down to one elusive step. He could do the calcination in a modern alumina crucible, sublimation with convenient glassware, fermentation under controlled temperature and pressure, and on through the alchemical protocol. But that damn exaltation step at the end. It required the Stone, and he had no clue what it was doing. He threw every analytical method he had at it, and the compound that went into the Stone was chemically identical to the one that came out, but the former was virtually inert and the latter was a love potion.

He had it right there in his hands: a reproducible expression of magic. It was infuriating, but like Arthur C. Clark said in his well-worn quote, “Magic’s just science that we don’t understand yet.” He was going to crack the secret if it was the last thing he ever did.

He was ruminating over the NMR spectra yet again, looking for some clue about how the before and after compounds were different, when a commotion in the courtyard drew him to the window. Zayan and Bluebeard were facing off by the gatehouse, immersed in another argument.

Bluebeard shouted, “It’s ruined! That alembic was from Flamel himself, and now it’s worthless. You’re worthless.”

Zayan was clearly trying to hold his temper, saying, “It was a simple, honest mistake, and I’ll clean your precious alembic. All it needs is some strong solvents. Give it to me.”

Bluebeard held it out of reach, taunting, “There are no honest mistakes in alchemy, just willful ignorance, and you have that in spades. You must always know what you’re doing before beginning.”

Zayan reached for it again, saying, “If you had told me to limit the coagulation to nights with a full moon, it wouldn’t have happened. Give it to me, and I’ll clean it.”

“If you had spent thirty seconds and read the formula, like any novice, you would have known. I can’t hold your ignorant hand at every step.”

Zayan grabbed the spout of the alembic and they struggled for a moment, glaring at each other, then the alembic flew from their hands, smashing on the ground. Tom could have sworn a quick look of victory crossed Bluebeard’s face before he bellowed, “Idiot! That was a priceless artifact, seasoned by generations of masters.”

He grabbed Zayan roughly by the arm and threw him toward the dungeon stairwell. “You will learn this if I have to beat the ignorance out of your worthless hide.” With that, he kicked Zayan viciously through the door, and they were gone.

CHAPTER 33

As Bluebeard lashed his apprentice to the chair and gagged him, he realized he hadn’t been this happy in months. The entire affair reminded him of his childhood. It had been so long since these memories had surfaced, and it was a wonder they weren’t gone entirely. Before alchemy had consumed his life, he had aspired to be an actor, even joining a pantomime group for one summer. And now, he could put that acting experience to the test. The scene would play out exactly as he had written it. Zayan, in contrast, had gotten soft, unreliable, so he would play a silent role, gagged until the second act. But in the opening, the key lines would all be his own.

He grabbed his carefully prepared sword and waited, listening for the sound he was sure to hear. As planned, Thomas had witnessed the entire charade in the courtyard, peering from his laboratory window. Sure enough, he heard the scuffle of shoes in the stairwell. With that sound, the stage was set and the play could begin.

Standing tall and proud, he summoned an angry grimace and stalked out of the room, bellowing, “Heal yourself, wizard, if you can. Then we’ll talk.”

Carefully now, every detail must be timed to allow the Key the opportunity to do its work. He must get the Key into Thomas’s hands while locking Zayan inside. But he was certain it wouldn’t be a great challenge. Thomas was in love, so he wasn’t in a rational frame of mind. It would be no problem to maneuver them into place.

First, he propped the sword against a nearby shelf, a sword meticulously dulled by his own hand, but Thomas would never realize this. Thomas’s facility with the sword, indeed the battle experience of both of his apprentices, was laughable. As he returned to the door and fiddled with his keys, he muttered, barely loud enough for Thomas to hear, “Miserable wretch. All that time wasted. But if he lives, perhaps he can still be redeemed.”

Second, and most importantly, he slammed the door closed and inserted the Key, locking it tightly. Only then did he allow himself to acknowledge Thomas, standing at the stairwell with an angry glare.

“Out! I command you!” he shouted, doing his best to express some theatrical anger when all he felt was glee. The sword was placed perfectly between them, so he backed from the laboratory door, intentionally leaving the Key in place. His timing was impeccable, and the scene was playing out with well-oiled precision. For good measure, he glanced over at the sword, drawing attention to it, and mustered his best villainous smile.

He made to lunge for the weapon, allowing himself to fumble enough that Thomas reached it first. Thomas approached, brandishing the sword in both hands, pointing it at his chest. Bluebeard knew a dozen ways to disarm him in an instant, but instead played the coward.

“Hold up, young apprentice,” he said, holding up his empty hands, but trying not to make it all too laughably easy. “There’s no need to be hasty.” He feinted to the right, but Thomas followed him with the dull point of the sword. In Tom’s hands, the emasculated sword would barely pierce his jerkin, but it was better not to put it to the test. As Thomas approached, he backed steadily from the door, each step choreographed to steer Thomas closer to the Key.

“What have you done with him?” Thomas asked, keeping his head.

“Nothing he can’t heal himself, given enough talent.”

There was a sudden scraping of chair legs and the sound of breaking glass from the other side of the door, and a loud grunt. That was an unexpected bonus. He could not have asked for better.

“Back away,” Thomas threatened. “Don’t make me do this.”

Bluebeard willed him forward, thinking: I won’t make you do anything—you’re doing fine all on your own. You're close enough now. Take the initiative. Turn the Key.

The dance continued, closing in on the finale. Bluebeard allowed himself to be driven backward, aiming for one of the Gothic columns that supported the roof. He aligned it perfectly, barking his shoulder on the sharp edge and faking a deep stumble. It was laughably melodramatic, but Thomas seemed intent, waving the sword as if he knew what to do with it.

Quick as a flash, Thomas turned and stepped to the door, gripping the Key. Bluebeard leaned forward, miming a counterassault, but in reality anxious to see if the scene would play out successfully. He had extracted the promise from his unwary apprentice, the promise not to enter, but the promise didn’t hold the solemnity of his marriage vows. He was curious to see if it would be sufficient.

Tom turned the Key and said, “Ow!”

With that one slight exclamation, Bluebeard knew he had won. Tom’s vitality would be his, and his empire would shine again, flush with gallons of Elixir. But now, carefully, he needed to turn his attention to the straying Zayan. It was essential that his apprentice perform the Great Work, transforming Tom’s blood through the subtle arts of alchemy. Zayan’s current state, horror mixed with ambition, exactly mirrored his own back at his fateful moment with Annabella. Tom’s realization of Zayan’s treachery would generate the ideal conditions, hewing a sharp cleft between betrayal and devotion, yielding the purest vitality possible. He could barely restrain his excitement.

He held back, feigning fear of the sword, allowing Tom to open the door and slip inside. Good boy, he took the ring of keys with him. Let them feel safe, at least for a few moments. With the clunk of the lock, Bluebeard finally breathed easy. His empire was secure. The Key had made its judgment, setting Thomas on his final trajectory, and now he needed to mold Zayan into the proper frame of mind to finish the deed. For the moment, he need only wait for the inevitable escape scene to play out, giving them a small measure of hope before dashing it away.