to reveal the group of four young men.
“Take yourselves off from here. Go find someone who has time to squander dealing with the worthless likes of you!”
Just this once, curb your temper, Father! Isidora’s heart pounded and she balled her hands into fists as the knights exchanged dark looks and fingered their swords. All but the one at the gate, whose eyes smiled even when his mouth did not.
The stranger gave a dismissive wave. “My friends, waste not your strength upon a demented old man. Go on, I will catch up with you later.” When they hesitated, he fixed them with his gaze and said but one word. “Go.”
“Don’t get too clean, Lucien, or we won’t take you back.” They resumed their joking and moved down the lane, away from the hammam and toward the closest wine merchant.
Deogal shook his flask at Lucien and its contents danced in silver waves. “How dare you speak of me thus, you sorry whelp of a—”
The young knight raised his gauntleted hand. “Sir, I could not but help notice that is quicksilver in the vessel you hold there. I have an appreciation for such things, but my friends do not, so forgive me for having discouraged them in the way that I deemed best for the situation…may I speak with you?”
“You may not. I have work to do and no time for curiosity seekers. Isidora, get inside.”
As Deogal retreated, slamming the workshop door behind him, Isidora was struck by the disappointment reflected on—what had they called him?—Lucien’s face.
It was similar to her own, what she felt every time her father barred her from entering his sanctum sanctorum. From the part of his life that mattered most to him.
This fellow did not belong here. Her father needed help, aye, but she would provide it, not some stranger off the street. As much as she resented the Work, it was indeed important, and given time, Deogal would surely let her in. She was of his flesh, his only child. Sooner or later he had to….
But for now, the least she could do was show the knight that manners did exist in this household. And that she was not afraid of him.
“Lord, would you like some wine?”
The knight, who she assumed belonged to Henry of Champagne, the King of Jerusalem—known to the native residents of Acre, his capital, as al-Kond Herri—took a long breath. He crossed his arms and seemed to consider her proposal, looking at her carefully all the while. Then he nodded, once.
She had half expected him to stalk away. Half hoped that he would. But here he remained, so Isidora ushered him into the small garden where her father received his rare but usually important visitors.
All was in order. A small fountain burbled, red-flowering vines wound around the carved sandstone columns and birds chirped, flitting in and out of the shadows.
“Please sit, sir.” Isidora indicated a polished marble bench. Off to one side, Marylas stood staring, her hand clamped over her mouth. Isidora gave the girl a reassuring look and she hurried toward the kitchen.
Marylas was easily frightened by the presence of armed men. Before coming to this household, she had suffered indignities that Isidora did not want her to be reminded of by anyone. Even this Lucien.
He settled his elegant limbs, removed his gloves and dabbled long, strong fingers in the fountain’s pool as he looked about. When Marylas returned with the refreshments, and hesitated before him, Isidora saw that Lucien recognized the maid with courtesy instead of treating her as an object of contempt.
He inclined his head to her and murmured something that actually made her eyes smile. No doubt he was hoping to lay the foundation for a future assault. He would meet with a sharp, unpleasant surprise, should he try. Marylas never went without her dagger.
Isidora poured a measure of water into a mazer, then topped it with the wine and handed it to him.
“My thanks.” Lucien raised the bowl but did not drink. “Will you not join me?”
“Nay. Forgive my rudeness, I have but little time to spare.”
In truth, every moment she was with him unnerved her more. She found herself staring like a foolish girl might. He was so foreign. Gleaming. Beautiful. He glowed, like a painting of a heavenly herald.
Her mind wandered, as if along the golden curves of the lettered illuminations she labored over each day. For one ridiculous, embarrassing moment she imagined him to be sent by God, to distract her from the frustration of working for her father. Working for him, but kept apart from his work. The Work. It was all that mattered to him.
A familiar constriction squeezed her heart at the thought. She adored her father, but the Work had become her enemy, for it always stood between them. At times she hated it, as much as one could hate anything so ethereal and elusive.
Isidora looked away, for fear the young man would see her loneliness and pity her for it.
But he did not seem to notice anything amiss at all. He took a swallow of the wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am Lucien de Griswold. What is your name?”
“Isidora,” she managed.
“Ah. Gift of Isis. A fitting name…for an alchemist’s daughter.”
She made a small sound. At his knowledge she was truly surprised and not a little alarmed. “You know of the Work my father does?”
“Of course. It is why I am here.”
Oh, dear. Isidora decided to have a drink of wine after all. She had to get rid of him. For his own sake, as well as that of her father. Deogal wanted no more outsiders, and few were likely to tolerate his deteriorating, increasingly erratic temper.
But “Gift of Isis”? Curse of Isis was more like it. Even her name was not meant for her, but only as a reflection of her father’s complete preoccupation with alchemy. And now here before her was a stranger, come out of nowhere. One who, it seemed, was only interested in the Work. Just like her father.
She filled a mazer without first adding water and, sitting upon the bench opposite Lucien, gulped the wine down.
To her chagrin, Lucien’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “You do not approve of me?”
Already the wine had a certain fortifying effect on Isidora. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove. I assist my father and do his bidding. Beyond that and my attempts to protect him from ill-informed churchmen or greedy fortune seekers, I have no part in it.”
Lucien leaned forward and rolled the wooden bowl between his palms. He met her gaze. “I am neither a cleric nor do I seek my fortune. I would be his student, his apprentice, if he would allow it.”
Nay, not another one! Kalle FitzMalheury had been fair of face and words, but he had hurt her father—and been the downfall of her mother…. Isidora would not let anyone hurt Deogal again. “What do you want, then, my lord Lucien?”
He looked away and the wine in his bowl shuddered. With his eyes still averted, at last he spoke. “I want the truth. I need to find the Elixir.”
“I see. Then all you wish is to attain perfect enlightenment and to live forever.
