the way Lucien’s brows drew together, it seemed he had taken them just that way.
“I need it for someone. Before it is too late.”
The sincerity and quiet regret in his voice touched Isidora despite her mistrust. Perhaps there was more to him than good looks and assorted weapons. But it was not likely to be much.
She could not help him. He was from another world and did not belong here. “There is nothing I might say to my father to make him change his mind.” Not that she wished to try, in any event.
Lucien’s resultant sad smile made her bite her lip. How did people as tempting as him come into being, after all?
“Nay, Demoiselle Isidora. If I cannot convince him of my merit, then it is not meant to be.”
There came a shuffle of leather-soled slippers. “What’s this—you are still here, boy?” Sir Deogal loomed at the edge of the courtyard. “Why?”
Lucien immediately rose to his feet, as did Isidora. Lucien was much taller than she. Broad-shouldered and well-made, he stood mere inches away. He smelled of smoke, horses and that elusive air of sandalwood.
In all her life she had never been this close to a man not related to her. And this man, she knew, from some secret place within her, was potent. Like mead or the red inks she used—a little would go a long, long way….
“I invited him in, Father. It is hot outside. It was a matter of simple courtesy.”
Lucien bowed. “I would have returned, in any case, and waited until you gave me audience, sir.”
Deogal raised his chin. “What do you want from me, then?”
“The chance to learn from a master alchemist, my lord.”
“Do you, now?” Deogal came closer and waved a hand at Isidora. Her nerves on edge, she tried not to spill as she poured him some wine, after a liberal dose of water in the bowl.
He sat beside her on the bench as if she needed protection, and looked Lucien up and down. “I have had students before. They invariably proved themselves either fools or corrupt, and had to be thrown out on their heads.”
Isidora closed her eyes against the flood of painful memories those words evoked. Not so many years past, Kalle, her father’s last partner in the Work, had brought Deogal’s wrath crashing down upon himself by his betrayal. Her father had beaten Kalle nearly to death. Then he had shoved her mother out onto the street…and lived to regret it the rest of his days. Isidora bit her lip.
She well remembered the look of rage, aye, and loss on Kalle’s bloodied face. She shivered despite the warm day. He was an enemy worthy of the fear he inspired. And her father, strong as he once had been, was no match for the cunning and evil Kalle was now rumored to be capable of.
Isidora eyed Lucien appraisingly. She had to consider that he might make himself useful as a champion to Deogal, and protect him from harm in ways Isidora could not. He seemed honest…but Kalle also had sounded sincere at first.
Lucien had remained standing. “I do not believe I am particularly corrupt or all that foolish. But I cannot promise that one day you would not be tempted to throw me out, on my head or otherwise.”
Deogal grunted a laugh. “We shall see, then, just how badly you want to be my student. But do not bother Isidora, do you understand? She is too trusting by far, to have spoken to you and allowed you entrance. Sometimes I regret raising her as the Franj do and giving her such freedom, instead of keeping her hidden away.”
Isidora refrained from groaning out loud. What freedom? The freedom to go to the marketplace and purchase supplies for his Work? And why must Father delude himself into supposing that a wealthy stranger might take interest in her?
After all, she was dark, and too outspoken. Often as not, folk mistook her for one of the servants. However, she knew who she was—the proud daughter of a noble house, and it mattered not what anyone else thought.
Lucien crossed his arms, as if closing a door around himself. A bastion not easily swayed. “I have no intention of bothering your daughter, sir.”
Then, the rogue disproved his words with but one look. His lips parted slightly and his eyes glittered with the light reflected from the fountain’s waters. His gaze swept Isidora’s skin in a hot wave and made her cheeks catch fire, as if she stood naked in the public square. How dare he show such insolence!
Isidora had to force herself not to jump up and run off to hide in the house—just to avoid losing control and slapping him. But she would not give Lucien the power to affect her so, or give her father cause to either worry or question her actions.
Chapter Two
L ucien came every day after that. He spoke but little as he sat and waited for her father to emerge and accept him as a student of the Work. At first his friends accompanied him to the gate. But as time passed and he still made no progress, one by one they fell away, until he remained alone.
Leaving his sword in Marylas’s charge, he would bow to Deogal but say nothing. His request did not need to be made out loud, for it seemed he was asking with his whole being.
Day by day his face lost some of its air of ruddy confidence. But he had a presence that seemed to take up more space than he did physically. He wore sumptuous clothes and his surcoat of raw, red silk and fine leather boots added to his princely air.
Despite Lucien’s silence, or perhaps because of it, Isidora wanted to know everything about him. Where his home was and what kind of life he led there. But she could not bring herself to ask him directly.
He was quiet, but seemed bigger than life—as though his skin couldn’t quite contain him. He made her nervous, and he might mistake her inquisitiveness about the rest of the world for a personal interest in him.
Each day she offered him unleavened bread, dates and butter, figs and honey and wine, which he occasionally accepted. But of course that was only a matter of courtesy on her part, not concern.
Lucien was polite, without ever paying her enough attention that she might engage him in true conversation. His mind was always upon his goal. He would not endanger it by “bothering” her, she was certain. But she was also just as certain that eventually he would tire of waiting and leave them in peace.
But one day Deogal emerged from the workshop, his blue robe sooty and smelling of sulphur. “Tell me again why you want to partake of this Work, boy.”
Lucien jumped to his feet. “Because I must, sir. It holds the greatest fascination for me. I sense…I know—that there are worlds of knowledge waiting to be discovered through the arts of alchemy, through the patience and persistence of those who dare venture past the mundane and into the arcane. I cannot believe that my life’s achievements are only meant to be what my father envisioned—nothing but breeding and a series of acquisitions by force of arms.”
Deogal looked down his aristocratic nose at Lucien. “You are dissatisfied with your lot? With your enviable position of privilege, rank, honor and wealth?”
Lucien gazed at Deogal and spread his strong, lean hands. “I am not ungrateful, Master Deogal. I simply cannot bear to accept that I might miss something else, something so huge and divine and all-enveloping that I cannot
