The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton
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. Nay, I would not call that seeking your fortune.” Isidora had not intended for her words to sound cutting, but from 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?