Chapter Fifteen
When Felicity awoke early the next morning, she hurried straight to her laboratory, not wanting to risk running into Nicholas at breakfast. He’d ask how her meeting went yesterday with Septimus Locke, Earl of Carwarren, who had set up his galvanization experiments on Castle Keyvnor’s parapet walk.
Felicity let out a groan. That was how she knew she was desperate—she’d eaten humble pie and begged Carwarren to put aside his disbelief of alchemy to help her.
And for nothing, too! Carwarren was useless. He’d cut her off halfway through her explanation, telling her he had no time for her “fool problems.” After attempting to convince him for a solid half hour longer, she’d left. There was only so much disapproval a girl could handle in the space of two days.
Besides, Carwarren was the fool, not her. He clearly didn’t possess the intelligence needed to transition the stone in the final Red Phase.
“Already refuted by the greatest philosophers my arse,” she muttered, as she checked her notes one final time.
At least her trip to the castle hadn’t been an utter waste of time—a chance comment made by Carwarren had reminded her of a comment written in the margins of one of her alchemical manuscripts from the eighteenth century. Three circles of the same size, the middle one having a line drawn through the middle—the Dalton chemical formula for aqua fortis, or nitrous acid.
Margaret had bought the manuscript for her, years ago, when she first showed an interest in chemistry.
How poignant it would be if the manuscript was what ended up saving Margaret from eternal blackness.
She uncapped the burner on her Berzelius lamp. The naphtha supplied from a small reservoir connected with the burner by a long tube would heat to a high degree, which was needed for the White Phase. By adding aqua fortis to her mixture of sophick mercury, she hoped to force the new element into the Red Phase.
It was the last thing she had to try.
If this didn’t work, she didn’t know what else to do.
For though Nicholas claimed Margaret’s body still looked like it had on the day she died, Felicity knew different. Every day, she monitored the signs of degradation.
Last night, when she’d entered the crypt, Margaret’s body had shown a marked increase in decomposition. She didn’t know if Nicholas had failed to shut the door properly—it had seemed tightly closed when she entered—or if her time was simply running out.
If the heavy weight sinking in her stomach was any indication, she had no one to blame for her failure but herself.
She heated the blackened material in her crucible using the Berzelius lamp, watching with bated breath as bubbles appeared on the surface, caused by the gases bursting within. So far, everything looked perfect…but then, she had achieved these results before and not been able to move further.
White crust formed from the release of the gas, and swiftly thereafter the crust puffed up and a white vapor released into the flask.
“White Eagle, accomplished,” Felicity murmured, hope burgeoning within her. She’d only got this far three times before—this had to be a good sign.
Now, she had to take the stone into its final stage, known as the Phoenix because the red coloring appeared to rise from the ashes. As she observed, her stomach roiling and the lump in her throat so large she could barely swallow away her tension, the matter began to bubble again.
Please, please, rise from the ashes.
The stone did not abide her plea. For instead of turning red, the stone remained white, the crust gaining a second coat. Then, there was a shattering sound, a crack forming in the glass. Felicity leapt for the cap for the burner, but she was too late.
The glass shattered completely. Ethanol hit the sophick mercury just as Felicity dove under the table for cover.
A loud explosion rocked the room. Smoke billowed, beginning to cloak the room in fumes. At the same time, shards of glass flew toward her, but the table kept her relatively safe.
She could not say the same for her laboratory. The glass, thrown across the room at such a speed, hit the beakers lined up so carefully upon the bookshelf. They too shattered, spilling out more fragments of glass.
Then there was fire—the lamp must have tilted in the explosion. Orange flames spread across the table, devouring the papers she’d left out. But she couldn’t think of the loss of her research, not now.
Smoke thickened, making it harder to breathe. She covered her mouth with her sleeve.
The fire needed to be contained. She forced herself out from under the table, diving for the large bucket of water she kept in front of the table in case of these events. Grabbing hold of the bucket, she flung the water at the flames.
The water hit its mark, dousing the flames enough that she could pat the rest out with the cap. Yet the smell of smoke was still overpowering—it made her eyes water, and her breath come in uneven pants. With one last long look at her research, now nothing more than graying ash, she fled into the study.
The door clicked back in place, hiding the entrance to the laboratory in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the back wall of the study. Everything looked so normal. Were it not for the acrid smell of burnt sulfur and the faint trace of smoke in the air, she might have believed she’d dreamed the entire explosion.
But she hadn’t.
She’d lost six months’ worth of work.
She’d obliterated any chance she had of ever, ever bringing Margaret back to life.
Felicity turned, unable to stomach looking at the shelves any longer. Her knees quaked at the effort to hold herself upright when she was so tired—so very tired of wishing and pretending and working and fighting, when it had all been for naught. It was as if six months of sleepless nights had hit her at once, so heavy was this bone-numbing weariness.
Slowly, she sank to the ground, her back against the bookshelves. She’d always been so cautious in this room, never wanting to upset Randall’s prized collection of antique books. He and Margaret had both loved reading—they’d met at the Royal Colonade Library in Brighton. How sweet she’d found that story as a child, though she’d never imagined she’d find the same sort of love and understanding, that equal partnership.
But it did not matter now. She could crack the spines on these books, write in the margins, rip out page after page. It wouldn’t make a difference.
She couldn’t change anything. Death had bested her.
She was alone. Forever.
Propping up her elbows on her knees, she rested her head in her outstretched palms. Closed her eyes. Let the darkness engulf her, and reminded herself that this was what Margaret faced for eternity.
All because she hadn’t been able to unlock the secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone.
Maybe if she’d been smarter. Maybe if she’d tried harder to fit in, she wouldn’t have had to beg other chemists to help her. Or maybe, if she’d simply abandoned alchemy altogether like the Earl of Carwarren had advised, and devoted herself to galvanization. She’d dismissed Luigi Galvani’s success with reanimating a frog’s leg as fool’s work—his work only confirmed the presence of electricity; it did not create it. But she might have been able to change that.
Instead, she’d wasted six months—the only window of time Margaret’s preserved body had—trying to recreate an alchemical myth.
She’d lost everything, and she had no one to blame but herself.
And Death.
She tangled her fingers in her hair, tugging at the roots. The quick burst of pain only served as a reminder she was alive, while Margaret was dead. Her hands smelled of burnt sulfur, nitric acid, ethanol and mercury: a noxious combination twisting her already ill stomach.
Heavy footsteps stampeded down the hall, stopping at the study. She opened her eyes and lifted her head as the door flung open. Nicholas rushed over, kneeling down.
“Felicity?” Concern ebbed in his voice, as it had that day in the atrium—but so much more pressing now. “Are you all right? I heard an explosion—”
She had not realized how much she needed him, until there he was in front of her, those earnest brown eyes wide with alarm, the sound of his rich voice enveloping her. Before she could register her own actions, she grabbed for him, needily tugging him closer to her. His arms fell around her, surrounding her with his warmth and strength. The wonderfully masculine smell of him—leather, sandalwood, and something she could not define but was distinctly him and him alone—masked the bitter acridness of the sophick mercury, and she breathed him in, burrowing her nose in the clean scent of his shirt.
He stroked her back, soft, calming motions. She allowed herself to collapse against him, counting backward from one hundred and then when that did not return her breathing to normal, she began reciting the Dalton chemical symbol for each element.
She had not realized she’d spoken aloud until he shifted, so that he could peer down at her. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Repetition soothes me,” she said, readjusting so that she did not have to look him in the eye. It was too much—to actively see his apprehension, while so enveloped by him, for it made her feel like she ought to explain what had happened.
Which she did not want to do.
Because admitting it all meant admitting that she’d failed.
She knew this, without doubt. There was no hope for Margaret. Yet the wound was too new, too raw, to face now.
He let go of her with one arm, so that he could delicately lift her chin up, so that their gazes met. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
She shook her head. Greedily, her fingers clutched at the hem of his waistcoat, then his hips, trying to bring him closer to her. He was so warm, so right, so steady. He’d changed, yet somehow he remained the same.
And she craved that sameness—that sense of constancy, the feeling of family and the familiar, even when everything with him was so different from how it had been before. She remembered the touch of his lips on hers and the way she’d lost control around him, caring only about those feelings.
She lifted her head up from his chest, locking eyes with him. Perhaps, this was the answer she’d been looking for. Could it really be that simple? The boy who had dogged her steps every summer until he became part of her usual rhythm had returned with so much more than a cocky smile and a domineering attitude.
He’d brought comfort. She did not know why his presence was so reassuring; she only knew that he made her mind stop racing so desperately. It was an undeniable fact, and she clung to that sureness for it was the only thing in a sea of horrible, insurmountable changes.
His eyes hadn’t left her lips. He kept staring at her, his chest rising and falling too fast to indicate relaxation—though she’d already noted this, from the slamming of his heart against his chest, the beat frantic.
She blinked, unsure of how to proceed. About anything—because without this quest for Margaret’s return she had no idea what to do with her life—but mostly about where to go with Nicholas.
His head started to incline toward hers, his focus still upon her mouth. She wondered again if she was supposed to close her eyes. It had worked out well enough for her last time to keep them open. Besides, she wanted to see him.
But then, the secret passageway started to open. They managed to scramble out of the way and stand up before the door released. Lady Mallory stood in the doorway, her eyes rounding with delight when she spotted them.
“Felicity!” Mallory took the few steps between them quickly, giving her an awkward half-hug, for Felicity still had one arm looped around Nicholas. The passage door slid into place. “I was so worried about you.”
“I’m fine.” That was a lie—but anything else would have meant she’d have to explain to Mallory what had really happened, and she was not ready to face that yet.
“I’ll take care of her,” Nicholas assured Mallory with a smile.
There was something deeper in his voice, something that sounded like a promise—for so much more than just now. That ought to petrify her, for it meant more changes.
That promise was the best thing—the only good thing—to come out of this hell.
“I believe I heard your aunt talking about going shopping in the village,” Nicholas continued. “It sounded like she’d be ready to go soon.”
“Oh!” Mallory clapped her hand over her mouth. “Time got away from me. Will you be all right, Felicity?”
She nodded. Nicholas had slipped his arm around her. How had she not wanted physical contact before, when his touch made her feel like she was simultaneously on fire, yet completely at peace? She leaned into him, ignoring the knowing glance her friend shot her as they walked Mallory to the door. It closed behind her, leaving Felicity with Nicholas.
For the last six months, she’d thought she was alone without Margaret. Lost, without someone who cared about her with no reservations. Someone who understood her, accepting not just her best qualities but her eccentricities and faults too.
She clasped Nicholas’s hand in her own, stared up into his brown eyes and felt hope. Not for Margaret’s continuance—no, there was nothing that could be done for her guardian. Margaret was gone, but Felicity was still alive.
It was time she started remembering this.
Time she made Margaret proud, by living her own life.
It would be hard, and she would falter. She would miss Margaret, forever—that would never stop. She knew this, just as she knew what she was about to do might change her life, again placing her in unfamiliar territory.
She did it anyhow, because she needed the ease of pain, the sense of hope Nicholas instilled within her.
She needed him.
She moved to face him; her back against the door, their faces so near his breath was hot against her m. Raising her hand to his mouth, she traced the shape of his lips. She admired the symmetry, even as she dropped her thumb and lowered her mouth down on his.
Her first kiss had been naught but a peck. Her second kiss—or perhaps her third, or fourth, she was not sure how to divide up the kisses they’d shared—was an attack, an onslaught upon him, rising up to smash her mouth against his. Her arms wrapped around his, her body pressed up against him, fitting together.
Science had abandoned her, but maybe Nicholas would not.