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"Itamar made you what you are, didn’t he? Just as you made me," Dr. L reflected.
- Pseudonymous Bosch, This Book Is Not Good for You
"Do you think they feel something when they die?"
"Don't dawdle," Pietro replied. "That's a bad habit."
"Don't act like you know better than me," Luciano grumbled. "You never used to talk like that."
"Better I tell you than she does."
There was no arguing with that. It was true that Luciano had been taking too much time cutting the heaps of verveins he had been assigned to. He stroked the broad, deep green leaves and awed at the countless tiny fibers they were made of. It felt good to lose himself in the task, forgetting everything else.
A servant checked in on him from time to time, but Luciano only nodded to signal that he was doing fine. He wasn't supposed to talk to anyone unless it was necessary. Ms. Mauvais said that silent contemplation cleared the mind and brought harmony to the senses. So far, it had only dulled him and made keeping track of the time hard. He didn't remember for how long he had been here. Sometimes, he didn’t know what time of day it was or even if he was fully awake or just imagining things while half asleep.
"It’s better this way," Pietro often said. "We mustn’t think too much, remember?"
It was easier for Pietro to take care of Luciano now that Ms. Mauvais hardly had time for him. From what he had understood, the Midnight Sun constantly worked to improve the elixirs that kept them alive for so long. Every year, there was a period when they had to produce double the amount at the same time to supply everyone, both the old and the new recipes. So Ms. Mauvais was all over the place day and night, ensuring everything went smoothly.
Sometimes, Pietro even dared to be playful when alone, teasing Luciano about his white tunic. "You look like an altar boy."
Luciano tried to stop himself from laughing. "Don’t."
"Remember when we used to throw paper snippets at them?"
"I said don’t," Luciano whispered, pressing his hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter. "You never know what’ll get us into trouble."
Pietro grinned. "Now you act like you know better than me."
"It's easy for you to say," Luciano hissed, suddenly furious. "No harm can come to you because you're not really here."
"You don't believe that," Pietro protested. "You were the one who insisted on going with her, and I told you to stay. Still, I’ve never left your side. Together always, remember?"
After Ms. Mauvais had taken him, Luciano tried to send Pietro a message and prayed that he would come find him. He remembered being trapped for an eternity in utter darkness, silence, or pain, unable to tell what was real or not real anymore. So when Pietro finally found him, he didn’t question it. Why should he? Pietro might not be really here, but he was always here.
"Together always," Luciano agreed, just as footsteps approached from outside. He tensed when he recognized the sharp click of Ms. Mauvais’s heels, followed by her icy voice:
"When will the next charge be ready?"
"In about one hour, madam."
"Very good. I should be done here by then."
"Don't panic," Pietro whispered. "Go."
Luciano glanced frantically between the doorway and the workbench. When Ms. Mauvais approached him, she expected him to come forward and stand at attention, but the first rule of the laboratory was to never, ever leave one's workplace out of sight, even when there was no fire.
"If we make an exception once, it will turn into a bad habit," she used to say. "We need to weed it out before it causes damage."
She appeared in the doorway, elegant and perfect as always, her golden hair tied back for the lab, and she only wore a single diamond necklace.
"There you are, darling."
Itamar seized Antoinette’s wrists and forced them onto the desk. "You're still not quite yourself again."
Antoinette stared down at her already worn-out sleeves. She tugged at her clothes far too often without realizing it. She was always terrified they might have slipped out of place if just a little bit, so she had to make sure they sat properly. She just had to. Who knew what might happen if she didn’t?
"I’m sorry, sir. We can continue."
"Assuming it takes two workers ten hours to clean the entire laboratory," Itamar said, "but you need to get it done in three hours. How many workers do you need?"
Antoinette resisted the urge to tug at her sleeves and tried to concentrate. She wished she had something to write on, but Itamar wanted her to be able to figure it out in her head.
"That means you need...twenty workers to finish in one hour."
"Go on."
"And twenty divided by three is…”
The clothes she was wearing now weren't even hers. Itamar made her burn the clothes she wore when she came here, explaining it was the way of the Midnight Sun to shed everything one had before. He had only allowed her to keep Léonidas because he said caring for an animal built character. Like every acolyte, she was to wear white, which had at first made her uncomfortable because it felt like entering a convent. It reminded her of the nuns who had taught her the catechism and prepared her for First Communion, whom she had despised because they were never pleased, no matter how well she had learned.
"It won't do to memorize with just your head," they said. "The Lord will know if you truly dedicate your heart."
Now, they were all dead. They had come for the clergy first.
But she was, more often than not, glad to wear the Midnight Sun's clothes. Sometimes, she felt like she didn't exist anymore, and only the new clothes made her real.
"Antoinette?"
"Seven," she managed to say, pressing her hands onto the desk as hard as possible. "You need seven workers. No - no, eight! Always count in a spare."
"Good."
Antoinette glanced up at Itamar, hoping to see his strange, small smile that he only had for her. It seemed to say that they shared a secret, even though she had no idea what that might be. She craved his smile more each day as she grew tired and restless. But he just watched her, his face unreadable.
A few days ago, he had assigned her to her first night shift in the laboratory. The alchemist ovens burned day and night at a constant temperature, so someone always needed to watch them. The acolytes took turns, shifting in the morning, the afternoon, and the evening. But that night, Itamar had placed one oven under her watch.
"This elixir has reached the stage of distillation, where we boil the substance so we can capture the vapor," he explained. "Finally, we separate the pure essence from its impure material form. And as the substance, so the alchemist. It's a period of intense concentration and purification. During this stage, we become only mind."
So Antoinette kept watch, eager to prove she could do this effortlessly. She had always been good at concentrating on just one thing, ignoring everything else. When more and more soldiers came to town, everyone tried in vain to pretend they were not there. They picked people one by one. It was the same every time. Someone got dragged off while screaming and pleading their innocence, and everyone was walking by like it wasn’t happening. None of the taken ever came back. Everyone tried their best to act as if nothing was wrong, but it didn’t save them. Antoinette figured they died because they still cared too much, and she wondered why they couldn’t keep to themselves like she did. It was easy not to care.
Until they finally came to her home.
Antoinette forgot about everything except the oven in front of her and soon lost track of time. She stared at the slow, steady vapor rising into the glass tube, imagining herself as light as the steam. There were moments when she felt sudden waves of nausea, a headache, or cramping in her legs before turning numb again.
Finally, the night shift was over. But she was not called off.
She didn't know what time it was anymore. Perhaps noon, perhaps midnight again. She was sweating and freezing at the same time. Someone brought her a glass of water. She was allowed a few moments off to refresh herself. She couldn't speak anymore. She couldn't think. She only watched the steam. Or perhaps there was no steam. Sometimes, she watched her feet. Or she went blind for a few seconds.
"The prime virtue of the alchemist is perseverance," Itamar would say. "We do not give up. We do not hesitate. We do not doubt. Lord Pharaoh himself is said to have kept watch in his laboratory for ten days in a row, several times."
"Sir," someone muttered. "Don't you wish to release her? There’s no more use."
"She can do another shift," Itamar replied.
Or maybe she only imagined that. She couldn't tell.
But then the monsters came, climbing out of the boiling substance and creeping out of the shadows, slimy, blind, and hungry, ready to devour her alive. She had known about them. They had been lurking in the dark, waiting for her to let her guard down. They were leering at her with empty eyes and razor-sharp teeth, uttering grinding, metallic snarls.
“Did you think you could hide from us here?” they taunted her. “Did you think you could ever outrun us? You are nothing. You are already dead.”
She screamed until the servants came running, but she kept fighting them off, even biting down on someone’s hand.
"Kill them!" she shrieked when they finally managed to restrain her. "Kill them!"
Or so Itamar had told her after she had woken up from unconsciousness.
"You shouldn’t think too much of it," he had said. "These things can happen after a lack of sleep. We just should see to it that it won’t happen again."
Antoinette shifted uneasily. "Sir, may I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"I've cut it all!"
Luciano grabbed a flask and held it up to present it to her. Instantly, she seized his wrist and pushed his arm down.
"What did I tell you about never holding a vessel above your head in the laboratory?"
"Please, I'm sorry. I forgot. It'll never happen again."
"You forgot because you don't understand the consequences. At some point, you will hold something that will burn you, make you blind, or poison you if you spill it over your face. And what am I to do with you, then?"
"Please! I'll remember it, I promise!"
“Do I need to remind you that I’ve paid double your price?”
“Please!”
She released him unbearably slowly, leaving red marks on his wrist. "Very well. Let's have a look."
Luciano hardly dared breathe as she examined the cut leaves, carefully picking them up one by one with her gloved fingers.
"This is good enough work," she finally said. "You are skillful with your hands; there's no denying that."
"See?" Pietro mouthed. "You only mess it up when you panic. Just stay calm, and everything will be fine."
"Now burn them."
His hands still trembling, Luciano fastened the flask on the rack that held it above the gas burner. He opened the needle valve and lit a match above the opening, and a bright orange flame shot up. Slowly, he adjusted the valve and the opening slots until Ms. Mauvais nodded at him to stop.
"Now keep watching the flame and wait," she ordered before walking to the entrance. There was a low order, then footsteps. Only now did Luciano dare turn his head to glance at what was going on. Ms. Mauvais was draining a cup of elixir in one gulp before handing the empty cup back to a waiting servant. She took a moment to steady herself against the wall. How long had she been awake?
"The first step of transformation is calcination," Ms. Mauvais explained. “Fire is the cleansing element. It is pure force and light. The prima materia, the raw, impure matter, will rot in a few days. We need to burn it off completely to preserve its pure essence.”
“Like… purgatory?” Luciano asked. It was often difficult for him to understand what she told him, especially because he didn’t know many of the words.
Ms. Mauvais raised her eyebrows. “Do they still teach that? You can think of it this way, for now. Hang the flask a little lower."
A servant came in, holding a stack of envelopes. "Madam, these are your telegrams of today."
"Just leave them in my office," Ms. Mauvais replied without taking her eyes off Luciano. "No, that’s too low! Up… up… that’s it. In my office, I said. I'll read them later."
She placed her hand on the back of his neck while they watched the leaves being consumed by the heat. They curled up like terrified animals before shriveling, turning black, and finally crumbling into ashes.
"Precision is everything. If you hang the flask too high, the process will stretch out far too long. If you hang it too low, the flames will crack the glass and ruin the element. That's why you always need to have spares."
Another servant came in. "Madam, the new guests are scheduled to arrive tonight."
"I'll receive them." Her voice was still calm, but she tapped her fingers impatiently on Luciano’s neck, making his skin crawl.
"If you tell me when to turn it off, I can just do it," he offered.
"I told you to wait, didn’t I, darling? What is it?"
She was speaking to yet another servant who had appeared in the doorway.
"Excuse me, madam. You wished to be informed when we’re ready to lay out the new carpets."
"I'll be there."
"You don't need to attend this personally, we will - "
"I said I'll be there."
"Of course, madam."
Luciano couldn’t tell if Ms. Mauvais had hardened her grip around his neck on purpose. Anyway, it was best not to move or make a sound. Pietro grasped his hand. It was the only thing he could do to help him now. He couldn’t even reach the birthmark on the back of Luciano’s neck where he had touched him when they had thought they were about to be eaten by the tiger.
He knew it was his fault. His mind hid a treasure, the philosopher's stone, the secret of life and death. That's why Pietro and him had always been so different, and no one could understand them. If he could only uncover it, it would solve all their problems forever. But he had failed to produce it, no matter how much Ms. Mauvais had tried to make him.
"I know you’re trying your best, darling," she said when he pleaded with her. "But that doesn’t help us, does it?"
Still, she had taken pity on him in the end: "I'll give you a chance to make it up to us. You'll be my student. You will prove your worth by dedicating your life to our cause, as we all do."
So Luciano watched and waited as the last leaves turned to dust and Ms. Mauvais’s fingers squeezed his neck.
"Why am I the only one left? That's not right."
"Oh, child," Itamar sighed and shook his head. "What do you think you know about right and wrong? How do you expect to last if you cry over spilled milk? When you have lived your first hundred years, you'll understand that humankind is nothing but vermin, born only to die the next instant. But you are special."
He gently touched the side of Antoinette’s face. Her throat suddenly ached until she had trouble breathing.
"You haven't despaired where most would have. Hermes Trismegistus, the thrice greatest king, scholar, and priest, has seen your heart and found a treasure worth saving. He holds the secret of the universe, the power over life and death, and he's waiting for his servants to prove themselves fit to uncover it. He knows your pain, dear, but he has chosen you to serve him."
And as he finally smiled at her, she burst into tears. She leaned into his touch and clutched his hand, sobbing violently into his white glove.
Instantly, he yanked his hand away. "Stop that whining. Do you expect me to waste my time on this?"
She staggered, gasping for breath, but the sobs still tore out of her.
"Stand up straight," Itamar ordered. "Control yourself."
Antoinette struggled to hold the convulsions down. She felt sick. She wished she was dead.
"And clean your face. This is disgusting." He thrust his handkerchief into her hand.
She bit into the handkerchief and then into her tongue to stifle her cries. When the tears finally stopped, she couldn’t tell if it was because she managed to force them back or because she was drained. What followed was an unbearable silence.
“You may apologize now,” Itamar said at last.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
"I will. But I won’t make a practice of it. Now come over here."
Antoinette followed his gesturing hand, taking a small step for each wave until he signaled her to stop right before him. He stretched out his arm.
"You may rest your head, my dear."
She hesitated. Perhaps this was a test. But then the last strength left her, and she dropped her forehead into his palm. He didn't give away, not even when she rested its full weight on his arm. She didn’t mind that his hand felt like a skeleton under the smooth glove. He held her, his fingers brushing her under her chin. She didn’t dare to breathe or make a sound as he stroked her head.
"Now. Put out the flame."
Luciano obeyed and reached for the flask, but at the last moment, he remembered he needed to let it cool down before retrieving it.
"What comes next?"
"Bottling it up," Luciano recited, "And labeling it - the substance and the date."
"Well done." Finally, Ms. Mauvais let go of his neck. "Now look at me."
Luciano did as she told him. Only now, he noticed her bloodshot eyes that didn’t match her perfect face.
"Your thoughts have clearly been wandering off far too often. Tell me what’s on your mind."
Luciano froze under her unmoving stare. Pietro frantically shook his head.
"Don’t. This is your only secret, remember? She wouldn’t understand."
Luciano struggled to block him out. He couldn’t lie to her.
"I - I’ve been thinking of my brother. I’m sorry."
He flinched when she raised her hand, but she merely stroked his face.
"Oh, darling. Why are you tormenting yourself? I don’t blame you. I know it’s hard. It will get easier in time, I promise. Just remember that I never meant for you to bear this alone. Your brother was supposed to share your burden. His choice to leave you behind has brought us to this position. But you know I’ll never leave you, don’t you? You are my student. Whatever baggage you carry, I carry as well."
Her smile never reached her eyes. Her touch was cold, but it was real. Luciano felt a wave of relief and gratitude. He pressed his face into her hand and hugged her.
The next instant, she shoved him away. He stumbled against the shelf with the flasks and fell to the floor, making the flasks fall out and shatter, spilling leaves and shards all around him.
His mind turned blank as she stared at him with a mixture of rage, horror, and disgust. He barely had time to raise his arms above his face when she grabbed the flask with the burnt leaves and smashed it on his forehead. Numb, he waited for the next blow. She would kill him now.
But then she straightened up, adjusting her gloves and hair, her face utterly calm again.
"Clean up that mess," she said before leaving. Luciano crouched on the floor and listened to her fading footsteps. He was shivering, only now feeling the throbbing, cutting pain in his head.
“You’re bleeding,” Pietro said. “Let me help you.”
Luciano wanted to tell him to be careful about the shards but only managed to utter a wail.
"Don’t cry, my brother," Pietro pleaded. "It always makes me cry, too."
Ms. Mauvais sat at her desk. Dr. L looked over her shoulder at the papers she was studying.
"You really consider recruiting that girl? Amber? You can't be serious."
"Why not? She's eager to please and able to make everyone fawn over her. There's potential in that."
"She's a spoiled brat."
"We can fix that."
"She wouldn't last a week with us!"
"One never knows how long they will last in advance. You know it's time for me to take another student."
Dr. L hesitated. "Do you even want this?"
Ms. Mauvais glared at him. "If you want to be helpful, provide us with someone better! Speaking of it, why has that school of yours produced no suitable candidates thus far?"
Dr. L didn't answer.
"You would benefit from having a student of your own. You've been clearly having too much time on your hands lately. Otherwise, you wouldn't be brooding so much."
Dr. L left without another word.