The Alchemist in the Attic (17 page)

Atwood turned back. Walter was still struggling, but Quirke and Wry seemed to have him well in hand. Madame Valli met his eyes. She glanced at the candle in his hand, then smiled. “Go on, darling,” she said. There was no humor or teasing in her voice anymore. Atwood nodded and hurled the candle with all his might at the tree. It might have carried the most abominable and uncanny of fruit, but it was still a tree.

And it still burned.

It was an old house. The fire started quickly, quicker than Atwood had expected. He stood rooted to the spot in utter shock, unable to move or think, while all around him the raging inferno roared through the attic in a swirling hurricane of smoke and flame. The stench of burnt wood and burnt flesh choked the air. He could not feel the heat on his skin, or hear Madame Valli frantically calling his name. Atwood’s mind had rebelled at last. This was his final retreat. He was far away, safe at last; if not from the flames, then from himself. He was aware of everything, yet not aware.

Behind him, Walter too seemed frozen, staring up in mute horror as the fire licked at the monstrous tree and reached out to embrace his dangling brother’s flesh. He could not comprehend what Atwood had done, could not believe the terrible betrayal. He was dimly aware of Wry as he reached down grab him, either to save him or arrest him, and he lashed out on instinct. Walter pushed the sergeant back and grabbed a beaker and smashed it into Wry’s face.

Wry fell back with a cry, then roared, ready to take another swing. He looked positively murderous, but Walter didn’t care. His brother was burning. Nothing else mattered to him in that moment. He pushed to his feet, charging through the smoke and flame and toward the tree, desperate to save his family.

“Leave him,” Quirke shouted to Wry. “He’ll come to us or he’ll burn.” Wry scowled but nodded. They couldn’t stay much longer.

Madame Valli pulled at Atwood’s sleeve. “We should go too,” she said. “Our work here is done.” He didn’t reply, barely seemed to hear her at all.

“Snap out of it!” she shouted and slapped him, hard. Once, twice, cutting through his reverie.

Atwood came back to himself, as if waking from a dream. His cheeks stung, but he instantly realized the precariousness of their situation. The fire was spreading.

The two of them picked their way carefully, urgently through the flames and debris, deathly aware that each chocking breath might be their last.

Madame Valli proved unexpectedly agile, while Atwood stumbled along, barely avoiding a falling beam. They made it to the door, a half step behind Quirke and Wry, the flames closing in at their heels.

Atwood turned from the doorway, risking a backward glance. Walter was desperately trying to beat back the inferno and save what was left of his brother. It was a doomed, glorious attempt. No one watching could have doubted his devotion or his bravery. Then that poor nameless, soulless thing opened its eyes, perhaps for the first time. There was intelligence in those eyes, heavy with awareness and pain.

“Oh my god,” Atwood breathed. The others looked back, and as the four of them watched, the two brothers, both grown from the same tree, stared at each other. There was a world of shared understanding and shared sorrow in their gaze. They were the only two of their kind who had ever been, and now would ever be. For all the unnatural monstrosity of their creation and germination, Atwood felt an inexplicable sadness at the thought.

Then there was a resounding crash and before their eyes the tree collapsed, burning in on itself, taking its human-like fruit with it. There was a great wail as Walter reached out desperately for his brother, but it was too late.

He jerked around wildly, tear-streaked and ash-ridden. His eyes passed over Atwood, but didn’t see him. He reached down into the inferno and pulled Valencourt up into his arms. His coat was on fire, but he didn’t care. In his arms he cradled the alchemist—his father, his maker—and made his slow, stumbling way toward the door.

Valencourt’s eyes fluttered open for a moment. “Walter?” he asked, and then fell silent.

There was no time for Atwood to help or hinder his old friend and, in truth, he didn’t know which he would have done. Instead Atwood turned and kept on running, leaving the alchemist and his children behind. All burning.

Atwood and Madame Valli didn’t stop running until they were outside. He kept imagining Walter and Valencourt stumbling behind him, but didn’t dare turn. Dodging flames and falling timbers took all his concentration.

They emerged at last into the night, followed shortly by Wry and Quirke, slightly singed and out of breath, but alive. The top floor was already ablaze, a beacon of misfortune in the night. The neighbors had already gathered in the snow to gawk. There was a putrid stench on the air. The others muttered to one another questioningly, but they knew. It was the stench of Valencourt’s laboratory burning.

The firemen barreled in as fast as their horses could carry them and set to work under the neighborhood’s watchful eyes. Atwood recognized Mr. Lint among the onlookers. He had survived his own flight from the fire and was shivering in a tattered robe and slippers, twitching in his misery. Captain Fornell had also emerged unscathed and was organizing a bucket brigade with severe precision, and generally making a nuisance of himself, getting in the firemen’s way. Of Valencourt and Walter there was no sign.

“I’m sorry.” Atwood blinked, startled at the voice. Sergeant Wry was watching him, grim-faced and remorseful.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry,” Wry repeated. “I’ve misjudged you all these years.”

“No need to apologize, Sergeant.” Atwood forced a smile. “You probably judged me just about right. It’s Walter you misjudged, and we all made that mistake, me more than anyone.” Wry nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced.

Inspector Quirke sighed and put a companionable hand on Wry’s shoulder. He’d liked Walter as well.

“So,” he said after a moment, still breathing heavily. “What the hell was that up there?”

“I don’t know,” Atwood said. “Not really. The one you should ask is Madame…Valli…” He glanced around, frowning. She had disappeared, vanished into the night. “Dammit!” He sighed, then chuckled to himself. “I had questions for her, too.”

Quirke raised an eyebrow. “Who was she?”

“My neighbor,” Atwood said wryly. “An opera singer and an occultist, and unless I miss my guess she knows more about…” He paused, groping for words. “She knows more than I do, anyway.”

“And you know more than us,” Wry said, but there was none of the usual accusations in his voice. It was merely a statement of fact.

Atwood shrugged, helplessly. “Would you have believed me?” he asked.

“I saw it,” said Wry, “and I’m still not sure I believe.”

“Neither am I,” Atwood admitted. “Neither am I.” He turned to Quirke. “What about you, Inspector?”

Quirke said nothing for a long moment, while around them the fire brigade went about its business and a small crowd gathered to watch the fire. “I saw what I saw,” he said at last. “I don’t know what it was, exactly, but there’s no point in doubting my own eyes.” He grunted. “Not that I’ll be mentioning any of this in my report.”

“What exactly are you going to say in your report?” Atwood asked, curiously.

“The truth, mostly.” Quirke pursed his lips. “Just not the tree or the man growing from it. I’d find myself at St. Benedictus before the day was done, and so would you.” He fixed Atwood with a sharp, warning glance. “You need to be careful what you write, too. No one would believe you either, and there’s still that letter from Staalman.”

“I know,” Atwood said with a scowl. “I’ll be careful.” He glanced around. “Gage won’t be happy when he learns you’ve been talking to me.”

“You’re a witness,” Wry pointed out with a straight face.

“And besides,” Quirke said, “I doubt he’ll be much of a problem. He’ll be pinning medals to our chests soon enough.”

“And I thought I was an optimist,” Atwood said.

“Nonsense! We just caught the Organ Harvester, after all. The mayor will insist, with a little encouragement from our friends in the press.”

Atwood gave Quirke a tired grin. “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

“Assuming you even have a job anymore,” Quirke said.

“Don’t worry, Inspector. I don’t think that will be a problem after tonight.”

Atwood gestured. A seemingly diffident young man had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, flanked by Selby and Maguire. They all recognized the man immediately. It was Hearst. He had come in person.

“Apparently not,” Quirke said. “Good luck.”

*

Atwood took a moment to brush away some of the ash and debris from his clothes, then straightened and summoned his most confident, engaging smile. It felt a little tired around the edges, but for the first time in a long while, he had the upper hand. Hearst had come to him.

The owner of the
Examiner
was a thin man, younger even than Atwood had thought, but his eyes were sharp and cut through to the bone. He assessed Atwood with an impresario’s eye, measuring his worth, his resolve, and his desperation. Atwood felt raw.

“Pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Atwood,” Hearst said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“Nothing good, I presume,” he said.

“It depends on who’s doing the talking,” Hearst said, and glanced at his two companions with a private, teasing smile. If possible, Selby’s face became even more sour, but he held his tongue. Maguire looked oddly content, almost proud, but Atwood turned away. He couldn’t look at Maguire, not yet.

“I don’t doubt it,” he managed to say. Whatever his feelings were about them, right now Hearst was the only one who mattered. “I’ve made my share of enemies.”

“Yes,” Hearst agreed. “You have, but you can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies, especially a reporter.” He put a companionable hand on Atwood’s shoulder. “Come,” he said. “I believe I have a proposition for you.” He led Atwood a few paces away.

Atwood could feel Selby and Maguire watching them, trying to hear their conversation. Hearst was aware of them as well, and must have known about all their maneuvers and their feuds, but his face didn’t so much as flicker. He was the man in charge. His were the only maneuvers that mattered.

“I’ve had a very long day, Mr. Hearst,” Atwood said after a moment. “So I hope you don’t mind if we get straight to business.”

“Please,” Hearst said. “I appreciate directness.”

“You want my story,” Atwood said.

“And you want a job.”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Hearst nodded. “I have men who can report the news, men who can hurl invectives at everything under the sun, and I have men who can make news. Which are you?”

“All of them,” Atwood said simply.

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Any man who can walk out of this mess with a story in his pocket has grit and talent to spare.”

“I do my best.” Atwood flashed a tired grin. “And I have a story for you, all right, but I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you,” he said.

“You might be surprised what I’ll believe,” Hearst said, taking in Atwood’s singed appearance and the inferno still blazing behind them. “Very surprised. But in any case, I don’t need it to be believable, Mr. Atwood. I need it to make the readers exclaim ‘gee whiz!’ or ‘God Almighty!’ Anything less is a failure. So, do you think this story of yours has a ‘gee whiz’ in it?”

“Oh yes,” Atwood said with a smirk. “Definitely.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hearst said with a smile.

Behind them, Atwood could hear a low, familiar chuckle. Selby and Maguire were arguing. He strained to listen.

“Why are you laughing?” Selby muttered. “He’ll be coming after you too.”

“I’m an old man now,” Maguire said. “My secrets can’t hurt me, and I know most of his. Besides, I get to watch him tear you apart. That’s always good for a laugh.”

Atwood grinned at Selby over his shoulder. Already, plans were starting to take root. Maguire was right. He had old scores to settle. Maybe this time Atwood would be the one who ran Selby out of town. There was a certain vicious poetry to that, and as for Maguire, Atwood would think of something. He was still his father’s son.

“Careful,” Hearst said softly, drawing Atwood back from his thoughts. “You have your uses, Mr. Atwood, but so does Selby.” His voice was implacable. “You’ll both learn to keep your feud to yourselves, or you won’t be of any more use. Do you understand me, Mr. Atwood?”

“Yes, sir,” Atwood said. Hearst might be young, but there was a core of iron in him that would not bend.

“Excellent,” Hearst said softly. “Welcome to the future of journalism.”

They shook hands.

*

Madame Valli found Atwood afterward, alone on the edge of the crowd. The fire was burning itself out, leaving the nearby houses largely untouched. Around them the crowd began to disperse, slowly at first, some trickling back to their beds, others out into the night. Even the opium eater managed to stagger away to find solace and a home of sorts in familiar dens and pipes, but the two of them remained in comfortable, watching silence.

Atwood could feel her beside him, waiting silently. He appreciated her patience, but he knew it wouldn’t last. They both had too many questions, but for now at least she was leaving him to his thoughts. He had lost his best friend twice over tonight, and nearly his life.

The hollowed, blackened shell of 7 Pretorius Street loomed above them. A few people were already picking their way through the ruins, scavengers mostly, bitter and desperate. A handful of policemen were trying to hold them back. He wondered what they would make of the attic, what they might scavenge from the ruins of Valencourt’s madness. He shivered, but it was mostly from the autumn chill. It was nearly winter, and the wind from the Bay had a biting edge.

Atwood considered returning to the attic, making the dangerous climb to see for himself, and to put all doubts to rest that they were really dead. But he felt so tired, and the thought of the terrible tableau waiting for him brought with it a strange, unlooked-for sadness. Perhaps it was better not knowing for certain.

“Where did you disappear to?” he asked, finally.

“Nowhere in particular, darling.” Madame Valli smirked up at him, almost fondly. “But I had no desire to answer any of your friend’s tedious questions.”

“What about my tedious questions?”

“That depends, but first I have one of my own.”

“Oh?” Atwood raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. You see, darling, I can’t help noticing that the police arrived suspiciously quickly.”