young master, but she had raised me from a yowling whelp, and it would have felt odd to be called master by her.
“I am very worried about Konrad,” I began cautiously.
She nodded, and I was not surprised to see her eyes moisten.
“I worry that the doctors do not know how to cure him,” I said, watching her, “and I wonder if perhaps there are healers with different skills who might be more successful.”
She said nothing, but her eyes would not meet mine.
“Do you know of any such people, Maria?”
She took a breath. “I do not.”
I sat back, discouraged, tried to think of another subtle line of questioning, and couldn’t.
“But I heard you talking to Mother,” I blurted out, “about some fellow you know of, an alchemist.”
“You little villain! Eavesdropping!” she said, and I suddenly felt five years old again, and caught out at some mischief.
“Who was it you were talking about?” I persisted.
“I promised your mother I would not speak of it.”
“To Father,” I said. “She asked you not to speak of it to Father. But you can tell me, Maria.”
She glared at me, then looked away. “You must promise me you will not speak of this to your parents,” she said. “And I do this only because I am so worried about your brother.”
“Of course,” I said.
“I put little faith in these doctors. Some cannot even cut hair straight, much less deliver a baby without killing the mother.” She sighed. “There was an incident a good many years ago; you and Konrad were just newborns. One of the city’s generals had a daughter, no more than six, who sickened suddenly. The general spared no expense. He summoned the finest physicians of Europe. All of them said the girl was beyond hope and would die before the winter was through. But the girl’s mother could not bear the thought, and sought out an apothecary right here in Geneva. Some said he was a gifted healer. Some said he was an alchemist. Some said he trafficked with the devil. But the mother did not care about any of that. She went to him and he prepared a medicine, and he saved that little girl.”
Maria’s voice trembled. I took my handkerchief and passed it to her, and counted five seconds while she dabbed her eyes, but I was too impatient to wait any longer.
“His name,” I said urgently. “What was the fellow’s name?”
“Julius Polidori.”
I had never heard of him, which was odd. Geneva, though an important city, was no vast metropolis like Paris or London, and my father’s position made him aware of anyone of prominence.
“And is he still in the city?” I asked Maria.
“I don’t know, Victor. But I think maybe you should find out.”
I smiled at her. “I will. I most surely will.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, as Konrad slumbered, Henry, Elizabeth, and I traveled to Geneva with Father in the carriage. Father had business to attend to at the Palais de Justice, and the three of us had convinced him that we should spend the day studying the history of our great republic by exploring its oldest buildings and monuments: Saint Peter’s, the Magdalen Church, the town hall. It was to be part of our schooling. Father, of course, was delighted at our keenness, and happy, too, to see us temporarily removed from the chateau and all its gloom.
As we approached Geneva along the south lake road, I admired the high ramparts that surrounded the city in the shape of a protective star. There were only five gated entrances, locked every night at ten o’clock, and the portcullises were not raised until five in the morning. The guards were under the strictest instructions never to deviate from this schedule, even if ordered by the magistrates themselves. Our city had seen many wars and sieges, and these current times, my father often said, were uncertain ones.
We stabled the horses and carriage at our city house, for we kept a small staff there even in the summer when we were mostly at the chateau. Father bade us farewell, and we agreed to meet at two in the afternoon for the drive home.
“To the town hall, then,” I said after Father had disappeared from view. We had discussed our strategy the night before, and we agreed that the town hall seemed the most sensible place to begin our search. The land registry office would have records of all the city’s property owners.
But when we asked the fussy town hall clerk to check, he found no entry for a Polidori.
“All this tells us is that he doesn’t own property,” I said outside in the square.
“He may well take rented rooms,” said Elizabeth.
“As a great many do,” added Henry.
Our next step was to ask at the various apothecary shops. If this fellow was as famous as Maria had said, others would have heard of him. But several young apprentices just shook their heads and claimed no knowledge of him.
An older fellow looked at us gravely over the top of his spectacles and said, “I have not heard that foul name mentioned in many years. I know nothing of his whereabouts, nor care to know.”
Our search had started near the center of the city, but slowly we were moving away from the elegant flowered fountains and airy public squares. The cobbled streets narrowed. There were fewer gentlemen about, and more sailors and laborers and women dressed in coarser fashion. I didn’t like the looks a couple of wharf hands gave us as we passed in the lanes.
I was beginning to despair, for we had asked now at some half dozen establishments, and no one had been able to tell us anything helpful about Julius Polidori.
“We are idiots,” said Henry suddenly.
I turned to see him looking into a greasy window where a row of typesetters sat hunched over tables, their blackened fingers plucking individual letters from trays.
“The Geneva Gazette,” said Henry. “This story of Maria’s-surely it would have been written up.”
“It must have been,” said Elizabeth eagerly. “The child of a general! Of course it would have been the talk of the town. Victor, did Maria give you an exact date?”
“She said it was the year of my birth, that it was winter.”
“Now we must hope that the newspaper keeps a proper archive,” said Henry.
I was not hopeful when we entered the offices, for the place was in a chaos of activity and noise and ink. At first it seemed no one would have a second to spare for us, but Elizabeth picked out the kindliest-looking young gentleman she could find. She walked to him and very prettily told him we had been set a historical assignment by our tutor, and would it be possible to look at some past issues of the newspaper.
It was quite remarkable, how helpful the fellow was. He gave us all candles and escorted us down to a cellar, and then my heart truly sank, for I saw tower after tower of newspaper, stacked to the very ceiling.
“It is like a city of paper,” I murmured to Elizabeth.
“Will it be difficult to find the period we seek?” she asked the young fellow.
“Not at all, miss, not at all.” He promptly led us to a particular tower, thrust his hand into it, and, like a magician, pulled out a wad of old newspapers.
“I believe these will suit you,” he said, beaming at Elizabeth. Elizabeth beamed back.
“Thank you so much, sir. You’ve been so kind.”
“If you need any further assistance, I shall be upstairs,” he said. He gave his name, bowed, and disappeared.
“He could not have been more helpful had he been on puppet strings,” Henry said in amazement.
Elizabeth blushed modestly. We each took several papers and in the light of our candles searched through them.
