“Dominic is in there?” I asked Valentin.
“Dominic,” he repeated, and I realized with chagrin I had given him a name he didn’t know. “Yes. Dominic is in there.”
A pang of worry shot through me.
“Is he hurt?”
“I think not gravely,” said Valentin. “He may have lost a tooth. The surgeon will see to him in a moment.”
“If he becomes violent, please don’t hurt him again,” I said.
“Do you expect him to become violent?”
I glanced at the burly German guarding Dominic’s door, the one who had thrown him to the floor and knocked out his teeth. I noticed with satisfaction that he bore his own marks from the encounter. An enormous bruise blackened one of his eyes, and his lower lip was swelling and split. But he stood tall despite that, ignoring his painful face, his arms straight at his side. His hair was pulled back as neatly and tightly as Valentin’s, and his clothes were nearly identical to those of the guard across the hallway.
“What are you people?” I asked, turning back to Valentin. His hand was on the doorknob, but he hadn’t opened the door.
“We are employees of Burggraf Ludwig, who owns this house, as I have told you,” he replied.
“You are soldiers,” I said.
Valentin inclined his head in assent. “Once we were.”
“But you kidnap women and torture sick men,” I said. “Have you no honor?”
“You believe we are men of honor, because we were soldiers?” asked Valentin.
He opened the door, and placed his hand on the small of my back, steering me into the room. A library opened before me, inlaid up to the high ceiling on every wall with dark mahogany bookcases. Rich red curtains were pulled back from the tall windows, which let in just enough light to read by. The pleasant smell of good leather, paper, and pipe smoke was cut through by something else, something sharp and ugly.
Will sat in a burgundy chair by the fire, trembling and pale. I wasn’t sure what it was I smelled, but it came from him. He looked up at me, an expression of agony on his face.
“I’m sorry, Bee,” Will groaned from the chair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell them. I didn’t mean to tell them anything.”
I walked toward him more quickly than I wanted to, forcing down my hesitation. I knelt beside his chair and tried to take his hand in mine, but he winced and jerked it away. His fingers were covered in white bandages. The smell—strong, unhealthy, and chemical—was coming from them. It was some kind of disinfectant.
“Oh Will, what did they do?” I whispered.
“Nothing,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. The surgeon said they’ll grow back. That isn’t why I told them—”
“Don’t, Will,” I said. “I understand. I don’t blame you.”
And I was resolved to try not to, though a twisting, hollow feeling inside made me wonder if I could. I tried not to consider whether I would have betrayed him after merely having a few fingernails ripped out. If I had let myself dwell on it, I would have had to admit that I did not believe I would.
“You don’t understand!” It was nearly a shout, and proved too much for him. He started to cough. His whole body convulsed with it, and I looked away. It hurt to see him so broken down. It was a dull ache that hadn’t left me since he opened the door, one that flared up into acute pain with every convulsion. When he was finished I forced myself to look at him again. He was wiping blood from his mouth, breathing hard and shallow.
“They knew you were at my house,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “They saw you go in. They said they would hurt you until I made the Stone. So I told them I didn’t know how, but you did.” He broke off again, staring down into the bloody handkerchief in his unbandaged hand. “I’m sorry, Bee. I shouldn’t have, I know I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t bear for them to hurt you. The things they said they would do—”
He broke off again. His coughs were wet and deep and painful. I shot another angry glare at Valentin. It felt good, and easy, to be furious with him. He was a monster, torturing Will and threatening me until he told them what he had told them. Valentin frowned and looked away, but he didn’t deny it.
“Fortunately you are willing,” said Valentin with a trace of irony. “So no outrages will be necessary.”
There was a quiet knock on the door, and Valentin stepped out.
Will’s dark blue eyes locked on to me with an open intensity I’d never experienced before without a bottle of champagne to prepare me. They were still beautiful, but their usual intelligence was overshadowed with fear so deep I could have fallen into it. It wasn’t fear of Valentin, or fear of torture. Those things weren’t the worst terrors he faced. It was fear of death, and it began to thread its way from him into me.
“I’m dying anyway. Another month or two of my life isn’t worth your sanity.”
His words were flat. They were lies. He was no more ready to die than I was ready to let him. Valentin slipped back into the room, and I stood to face him.
“I can make the Philosopher’s Stone for your master,” I said. “But the process will cost me my mind.”
Valentin’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead as far as they could go. “That seems unlikely.”
“I’ve seen it twice now. Almost three times, if Dominic is not far
