“Don’t speak to her that way,” snapped my father. Valentin snapped back, but the argument they fell into was drowned out by my mother’s voice in my head.
The German is right. What do you care if Will is tortured? What do you care if he dies, so long as he gives up the Stone first?
I care, I replied. Anyway, I thought you wanted me to marry him.
The voice in my mind filled with exasperation. That was not unusual for my mother, but there was suddenly something else there, something unfamiliar.
Marry him, torture him, kill him. What does it matter? Do what you must so that we can be together.
I stood straighter. A prickle crawled up my spine, like some many-legged insect under my skin.
We?
I wanted to be wrong. I had accepted my mother’s voice in my head. It was some kind of lingering effect of the madness, I thought, or perhaps she really had somehow found a way to speak to me. But this—
Who are you?
You know, Theosebeia.
And I did.
I looked down at Dominic again. The dark signs of warning my mind had tried to glide over caught it, and held. The Stone was using my mother’s voice. My mother, whose mind it had stolen and feasted on. The Stone had a will, and intelligence. It devoured minds. It had done this to Dominic. It had done this to me. It could do it again.
What would it mean, to join myself to a thing like this?
It will mean that you are the last alchemist. The only adept to achieve their heart’s desire. The final maker of the Philosopher’s Stone. The only one to ever be truly mine.
“Thea!” My father’s hand was on my shoulder, pulling me from the Stone’s enticements. “He is here.”
A German was in the doorway, talking to Valentin.
“Here, I think, Otto,” said Valentin, in response to a question I hadn’t caught. “No need to soil another perfectly good room.”
Otto called down the hallway, and moments later a big German with a scarf knotted tight around his neck came in carrying Will in his arms like an infant. Martin pulled a chair forward, a small, horrible smile twisting his mouth. The big German—Karl, the one whose neck I had slashed—set Will down in the chair. Will nearly fell out of it, collapsing into helpless coughing. Martin bound his hands behind him, then left the room. Now Will could not even cover his mouth while he coughed. Blood and spit dripped down. He slumped forward, looking at no one. He looked barely alive. I knelt beside him.
“Will, please,” I said. “Just tell them. Don’t make them hurt you.”
He opened his eyes, and the ghost of a smile flickered on his bloodstained lips.
“When I said you should punish me,” he whispered. “This wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Guilt writhed like snakes in me. “I don’t want this, either, Will,” I said. “Please.”
Martin returned with a leather satchel. He opened it, revealing a wide selection of knifelike implements.
My father made a guttural noise of horror and disgust.
“Valentin, is this really necessary?” he asked.
“Not at all,” said Valentin. “The moment he tells us where the Stone is, we stop.”
Martin selected a slender silver instrument with what looked like a sharp scoop at the end. I stared at it, eyes wide, and pictures of what it might be meant for formed in my mind, one shuddering horror after another.
“Ah yes,” said Valentin. “We won’t start with the fingernails. That took so long last time. Martin is very patient, but I am not.”
Martin took Will by the chin with one hand and tilted his head back. The other hand held the scoop.
“Let’s see how attached you are to your eye,” he said in German.
He laughed. It was some kind of joke, apparently. He brought the instrument to Will’s face. I jumped to my feet and pushed him back. Martin stepped back and glared at me.
“Karl!” he snapped.
Karl took me by the arm and pulled me back. I struggled in vain. Martin took Will’s face in his hand again. In the abstract, the thought of Will facing torture in this state had been enough to make me ill. But here in front of me, it was unbearable.
“No!” I screamed. “Valentin, stop him!”
But Valentin’s face was set.
“Will! Tell him!” Will squirmed. His shallow breath came in frantic gasps. Martin brought the scoop to his eye. “I’ll heal you, I swear it. Will, please, please—”
Will coughed, spraying blood on Martin, who stepped back, grimacing with distaste.
“I’ll tell,” he wheezed. “No torture necessary. I’ll tell.”
I stopped struggling. I stared at him, hope warring fear in my chest.
“The truth,” said Valentin. “Or Martin will take you apart piece by piece.”
Will nodded, almost imperceptibly. “The Sweet Margaret. Captained by John Blake. It’s anchored offshore now. Won’t reach the dock until tomorrow.”
Valentin looked at Otto. “Go to the port master,” he said. “Find out if there is such a ship scheduled to dock.”
Otto nodded and left. I pulled against Karl’s grip, and he let me go. Will was coughing again. I went to untie his hands. My own were shaking. My heart thudded low in my chest, weighed down by despair.
This was a foolish idea. Now they will kill him.
“No, Thea,” said Valentin. “He will wait right there.”
Valentin turned to Karl and started issuing instructions. I knelt beside Will and looked into his eyes. He closed them, and a shudder passed through his frail frame.
The Sweet Margaret was the name we had given the splintery rowboat we puttered around the Comte’s pond in. It wasn’t a real ship. Will had lied. Otto would find out soon enough and come tell Valentin.
Fix this. However you must. If he dies, you lose me.
I stood. I backed away from Will, toward my father. I gathered my thoughts. I had to get Will out of here before Valentin discovered he had lied and tore him apart. Will wouldn’t survive whatever came next, and he knew that I knew it. He
