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“I’d love to leave, believe me. This place stinks. But then how would I get a chance to speak to you?”
“I can’t really talk right now,” I say, turning my back on him and busying myself with the fire, placing my crucible in the iron frame I’ve set over it.
“Don’t be silly. Of course you can make time to talk to me.” He leans on my worktop, his big, thick arm knocking over one of my mortars. Luckily for him, it’s not the one with the augium in it. He looks down at the piles of equipment and wrinkles his nose. “You should stop wasting your time with this stuff. You know, most girls are out making an effort with themselves, especially if they want to catch someone’s eye.”
“Good thing I don’t want to catch anyone’s eye, then,” I reply, turning the crucible in its frame. Even if I was interested in Thatch, or anyone else, I can’t afford distractions right now, not when I’m so close to the answers, so close to the breakthrough that could change everything for my village.
Thatch just blinks at me, like he didn’t even hear what I said. Maybe he didn’t. He seems to spend most conversations alternating between talking and waiting for the other person to shut up so he can talk again.
I turn away and concentrate on checking my quantities are right. Maybe it would be smarter to hold off until Thatch left, but I’ve been waiting all month to try this combination, and I don’t think I can bear to wait a minute longer.
“When we’re married, you’ll be able to stop all of this and focus on the things that matter.”
I nearly drop the tongs I’m holding.
“What?” I splutter. “I’m not marrying you!”
“Of course you are. It’s what everyone expects. Who else would be a match for someone like me? I’m thinking of a wedding in the spring,” he continues. “And of course, we’ll want children right away. Once you’re a wife and mother, you won’t have any time for this nonsense.” He looks thoughtful, which is a feat for Thatch, and he speaks as if talking to himself. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be a good mom. You already have practice working yourself to the bone to look after helpless people. But your dad’s not going to be around forever, and it’s not your responsibility to go on trying to save everyone in this village just because they can’t take care of themselves. Our children will keep you focused on the important things.”
My frustration flares like the fire in the grate, which has now heated the crucible to a red glow. Besides, I realize he’s not listening anyway, so I might as well say what I want to say.
“You’ll be singing a different tune when this village finally has food to eat and coal to keep it warm. Once I figure this out…everything will be different. Aren’t you tired of watching everyone around us struggle, Thatch? Don’t you wish we could afford more? Do better for them?”
To my shock, my words actually seem to register.
“What do you mean?” he asks. His eyes examine the nearest roll of parchment more closely, falling on one, crucial word.
“Alchemy? Isn’t that when you—” I can’t answer him, not when all my attention is focused on the crucible. I lift it and tip a single drop into a bowl holding a bent iron nail I scavenged from behind a stable.
I watch, heart thudding, as the catalyst hits the nail, instantly liquidizing it. The swirling fluid gleams an unmistakable color and I hear Thatch gasp. The solution starts to harden as it cools, each second bringing it closer to the unmistakable luster of real, pure gold.
Then suddenly the surface cracks and the shine dies, blackness spreading until I’m left with nothing but a heavy, drab lump.
“Dammit!” I throw the crucible back into the fire in frustration. “I’m so close.” I know Thatch has seen it too, how near to success I am. “I just need enough of this stupid ore to work out the quantities once and for all.”
When I look up Thatch’s expression is pensive—which looks so strange on him that I’m taken aback.
“Was that…?” He trails off, more uncertain than I’ve ever heard him.
“No,” I answer. “Not yet. But someday…” I can’t believe I’m confiding in him, of all people, but as our eyes meet, I see the hope there that I’ve felt so many times myself. Hope that this could be the thing that changes the lives of our families and neighbors, that allows our village to have food and comfort and safety where there’s been only hunger and fear for so long. For the first time, I feel a spark of real connection with the man I’ve always dismissed before. Maybe I’ve been wrong about Thatch?
“Think of how amazing I’d look, all decked out in gold,” he says, awed.
Ah. Not wrong about him at all, then.
“Yes, well, I have to get it right first,” I say. “And now, I think it’s time for you to go.” To hurry him along, I take hold of his arm, pulling him to the door. Thankfully, he goes willingly enough—apparently lost in visions of his own splendor. As long as it gets him out the door, he can think whatever he likes.
As I watch him leave, I stare down at the remains of the experiment. It’s the closest I’ve gotten, so much so that it hurts knowing it’s still not close enough. But I’m not about to give up. I swear to myself for the millionth time that one day I’ll get this to work, and then the people of this village won’t have to worry about empty rivers and barren fields. Then we’ll all go to bed with our bellies full and our dreams peaceful, having dined like kings off of dishes of gold that I made from nothing but discarded pieces of dull, black metal.
Chapter 3
Ican’t stand to look at the evidence of my latest failure for long. I swiftly put out the fire—we can’t afford to waste wood as it is—and go inside. My father, Isaac, sits in his usual chair, head slumped over to one side, snoring. I don’t need to look far to see the empty bottle—it’s been his companion ever since Mom died. I gently lift the liquor from his fingers and find a threadbare blanket to drape over him so he doesn’t catch a chill. What someone like Thatch can’t understand is that my love for him has nothing to do with how good he is at taking caring of us. He’s not “helpless” like Thatch implied, but even if he was, I wouldn’t care. He’s the person I love most in this world. I don’t need him to be perfect—I just need him to be here, as happy and comfortable as I can make him. I can be helpful enough for the two of us.
I try to keep myself busy, putting any thought of alchemy from my mind, but my brain finds it difficult. I locate a few withered vegetables that I think I could maybe rustle up into a stew for dinner, and as I cut them, I find calculations creeping into my thoughts, musings about a new formula I could try or an extra ingredient I might use.
Even this latest failure can’t stop me from trying to untangle the problem. Even if it weren’t for the money my work brought in, I’d still need my experiments like I need the air to breathe. Without them I’m afraid that everything else would suffocate me: Dad’s grief, Thatch’s persistence, Sanna’s fear.
“That you, Nora?” My father’s shambles into our small kitchen where I’m finishing dinner. He’s the only one who calls me Nora, and I warm at his use of my nickname. He eyes the stew I’m making.
