Page 40 of Adam, Mine

There were also the authorities to contend with. It was a far cry to imagine that in the two weeks since he’d left Ingelstad that he’d been pinpointed as the source of the evening’s chaos. Much less that anyone managed to alert French police to search for a man of his description in time to catch him in the forty-eight hours he was here.

But standing in the center of a crowd, feeling a persistent gaze on the back of your neck, was chilling.

By the time Victor made it to his carriage to the sea, he was twitching with anxiety and his headache was back. He was certain he looked a fright. But the carriage driver took his money with a disaffected glance.

Victor was granted several hours of reprieve of silence and solitary to wind down the beating of his heart.

Traveling by ship was odious at the best of times. Victor had to save his money for the more expensive voyage from Scotland to the Mediterranean. So his selection for this jaunt to the Netherlands was below him.

The guests’ quarters were dark and musty, reeking of mildew, salt, and rotting hay. They dined on dry bread and salted meat.

Victor had purchased lemons preserved in honey for his journey. But a quick look at his company let him know that it wasn’t wise to eat them in the open lest he return to his bunk to find the entire jar missing.

Guests were not allowed to roam the deck during any time other than afternoons and could be sent below at the captain’s whim.

This wildness didn’t suit him. Victor wasn’t a person in search of the spray on his face. These bracing winds didn’t make him think of freedom. The sun’s glare was like being beneath a microscope.

He knew some men would board a ship and get lost in her. Preferring—somehow—the sweat and stink of men, salt in the air, and the promise of paltry pay to true civilization. He’d even heard stories of men leaving entire farms behind in the hands of their women never to return again.

Victor couldn’t imagine it. If one more sailor looked at him and commented on the fairness of his hair or the sweetness of his mouth, he would consider working out how to make peace with killing again.

But the trip did come to an end, as it always does, and Victor stumbled from the deck to the street.

Barley

It was the rainy season and the sky was gray. Victor’s clothes quickly grew damp with the fog and general humidity. The cold wasn’t fierce here, but it clung to his skin and wormed its way into his bones until he was quaking.

Victor’s hands grew unfeeling, clenched about the reins. He leaned forward trying to siphon warmth from the horse’s back.

He understood why most alchemists chose to live in isolation, but this was getting old.

By the time he was near Willem Dijkstra’s dwelling, Victor could only open his eyes in short stretches, and every step was bringing his headache roaring back.

The feeling of being watched persisted even behind his eyelids. With only the whistle of the wind and miles of hill around him, it mocked him near to fury.

Between blinks of darkness, there were hands touching him. Rough fabric brushed across his face. The smells of smoke and sheep and wood. The sound of hooves in the distance. Victor drifted into a warmth plush as summer before the black of unconsciousness took him for good.

Sweet

It had been five days since Elias had awoken in that cursed room.

His entire body screamed, skin itching with pus and infection. The fever was taking him, and as he sat on his horse’s back plodding forever forward, he dreamed.

He was dancing with Lyla, the prettiest girl in the village, swinging her round and round to gaze at the arch of her throat as she laughed. Then he dreamed he was lying on a pile of unbaked bread dough as soft as the swell of flesh. Then that he was walking through the meadow, dragging his fingertips across flowers’ faces. He swam in and out of consciousness to adjust his horse on the road.

Henry’s words guided him safely.

When Elias finally arrived, the hospital was different than the ones his family had taken him to in a much bigger city. It looked more like a large house or a modest church—just as Henry had described.

Elias led his exhausted beast through their gate, loping the reins over a fence post, then staggered to the front door.

He swallowed hard as blackness swam before his eyes. Then he clenched his fist to keep from fainting and pounded on the door.

It opened and an old man stood before him.

“Please,” Elias said immediately, “Grandfather, I am in need of aid.”

The old man tilted his head to the side and blinked. His eyes did not focus; they roved over him aimlessly. He reached out and drew his hand toward Elias’s face.