A Golden Fury

mother’s work and came around to condemn her for it in shrill preacher’s tones. “Any great power is dangerous, of course it is. Electricity is dangerous, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be explored and used.”
“You’re talking about the Elixir of Life, not electricity. That’s not science. Mr. Vellacott says—”
“Mr. Vellacott couldn’t read the Kitāb al-Rahma even if he had it,” I snapped, thinking of the months I had spent poring over Jābir’s texts. “He hasn’t bothered to learn Arabic—he knows nothing of the whole Shi’a tradition. Don’t quote him to me like he’s some kind of master sage.”
Dominic raised his brows at me again, and I clenched my jaw, worried I had said too much. He might be tight-lipped, but Dominic seemed loyal to my father, and might very well tell him whatever I said. Little though he could do with the information without Arabic, I didn’t want to give him anything else for free.
I took down a book and flipped it open angrily. Dominic went back to his work. We did not speak for over an hour, until Dominic’s stomach make a loud, discontented noise.
“Go, get something to eat,” I said. “I can watch it.”
Dominic glanced at the door, then at me, then back at the fire. He made no move to get up.
“Fine,” I said, suppressing my irritation. “I will bring you something.”
Out of the laboratory, the chill morning had turned to a damp afternoon. I thought I would wander a bit before going back to the inn for food. I pulled my shawl closer and walked down the narrow alley between the buildings, toward the street. My head buzzed with plans and schemes to make the Stone and abscond with it, none of them very practical. I considered whether I ought to tell my father the truth and make some kind of bargain with him. I could give him the texts with my mother’s notes if he let me have the first Stone.
My mind was not on my surroundings as a man leapt from a shadowed doorway directly into my path. Before I could do more than gasp, he had dragged me into the doorway and pressed me against the wall.
It was Bentivoglio. I gasped against his hand over my mouth while his other delved in my clothes. I couldn’t scream, but I pulled my head up just enough to bite down on his fingers. He cried out and pushed my head back into the wall. Pain exploded everything into whiteness, and I screamed until his hand clamped onto my mouth and nose, stifling sound and breath. I grabbed his hand with both of mine and managed to pull it down enough to gulp down air. His other hand fumbled against my thigh, but I was too much occupied with keeping my lungs filled to interfere. His face was inches from mine, and as I gasped I caught his breath full in my face. It smelled of sulfur.
“Professore!”
Dominic’s voice sliced through the mist, sharp and commanding.
“Holy mother, what are you doing? Let her go!”
The professor let me go at once and ran. Without his body pressing me against the wall I slid to the ground. My legs had turned to liquid and pain blackened my sight. I put my hand to the back of my head and drew it away damp with blood. Dominic was shouting. I hardly heard, felt, or saw anything. The smell of sulfurous breath, real or remembered, blocked out everything else.
“Thea? Did he hurt you? I heard you scream—”
Dominic was beside me, crouched on his heels. I shook my head, then looked down at the blood on my hand.
“My head.”
The pain was starting to come on in sharp, stabbing flashes. Dominic turned my head slightly to look, then frowned.
“We should get you inside. My mother’s house is close by. Can you walk?”
It turned out that I could. I took his arm and walked without knowing where. The pain was beginning to fade to a dull ache, but without its immediate distraction my fear grew. Bentivoglio’s attack was too much like another one.
We went down a flight of steps off the street to a below-ground door. Dominic unlocked it and helped me to the first chair inside. It was dark, the only light from the door and a narrow, high window that peeked out onto the street level. Dominic lit a kerosene lamp, illuminating a small but very tidy little home. There was a basket of knitting beside my chair, an emblem of domesticity that was as strange and fascinating to me as an alchemist’s crucible might be to another girl.
Dominic brought a pitcher and cloth, and pulled a chair beside me.
“Do you knit?” I asked.
“What?”
I pointed to the knitting basket, and Dominic’s face cleared.
“My mother’s,” he said. “May I?”
I looked at him. Part of my mind was racing, faraway. The part left in the room was stunned and lagging.
“Your head,” he said. “I’d like to clean it and make sure the bleeding has stopped.”
I nodded. The cool cloth on the back of my head stung, bringing me back to myself.
“The scrape isn’t so bad,” said Dominic. “The scalp bleeds a lot, but the wound is small. As long as you aren’t concussed…”
“Cave Maledictionem Alchemistae,” I muttered.
Dominic drew back.
“Sorry?”
“I thought you had enough Latin to keep up,” I said.
“Beware—?”
“Beware the Alchemist’s Curse,” I said. Goose pimples pricked at my arms, and the chill fear I’d been pushing down washed over me.
“I’m a fool,” I whispered. “I should have seen it.”
“You aren’t a fool,” said Dominic. But he didn’t know. He didn’t understand any of this, and his face showed it plainly.
“This morning, Vellacott said Bentivoglio wasn’t himself,” I said.
“Yes,” agreed Dominic, and his face flashed anger. “I wouldn’t have believed him capable— But I was wrong.”
“You were right,” I said. “He isn’t himself. And soon he will be even less so. It will get worse. I’ve seen how the Alchemist’s Curse ends.”
“The Alchemist’s Curse?” Dominic looked from my face to the wound on