A Golden Fury

my head, clearly concluding I was concussed after all.
“My mother,” I said, closing my eyes against the memory. “She is mad now, completely mad. Her breath smelled like sulfur, and so did Professore Bentivoglio’s. She tried to kill me.”
Dominic’s eyes widened even farther.
“But—but Bentivoglio wasn’t trying to kill you.”
“I told you, it will get worse. Look.”
I reached into my pocket to show him the text with the Jābiran warning, and my mother’s notes. But they were gone. The vial of transmuting agent was as well. All at once I understood why Bentivoglio had been rifling through my clothes.
“He took it! He has my mother’s notes!”
I tried to stand up, but Dominic put a hand on my shoulder to keep me seated. Panic rose as I imagined Bentivoglio, red-eyed, copying down everything my mother had written, copying the text and my translation of it, taking all our work for himself. My head spun, and I doubled over.
“We can get them back,” he said. “Please, don’t fret.”
“I have to get them back now, right now!”
Another thought occurred to me, making me gasp.
“It will make him worse! Vae illi, qui non accipit—woe to whom the Stone doesn’t accept…”
I fell silent, working it through. If the same affliction had befallen Bentivoglio and my mother, then I could no longer brush aside the warnings in my mother’s notes. It seemed they had both been rejected by the Stone—whatever that meant. Perhaps they had made the same mistake in their steps, or they were both unworthy …
Unworthy. My mind seized the thought with hope. Yes, that could certainly be the case. I thought of my mother, with her hot anger and cold contempt. Not so different from Bentivoglio and his insults. Both had benefitted from my work without acknowledgment or gratitude. And if it was that, then perhaps I was not unworthy, and needn’t worry about falling victim to their fate.
“We have to go,” I said, coming back to myself. “We have to get my papers.”
Dominic’s brow knitted, and he seemed to be considering his next words carefully. I jumped to my feet, and this time threw off Dominic’s hand.
“We should get Mr. Vellacott,” he said. “I can’t force Professore Bentivoglio to do anything on my own.”
I hesitated, and my heart sank as my mind worked it through. We needed my father to get back my papers. My secret was over. He would see the papers, and if he broke the code they would show him how to follow the path to the Stone without my help. Even if he could not break the code, he would surely try to force me to translate for him. I would either have to flee or help him, and if I helped him, the best I could hope for then was that he might let me use it to cure my mother. My father would be the Stone’s creator and discoverer, even if he did none of the work himself and thus avoided the curse. I would become a footnote, mentioned as an apprentice if at all. And yet I could not take on Bentivoglio on my own. He had already overpowered me thoroughly once.
“Yes, yes, all right,” I said bitterly. “Let’s go.”
We walked quickly through the town, back to High Street and the forbidding walls of Oriel College. Spells of dizziness assailed me more than once, but adrenaline and Dominic’s arm kept me upright. At the porter’s gate, Dominic looked me over, uncertain.
“Maybe you should wait here,” he said.
And indeed, if I had drawn stares yesterday with my French clothes, I would draw still more with blood all over them. I knotted my hands into my skirts, but the blood was dry now and didn’t come off.
“No.” I hadn’t done this. A furious pressure in my chest was staring to release. I hadn’t shoved my own head into a wall, any more than I had conceived myself out of wedlock. Let the right people feel shame. I wouldn’t bear it for them.
I followed Dominic across the quad again. It was midafternoon now, and students wandered through it holding their books and staring openly at me. We went into a hall, up a stairway, and through a library. The library was gorgeous: wood-paneled, stain-glassed, and smelling of good leather and old paper. I forced down a pang of longing as we left it and stopped in front of my father’s office. I heard voices inside. Dominic hesitated, his hand raised to knock on the door. He looked at me, wide-eyed and alarmed.
“Bentivoglio,” he whispered. “He’s inside with Mr. Vellacott.”
My pulse rose, and I pounded my fist against the door. Inside, the voices stopped. My father opened the door. His eyes widened, then he stuck his head out the doorway to look up and down the hall. He pulled us inside and closed the door firmly behind him.
“Did anyone see you?” he gasped. He kneaded his hands together.
“Yes. A good many people,” I said coldly. But I had no time to spare for irritation with my father. I fixed my narrowed eyes on Bentivoglio, who held my papers in his thieving hands.
“Those are mine,” I said. “Give them back.”
I stepped forward and tried to grab them, but Bentivoglio held them away. I examined his face, keeping my anger at bay. His eyes were red, but he was not quite mad yet. There was a trace of shame on his face. He hadn’t yet left his own mind entirely.
“He attacked me.” I said it to Bentivoglio’s face. “He threw me against a wall and stole those papers out of my clothes.”
“I am terribly sorry, Thea. I’m afraid there has been some … some misunderstanding,” said my father. “But please, sit down, my dear. You shouldn’t tax yourself—you’ve been hurt—”
“By him!” I exclaimed, whirling on my father. “I was hurt by your guest while he robbed me! I insist you make him give me back my papers!”
“Do not presume to order me around in my own study!” My father took my arm and conveyed