She simply sat there, completely astonished, as he continued his work.
After a while, she did recover to the point she could function normally again, but by this point he had finished his preparations and was ready for the final synthesis.
He came back to the worktable and excused himself again, then lightly put her back on the ground.
She somehow managed to keep her head this time, although as before, it was arresting.
Fortunately, the prospect of the final synthesis was suitably distracting, and she found she could focus on that.
She went to watch him make the cyprianus.
He was very particular about the order he added the ingredients and where he placed them in the cauldron and at what times.
One of the unique things about Demi’s cauldron was the height. Although it was a large cauldron, big enough for her to hide herself in, after all, it was not particularly tall, but was instead at a height that suited her perfectly. But Aelfric was a tall man, easily over six feet. This meant he sometimes had to brace himself against the rim of the cauldron as he leaned forward to add ingredients.
He used his own staff to stir the cauldron, as Demi’s was certainly too short for his frame.
Near the end of the synthesis, he nodded to her.
“Now add the lock of hair,” he said. “Right in the center of the cauldron.”
She nodded, and with a determined expression, she carefully leaned forward and placed the curl of hair in the center of the cauldron, atop the thick foam.
Aelfric shifted his stance and began to stir the cauldron counterclockwise. The lock of hair slipped into the foam and disappeared into the cauldron.
All at once, the liquid in the cauldron seemed to change state into colorful gas, which dissipated rapidly.
And there, in the bottom of the cauldron, lay her book.
It was perfect.
It was surely the finest book she had ever laid eyes on.
Aelfric leaned forward and pulled the book from the cauldron. It was perfectly dry, and yet somehow still glistening with the sheen of a recently completed synthesis. Such was the nature of Fluid Alchemy and the transmutation of matter.
He handed the book to her.
“Congratulations,” he said simply. “You are now a High Alchemist.”
As Demi took the book from him, she felt a little jolt run through her body at the moment her fingertips first brushed against the cover.
She opened it almost as if she were in a trance, her heart swelling with emotion.
And then she said its name.
“Evergreen Memory,” she murmured softly. “Even after the last star falls, I will always remember you.”
Aelfric also jerked back slightly when she said the words, as if they had connected through the jump of a static shock. His expression was confused, alarmed, and perhaps a bit— Was he blushing? Well, it clearly wasn’t from happiness or interest. He looked extremely agitated.
“Explain,” he said fiercely, bringing the toe of his shoe down to accentuate the point.
“Ahh,” she made a strange little laugh, animated by the unspent energy that was spinning inside her heart. She felt inspired to dance. That’s how the book made her feel. “That’s its name,” she explained. “Evergreen Memory.” It felt good to say it, to call out the name of the book, like being tickled by a thousand tiny bubbles. It felt good to share the name with him, as if she were sharing a secret part of herself. It was honestly intoxicating. She felt giggly. “And the second part, that’s what it means,” she confessed. “Not just the name. I mean the whole book! The whole me! That’s what it means.”
She had taken a step closer to him because that was what it felt natural to do, but he immediately raised a hand in front of himself, falling half a step back.
“You shouldn’t have told me that,” he said sharply, his cheeks faintly flushed and the tips of his ears pink. “I have no idea what you just did, but you definitely should not have told me that.”
“I think it’s fine,” she assured cheerily, taking another step closer. “And if I think it’s fine, then it’s probably fine.”
He swore under his breath and took another half step backward, bumping into the worktable behind him. The unexpected collision was startling in his already-alarmed state. He put his hand on the table behind him in an attempt to steady himself, and his flat palm came in contact with the cover of his own cyprianus.
“Black Spiral,” he said quietly, the words bitten off, escaping despite his best efforts. “On a thorny road, circling, I search.”
After he said the words, he was left panting. He swore again quietly, then muttered, “Logic. New logic.”
He turned away from her, covering his face with one of his hands.
At the moment Demi had heard him speak the name of his book she had been shaken out of her simple elation. The emotions she felt now were complicated. He was clearly embarrassed and distressed, the tips of his ears almost poppy red with his shame and discomfort.
“What happened?” Demi asked tentatively.
“I don’t know,” he answered shortly, without turning to look at her. His hand was still over his face and he dug his fingers against his scalp in frustration. “I have no idea.”
“But that wasn’t normal?” she ventured hesitantly. She was worried she had done something wrong, that she’d done something terrible to him when he had gone out of his way to help her. It hadn’t felt wrong to take the book. It had felt perfect. It was her book, hers alone. It hadn’t felt wrong to name the book. It had felt absolutely right. It had felt right to say that name, to explain it to herself and to him.
But something about that, something about what had happened had made him distressed.
He was doing everything he could to cover that distress, to banish it, as if he was absolutely unwilling to let it be seen.
He had ceased breathing hard, but he seemed to be sharply forcing himself back in control rather than letting his embarrassment subside naturally. When he drew his hand away from his face at last, he looked mostly even, almost expressionless, although there was still the faint whisper of color in his cheeks.
“It was not normal,” he answered coolly.
Demi bit her lip. “I’m sorry—” she began, but he held up his hand to stop her again, palm flat.
“You haven’t done anything,” he said with force, and when she jumped a little at his tone, his expression softened for a moment, a complicated look flickering across his face. “You haven’t done anything,” he repeated more quietly. “You’ve done nothing to me. You have nothing to apologize for.” Then he stopped, as if uncertain he should continue. “You’ve done nothing to me,” he repeated. “And I do not fully understand what just happened, but—” he closed his eyes briefly and carefully regulated his breathing. “Guard the name of that book, guard the meaning of it. That is not knowledge to be shared lightly,” he finished, his eyes flicking open to meet hers.
His look was powerful, hard-edged and almost painful. He immediately looked away again. Another several seconds passed by in silence as they both stood there, he staring at the ground, she looking at him, at his bony, long-fingered hands that still looked so battered even after the miracle she had wrought to restore them, at his narrowed eyes and the dark circles under them. No matter how much she made him rest, he still never looked fully rested, not really.
Her eyes softened.
Something gave him a hard shock and yet he’s still worried about me before himself, she thought.
“Thank you, Alt,” she said very gently. “Thank you for your kindness. I’m grateful for your help and your advice.” She took a deep breath. “And, and if you tell me to forget the name of that book, then I will.”
She did not really want that. Hearing the name of his book had somehow felt like hearing a thousand words all at once, but it had not filled her with confusion and distress. It had felt warm, warm and fond, like the memory of a golden afternoon from days long since passed, but it wasn’t even really nostalgia for something lost and gone away. It might have been as simple as a single word. Hope: the possibility of a future as yet undreamed of.
In the same way her heart had swelled inside her when she had said the name of her book, calling out, “Here I am!” when she had heard the name of his book, she had thought, “Oh, there you are. Of course. There you are.”
She felt as if she had finally seen him for the first time, not “the Shadowstep Alchemist,” but Aelfric Pwyll Farrant, the man.
She did not want to give all of that up, those treasures without price, but she would. He had not meant for her to hear the name of his book. Even if she had been willing to let him hear the name of hers, it did not follow that he owed her his, quid pro quo. It seemed as if they both had a similar understanding of the experience—and by that, it ought to be understood that they were both equally unsure of what had happened, but each had gotten the sense that the name of their cyprianus was a secret thing that said much about them, something that ought not to be shared unless there was great trust involved.
She would not force that trust.
But then he looked at her very quietly for a long, slow moment, a moment counted out in heartbeats, and then he shook his head.
“Remain as you are,” he said lowly. “You don’t have to, you don’t have to forget anything. Just please.” He abruptly turned away. “Do not share that name with anyone. Do not share what has happened here with anyone, at least not until I have some idea about what is going on. I say that for your safety as much as my own.”
“Yes,” Demi answered with a fond smile. “I know you do.”