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Amanda Quick Second Sight
For Cathie Linz: great writer, great photographer, great friend
Prologue
Late in the reign of Queen Victoria . . .
The skeleton lay on an elaborately carved and gilded bed in the center of the ancient laboratory that had become the alchemist's tomb. The two-hundred-year-old bones were still draped in tattered robes that had been fashioned of what had surely been the most costly silks and velvets. Gloves and slippers embroidered with gold and silver thread shrouded the bones of the hands and feet, giving an eerie appearance of flesh and blood. "His tailor must have loved him," Gabriel Jones said. "Just because the client is an alchemist it doesn't follow that he cannot possess a keen sense of fashion," Caleb Jones remarked.
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Gabriel glanced at his cousin's clothes and then surveyed his own attire. The trousers and linen shirts they wore were covered in dust and grime but the garments as well as their boots were handmade and fit to perfection. "A family trait, it seems," Gabriel said. "Makes for a nice addition to the Jones legend," Caleb agreed. Gabriel moved closer to the bed and raised the lantern higher. In the flaring light he could make out the cryptic alchemical symbols for mercury, silver and gold that decorated the wide hem of the skeleton's robes. Similar designs were carved into the wooden headboard. A heavy strongbox sat on the floor next to the bed. Two centuries of rust encrusted the sides of the box but the lid was covered with a thin sheet of some metal impervious to corrosion. Gold, Gabriel thought. He leaned down and used a still-spotless handkerchief to wipe away a bit of the dust that coated the lid. The light glinted on a leafy, decorative design and some cryptic Latin that had been etched into the thin sheet of gold. "It's astonishing that this place was never discovered and looted at some point during the past two hundred years," he said. "By all accounts, the alchemist had a number of rivals and enemies during his lifetime. To say nothing of all the members of the Arcane Society and the Jones family who have searched for it for decades." "The alchemist had a well-deserved reputation for cleverness and secrecy," Caleb reminded him. "Another family trait." "True," Caleb agreed. There was a decidedly grim edge to his voice. He and his cousin were different in many ways, Gabriel reflected. Caleb was inclined to brood and sink into long silences. He preferred to spend time alone in his laboratory. He had no patience with visitors, guests or anyone else who expected a modicum of civility and a few social graces from him. Gabriel had always been the more outgoing and less moody of the two of them, but lately he found himself retreating into his personal library for extended periods of time. He knew that he was seeking not only knowledge but distraction, perhaps even escape, in his studies. They were both running, each in his own way, from those aspects of their natures that could only be classified as not normal, he thought. He doubted that either of them would find whatever it was they were searching for in a laboratory or a library. Caleb examined one of the old books. "We'll need assistance packing up these relics." "We can hire men from the village," Gabriel said. Automatically he began formulating a plan of action to take care of the crating and shipping of the contents of the alchemist's laboratory-tomb. Formulating plans of action was something he did well. His father had told him on more than one occasion that his ability to craft strategy was closely related to his unusual psychical talents. Gabriel, however, preferred to think of it as a manifestation of the part of him that was normal rather than paranormal. He wanted desperately to believe that he really was a logical,
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rational man of the modern age, not some primitive, uncivilized throwback to an earlier stage of evolution. He pushed the disturbing thoughts aside and concentrated on his scheme to transport the relics. The nearest village was several miles away. It was very small and no doubt owed its survival over the centuries to the smuggling business. It was a community that knew how to keep its secrets, especially when there was money involved. The Arcane Society could afford to buy the villagers' silence, Gabriel reflected. The remote location on the coast that the alchemist had chosen for his small fortress of a laboratory was desolate even today. Two hundred years ago it would have been even wilder and more isolated, he thought. The laboratory-tomb had been concealed underground beneath the remains of an ancient, tumbledown castle. When he and Caleb had finally succeeded in opening the door of the laboratory a short while ago they had been met with a foul, dead-tasting wind. It had sent them both reeling back, coughing and gasping. By mutual agreement, they had decided to wait for the atmosphere inside the chamber to be refreshed by the crisp ocean breeze before entering. Once inside, they had discovered a room furnished in the manner of a scholarly study. Ancient leather-bound volumes, the spines cracked and worn, lined the bookshelf. Two candlesticks stood at the ready, awaiting tapers and a light. The two-hundred-year-old apparatuses that the alchemist had used to pursue his experiments were neatly set out on a long workbench. The glass beakers were caked with dirt. The metal implements, burner and bellows were clogged with rust. "If there is anything of great value in here it will no doubt be in that strongbox," Caleb said. "I don't see a key. Shall we force the lock now or wait until we get it back to Arcane House?" "We had better find out what we are dealing with," Gabriel said. He crouched beside the heavy chest and examined the iron lock. "If there is a fortune in gems or gold inside this box, it will be necessary to take extra precautions to protect the contents on the journey home." "We'll need some tools to pry open that lid." Gabriel looked at the skeleton. An iron object lay partially concealed beneath one gloved hand. "I think I see the key," he said. He reached down and carefully lifted the gloved fingers to remove the key. There was a soft rustling sound. The hand separated from the wrist. He found himself holding a glove filled with bones. "Damn," Caleb muttered. "Talk about a chill of dread going down one's spine. Thought that sort of thing only happened in sensation novels." "It's just a skeleton," Gabriel said, putting the glove and its morbid contents down on the old bed. "A two-hundred-year-old one at that." "Ah, but it happens to be the skeleton of Sylvester Jones, the Alchemist, our ancestor and the founder of the Arcane Society," Caleb said. "From all accounts the man was both very cunning and very dangerous.
