The Accidental Alchemist Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Simply have a look,” he said.
    Now that I knew how we’d crossed paths before, how could I say no?
    The fact that this wasn’t a straightforward alchemy book made it easier to focus. It allowed me to avoid dwelling on the old memories of alchemy that were trying to push their way to the front of my mind. I thought it had been long enough that I was ready for anything. I didn’t want to be wrong.
    I spent a short time searching for information online, before realizing that was a dead end. I then turned to unpacking my crates in search of alchemy books that might be helpful, but I wasn’t hopeful. I already knew what was in those books, and I doubted they could help me. But it had been a long time since I’d opened those books. I wondered what I would find if I reacquainted myself with their secrets.
    I fell asleep at the table with one of my alchemy books resting under my head. Not a good position to sleep in if you happen to like moving your neck without searing pain.
    I woke up at dawn. My body is so attuned to planetary shifts that I wake up with the sun, even when it’s a cloud-covered day and I’ve slept for only a few hours in an upright position. Since it was wintertime, shortly after the start of the new year, it was a few minutes after seven o’clock .
    I saw no sign of Dorian, even after a thorough search of the house.
    After taking an alternatively freezing cold and scorching shower that made me glad Charles Macraith would be arriving soon, I made myself a breakfast smoothie of blended fruits and vegetables. There was still no sign of Dorian. I hadn’t asked him where he slept—or even if he slept—so I wasn’t sure where else to look. He’d taken care of himself without being discovered before he met me, so I told myself not to worry. Perhaps he hadn’t liked my suggestion that he return to the shipping crate while the contractor worked on the house, and had hidden elsewhere.
    I had a little time before our scheduled meeting time, so I set out on a walk. Dorian’s meal and my morning juice had used up most of what I’d bought the day before, so I stopped at a small market to buy fresh produce.
    Though I’m attuned to plants and planets, I don’t have an inner compass. I got turned around rather badly and didn’t arrive back at my new house until shortly after eight o’clock.
    I walked up the narrow path overgrown with weeds, feeling the stillness of the day. I loved how the house was centrally located but at the same time set back from the street, giving me the privacy I liked. I didn’t see anyone waiting for me on the raised porch in front of the house. I was wondering when Charles Macraith would show up, when I realized he wouldn’t.
    Not alive.
    Lying on the ground in front of the rickety porch was the prostrate body of my contractor. The acrid scent of poison overwhelmed the fragrant oranges that dropped from my hand as I knelt over his dead body.

four
    In the hours following the dea th of Charles Macraith, I was back in 1692. Between the whiff of poison and the suspicion directed at me by well-dressed men in positions of power, I was transported back to my first experience with death, when I was sixteen years old and the Salem Witch Tr ials were going strong.
    I felt an irrational sense of panic rise within me. Though I had no connection to the murder, I knew firsthand how easy it was for innocent people to get caught up in hysteria. A false answer is often easier than a complicated truth. Even if it destroys the innocent.
    The uniforms were different today, as were the formal attitudes about innocence before guilt proven beyond a reasonable doubt. But people were still fallible, victims of their own minds trying to make sense of things. And death was the same. A tiny amount of the right poisonous plant extract could fell a healthy man in his prime.
    I knew little of Charles Macraith beyond the facts that he was a man of few words, a skilled home renovator who charged a rate I could