Page 110 of The Alchemists

All we have wrought are tricks of vapor—they hold no substance. You told me we would create the world, but all we have done is gilded over tarnish. Underneath the shine is but tin, the gold flimsy as a rose’s petal. I trusted you, handed over myself and my virtue to your keeping, but all is a ruin.

With your absence, I see what I must do to salvage what little of myself is worth saving.

Yours,

Selene

Lily sat upright. This was it—the breaking point. Windermere had gone to France around that time to attend to matters with his wife. She checked the date—it was less than a year before their last known correspondence. Her email pinged, and the new message raised goosebumps on her skin. The archivist of the Huguenot Museum had finally written back after Lily’s last message in November. At the same moment, the door flew open and Tori whirled in, tossing her bag on the couch.

She narrowed her eyes at Lily. “What’s wrong with you? You look weirder than usual.”

“Coincidences.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I know.” If that was the case, maybe Tori’s timing wasn’t a coincidence either. “In which case, want to visit the Huguenot archives with me?”

Tori grimaced, then sighed. “Why the hell not?”

Lily didn’t want to admit that driving a sports car made her feel powerful, but when she slipped into the driver’s seat, leather hugging around her and the engine shuddering the whole car and all her bones, she did. She now understood Seb’s wild grin that first time he’d had her in the car. She tossed Tori a Molotov cocktail smile of her own. She gunned the throttle, and Tori rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry for being so cryptic in my email, but I thought this was too exciting not to share in person.” The archivist, a Mr. Freer with wilted blond hair, licked his thumb and paged through a printout. Tori leaned against a shelf and folded her arms across her chest with a mighty sigh.

“It’s fine,” Lily said, leaning close enough to see that Mr. Freer needed better shampoo.

“And where’s that fine young scholar, Sebastian?” Mr. Freer’s watery blue eyes smiled.

Tori turned her dismay into a cough.

“He’s at a—” Lily faltered. She’d been about to say Cantrèa, stopped only by Tori’s glare and the sudden burning along her finger. “Debate tournament.”

“Ah, wonderful. In any case, look what I found here—records for the Van Bergen family.”

He pushed over a thick book with typewriter-printed pages. Lily followed his finger down the page, and Tori, curious in spite of herself, leaned over Lily’s shoulder.

“Selene Bevoire married Karl van Bergen in March 1706, and it looks like they got started on a family right away. Jean van Bergen, who eventually bought the Windermere vineyard, was born in November.”

Lily counted. Depending on the dates, two vastly different possibilities presented themselves. The wedding date was barely a month after the last letter. She pulled out her phone, taking a photo of the page and enlarging it.

Bevoire, Selene m. Van Bergen, Karl – March 27, 1706

Van Bergen, Jean b. November 15, 1706 (d. 1773)

Her stomach flip-flopped. She was too anxious to do math, but it had to be, it had to be.

“No other children?”

“Unfortunately not. Ms. van Bergen died only a few years later. We only have a few letters from her husband as reference, but it seems she had a mental breakdown and sadly committed suicide.”

Lily froze, her body rejecting what she’d just heard.

“What?”

“Incredibly tragic, I know.” Freer’s thin face was guileless. “I can send you copies of the letters.”

“Please.” Lily tried to get her limbs to work. Instead, her mind was filled with staticky dismay. She couldn’t shake the conviction that Selene had betrayed her. She’d thought they were alike, but Lily just wanted to live; Selene had chosen to die.

“Lily?” Tori asked, her face knitted with concern. “Anything else you needed?” She hooked her gently by the elbow.