Page 37 of The Alchemists

“I think they’re instructions, a guideline, more than a clue—a reminder to go back to fundamentals.”

“That’s not bad.” She shuffled through facsimiles of Windermere’s letters, then stopped. “Wait, what’s this?”

His knee knocked hers, hard, as he jolted. “Is it the symbols?”

“No, it’s a letter. I think it mentions alchemy, but his handwriting is terrible. Almost—” She stopped short of insulting him to his face and pushed it toward him.

“Almost as bad as mine,” he agreed, even though she hadn’t said it. He squinted, then cast an illuminating cantrip. “It’s definitely alchemy. Windermere says, ‘The Noble Art, that which brings order through the instructions laid out in the Emerald Tablet: “What is below is like that which is above, and what is above is like that which is below, to accomplish the miracle of the one thing.”’”

“Holy Vexiliar.”⁠* Lily gasped. “Think about the Words:

From the Æther all is made

Through water, wind, and heat and clay

Find truth in unknown; death in doubt

Still the mind and cast fear out

Be as a channel, still as a stream

Let all that’s mystic flow through me.”

They stared at each other. “Do you think it’s alchemical? Are the Words alchemical? Where did they come from?” Lily’s mind spun off in a dozen different directions.

“I have no idea,” he said quietly, his eyes unfocused on a middle distance. “It sounds like it though. It’s terrifically elemental.”

“Who’s that letter to?” Lily pulled it gently out of his hands. “‘My Argent Lune?’” She frowned at him.

“Silver moon?”

“Well, that’s definitely alchemic. Silver is the metal that corresponds to the moon.” Her heart picked up speed. “We should try to figure out who this is, and any other letters he wrote to them.”

Sebastian folded forward and thunked his head lightly on the table.

“What?”

When he raised his head, it was to prop it up in his hands. “Windermere wrote thousands of letters. And we can’t just go to the reference librarian with this. I’m positive that Violet Bellarius has already bribed them.”

“Could we write a spell?”

“Actually, yes. Actually.” He shot up again, this time slamming his knee into the tabletop, and swore. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” She watched him stuff papers back into his book bag in no discernible order. She gritted her teeth and resolved to get him a binder.

“As above, so below? I know exactly where to find that on campus.”

She followed him to the lake, just down the hill from the Metaphysics building. His black coat billowed in a truly Byronic fashion as he jogged. He stopped on the bridge over the small dam that kept the creek from overflowing.

“You think there’s a clue here?”

“No, but it’s one of my favorite places to think, and it seems apropos given the topic. Come on.” He shrugged off the coat and spread it flat on the bridge.

He lay down on his back, head toward the lake and feet toward the woods, then wiggled so that his head hung over the edge of the bridge.

“Like this,” he said, his voice nasal from the awkward position.

Skeptical, Lily joined him, trying to ignore the pressure of his shoulder against hers. He twisted to look at her. “No, farther.”