“You never know,” I offer weakly.
“No, I do know. And I don’t care. Things weren’t much better when she was here. But it doesn’t matter to me what they do. Next month I’ll be seventeen. And that means I only have one more year before I can do whatever I want. I can leave, I can travel—” He stops talking abruptly as the waitress interrupts to take our order. Noah lists several dishes, but I’m not listening.
Noah and I have another year of high school—but what then? He wants to leave. We could go together. But how long could that last?
How long before he finds out I’m not human?
I don’t want to think about the future anymore. All I want is for this moment, right now, to last forever. I want it always to be the November that I fell in love with Noah.
The waitress leaves. “Where would you go?” I ask. “If you could travel.”
He smiles and looks out the window. He has a faraway
look in his eyes, like he can see coastlines in other countries, like he’s memorized every map. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s a big world. I’ve always wanted to see the northern lights.”
I desperately want to tell him about their colors, their shifting electromagnetic dance. I watched them with Charlotte from the middle of a volcanic hot spring, its steam billowing in a similar shape to the aurora borealis, our long hair trailing in the water like Nordic mermaids.
“I’d like to see them with you,” I say instead.
“Mr. Shaw used to talk about all the places he’d been. That guy was really well-traveled for being so young.”
“He was certainly . . . interesting,” I say diplomatically.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. I feel my skin come alive under his touch, a feathery sensation that climbs up my arm to my chest. “
You’re
interesting.”
“Oh, yeah?” I reply.
“Yeah.” He lets go of my hand and reaches for my face, tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear. “You know, honestly—this is going to sound really weird—but I always kind of assumed you liked girls.”
“Why? Because I wasn’t obsessed with you? So typical,” I say smoothly, though his comment makes me wonder. I know so little about who Kailey was.
He laughs. “No, I’m not that egotistical. It’s just that, well,
you always had tons of guys asking you out. And you turned every single one down. I figured you must have some reason. And, you know, you’re kind of a private person.”
I take a sip of tea, considering. It was certainly possible. I’d had the impression that she was hiding something from her family. Could this explain where she was going the night that she died?
“Well, the last time I checked, I like
you
.” I feel bold. “So hopefully that answers that.”
“Good. So . . . there’s that dance coming up at school. Would you go with me?” He lowers his chin slightly and regards me, and I’m surprised to see that he actually looks nervous.
Seraphina Ames at a high school dance? The idea is comical.
But dancing with Noah? Being in his arms? Being
normal
? The idea is intoxicating.
“I know you’re Little Miss Rebel and stuff, but—”
“I’d love to,” I answer quietly, and he grins at me with obvious relief.
After we eat, we walk hand-in-hand along the footpath surrounding Lake Merritt. Noah makes sure to avoid the shore where Cyrus was supposedly killed.
The temperature fell while we were inside, but with Noah next to me I can’t even feel it. Thoughts about our
future keep arising in my mind, unbidden and undeterred by the moonlight. But when he pulls me into the shadow of a cypress tree I forget everything but now, this perfect moment. Because Noah’s hand is at the small of my back, and his lips are searching, and the lights of the downtown buildings are flickering across the lake. Our bodies are pressed together like a flower between book pages.
I only wish I could tell him who I really am,
what
I really am. Because how can he love me without knowing my true name?
Since I can’t tell it to him, I kiss him instead.
TWELVE
The next day after school, Noah raises his head from a nineteenth-century microscope in the antique store where I work. “This is the best toy ever,” he informs me. I laugh.
“I dare you to find a kid outside who agrees with you,” I tease. I’m grateful for his company. There’s been only one customer all day, a thirty-something woman who was in the shop just for the five minutes it took her to pick out an Edwardian ivory hand mirror. I’m always amused at the things people buy in here.
Noah pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and slides it
under the microscope’s lens. “Did you know that paper is hairy?” he asks.
“I think they’re called ‘fibers,’ not hair,” I say.
“Okay, smarty-face. Come here,” he demands, waving me over.
“You want me to look at hairy paper?”
“Why not?” But when I approach him, he takes my hand and places it under the lens. The cold brass surface chills my skin. “Hmm, interesting.”
“What do you see?” I move my body closer to his. I can smell the tea tree oil soap he uses. I want to run my fingers through the dark, tangled waves of his hair.
He fiddles with the knob. “There,” he says finally. “I see it. It’s all silvery.”
“What do you see?”
“Your soul,” he answers.
I rip my hand away.
“Wh-what are you talking about?” I stare at him.
“Jeez, Kailey. What’s wrong?” He looks hurt.
“That’s just a really weird thing for you to say,” I answer, rubbing my hand. There’s a scratch on it from the sharp brass edge of the microscope.
“It was something Mr. Shaw told me about,” he explains. “He said that the human soul isn’t a religious myth—it’s
something physical. There was even a doctor who measured it. Did you know that the average soul weighs 21 grams?” He looks at me nervously.
I force myself to be patient. I understand that he needs to talk about Cyrus. He’s grieving a friend. It’s not Noah’s fault that he has no idea that Cyrus is actually alive—or what a monster he is.
“I didn’t know that,” I lie. I remember Cyrus’s brilliant smile in March of 1907, when Dr. MacDougall’s research was published.
You see, Sera? Modern science is finally catching on to what the alchemists have known for hundreds of years.
Noah leans back on a Victorian fainting couch, abandoning the microscope. I curl up next to him, and he puts an arm around my shoulder.
“Yeah, Mr. Shaw told me that there’s no difference between the spiritual world and the physical one. He said that most people think of alchemy as a cheap trick. Turning lead into gold—that sounds so selfish, right? Like . . . the medieval equivalent of a get-rich-quick scam.” He strokes my hair as I bite my tongue. “But it was so much more. When the alchemists talked about transforming one thing into another, they were also talking about spiritual transformation. It was noble.”
I have a bitter taste in my mouth. “They were looking for immortality. I can’t think of anything more selfish.”
“I don’t think it’s
selfish, not in itself. It would depend on how you spent it, whether you used all that time for good or evil.” He pauses. “A lot of things are like that, I guess.”
“Immortality is tragic, if you think about it.” My throat grows thick with unshed tears, and I swallow hard. “Can you imagine being forced to stay young forever, watching everyone you know die? How pointless would life seem if you saw that?”
Noah’s arm tightens around me. “Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I whisper. Now that I’ve tasted it, I want nothing more than to keep talking with Noah about alchemy, no matter the risk. My heart yearns to tell him everything, to let him see what I carry inside me. All my years, all my lifetimes.
He’s so close to the truth and doesn’t even know it.
“Of course, immortality would only be bearable if you had the right person to share it with,” he says, and my heart catches. I stare straight ahead, but I close my eyes when he turns and kisses me on the cheek.
“Would you choose it, if you could?” My voice is barely audible.
“I would,” he answers. “Maybe I’m just being romantic about it, but to me, immortality means
freedom
. You don’t have to get old. You don’t have to get a job you never
wanted. You don’t have to regret the places you’ve never been, the things you missed out on. You could really, truly follow your dreams. Most people’s lives are a lot more tragic than that.”
There’s a truth in what he says that resonates on the silver strands of my soul. “It sounds like Mr. Shaw gave you a lot to think about,” I say. “I’m starting to understand how much he meant to you.” And I do. Cyrus knew just how to play Noah, I think bitterly. He knew how attractive all of this would be to a boy whose home life was falling apart, a smart and sensitive and passionate boy whose world was just a bit too small.
“I had a dream about him last night,” he says, and I stiffen. “I dreamed he was in my room, sitting at my desk. It was really weird—he looked completely different. Somehow I knew it was him, though.”
Goose bumps rise on my bare arms. “Strange,” I say, resisting the urge to ask what the dream Cyrus looked like.
“You know what’s really strange, though? The police haven’t found his body. It makes me wonder.” He rakes his hands through his hair.
“Makes you wonder what? Oakland homicide is pretty busy, you know. I’m sure they’ll find it eventually.” I’m sure they won’t.
He shakes his head. “It’s not that. They dredged the lake.
I mean, his death was a huge deal. Public-school teacher shot in cold blood—the news people have been all over it.”
“What are you getting at?” I ask, almost afraid to hear his answer.
“You’re going to tell me I’m crazy,” he says, jumping up from the couch and pacing back and forth.
“I won’t,” I tell him. “Swear.”
“It can only be two things. Either someone doesn’t want the police to find his body. Or he’s still alive.”
My heart starts to pound. “There were witnesses,” I say, my voice quavering.
“But maybe the witnesses kidnapped him and made up the whole story of the shooting to cover it up? Or maybe they were his accomplices and helped him fake his death.” He stops pacing and wraps his arms across his body.
“Why would he do that?” I hate where this conversation is going, but I’m gripped by the destructive urge to continue it, the same way people can’t help but stare at car crashes.
“Who knows? The guy was obviously brilliant. What was he doing teaching high school biology anyway? Maybe, once he couldn’t find the girl he was looking for, he wanted to disappear and start over. Maybe he thought Seraphina had left Berkeley. Or
maybe
”—he looks me in the eye—“he finally found the secret to immortality.” He grins, as though he’s said something amusing, but I’m shaken.
“You’re giving me the creeps,” I say. “Come sit next to me.”
He obliges, and I’m immediately warmed to the core. “Thanks for listening,” he says, cupping my face.
The bells hanging over the front door jangle, startling me. I whip my head around to see Kailey’s brother entering the store.
“Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds,” he says with a smile that reads as anything but.
“Hey, Bryan,” Noah says awkwardly.
“We were just having a conversation, I’ll have you know,” I tell Bryan primly.
“Mmm-hmm,” he answers. “I’m not staying. I’m on a mission.”
“Which is . . . ?” I ask.
“Mom wants to know what time you’re coming home. We’re going to see that play tonight—
The Nutcracker
.”
“I think it’s technically a ballet,” I tell him. “Anyway, why didn’t she just call me?”
“First off, stop trying to make me feel dumb. And second, she
did
call you. No answer. I see now why you didn’t pick up.” He winks.
“Oh,” I say, defeated. “Well, my phone is on
silent
.”
“Sure it is.” Bryan wanders over to one of the store’s many bookshelves and studies the volumes.
Noah clears his throat. “I should probably get going, Kailey. Let you finish up here. Have fun tonight.”
“Hey, why don’t you come with us to the show?” Bryan offers.
“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on your family tradition.”
“You’re not intruding. I’m sure our parents wouldn’t mind, now that you’re Kailey’s boyfriend and all.”
Noah just shakes his head. “I’m supposed to have dinner with my dad tonight—he’d be really disappointed if I ditched him.” I wish he would change his mind, but I understand that Noah needs some time to himself right now.
“Right, say hi to your dad for me,” I say, playing along.
“Sure. I’ll call you later.” He kisses me and heads out the door.
I turn to Bryan with a sigh. “Brother dear, you have terrible timing.”
But Bryan is too busy flipping through the pages of a leather-bound book to pay any attention to me. “You should reduce the price of this book,” he says instead. “It has a typo.”
“A lot of old books have typos,” I say in exasperation. “They spelled things differently back then.”
“No, I mean this is a chemistry book with a mistake in it. It says here that copper sulfate turns fire blue. But copper
sulfate turns fire
green
.” And with that, he snaps the book shut and makes for the front door, throwing it open with a bang.
Just before he walks out, he winks knowingly at me.
Long after he’s gone, I remain frozen, staring at the door in a state of shock. I think of Cyrus, pulling a pinch of powder from his leather satchel to toss on the fire.
I burn for you, Seraphina. I burn in different colors. Flowers don’t do you justice, so I bring you a garden of flame.
THIRTEEN
Please not Bryan, please not Bryan.
The phrase slams through my head as I make my rounds, quickly closing up the shop: dragging the sale pieces in from the sidewalk, counting the day’s meager profits, and turning off the lights.
Out on the street, I can see my exhalations in rapid white puffs as I lock the front door. It’s dark and deserted in the late November gloom.
Please not Bryan,
I think again as I hurry back to the Morgan house.