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Stone.
    Nicolas had respect for Perenelle only for her ability to decipher and translate the old texts, a task at which she was far better than he. That was the payment she made for her laboratory—she had to translate and copy all the many manuscripts he purchased. She had to give him the knowledge they contained, even if she wasn’t permitted to make copies for her own research, nor did he ever acknowledge her help.
    Sometimes she resented the labor, but she stroked the pendant and those feelings would eventually recede. Nicolas loved her, despite his gruffness, his temper, and his neglect. She could hear his voice as it had been, kind and gentle, and her irritation would recede. He needed her; that was enough.
    She knew that what Nicolas sought in the old manuscripts was more visceral and immediate than her quest for the Philosopher’s Stone: the spells and incantations of power. The only part of alchemy that interested him was the “Solve et Coagula” portion of the Great Work: dissolving the
prima materia
so it could be reconstituted in the coagula part of the formula—mercury turned to solid silver, lead to gold; the white and red stones. That way led to riches, after all.
    For her part, Perenelle had no interest in that aspect. She had turned her attention to the property of the Stone that was said to heal and to give immortality: the liquid part of the stone, the elixir of life.
    â€œIt goes slow,” she answered. “I fear that the answers I’m seeking aren’t in the manuscripts we’ve yet found, and I feel as if I’m groping in a dark room while my hands are covered in thick mittens. I can reproduce all the experiments my father started—as you know—but what eluded him still eludes me. The mice to which I’ve fed my poor attempts have all died a normal death, or they die early.”
    Nicolas laughed. The sound of his amusement bounced from the shop signs and buildings around them as they approached the bridge to the Île de la Cité, where the Provost’s apartments were located. “And your work, husband?” she asked him.
    â€œIt goes better than yours,” he answered. “I have begun to unlock the mystery. The manuscripts begin to talk to me.” His lips tightened grimly. “And at an auspicious time.”
    â€œWhat’s happening, Nicolas?” she asked him. “What are you expecting?”
    He didn’t answer at first. They stepped on the Ponte au Change, the Seine rolling underneath on its slow, wandering way to the sea. “The Provost oversteps himself,” he said finally. “And it will cost him dearly.”
    â€œSomething will happen
tonight
?”
    â€œPerhaps,” he answered. “But you will act as if you expect nothing. You will smile and be the perfect wife and companion, or you will regret your foolishness and Verdette will as well. You will show nothing. Do you understand me?” His arm tightened against her hand with the words. “Say it,” he hissed.
    Her eyes had widened, and she wanted to touch the pendant, though she couldn’t with him restraining her. “I’ll show nothing,” she said.
    â€œGood.” The staff tapped on the cobbles again as they passed over the Seine. He released her hand. “That is all I require of you. Have the wits to follow that direction.”
    She nodded. She found the pendant with her now-free hand and she stroked it, letting the touch of it soothe her.
    Â * * * 
    The dinner took place in the great hall of the Royal Palace, the very location an indication of how Provost Marcel now regarded his status within the city. The hall was lit with great sconces with the Valois sigils significantly missing below, and all the chandeliers were ablaze with candles. Liveried servants were on hand to usher them in, and Provost Marcel and his wife, Marguerite des Essars, greeted them at the hall’s entrance. “Ah,