She gave another shrug that was almost convincingly indifferent. “What do you think the odds are that Mum’s even in the index?”
Pol rested a hand on her wrist. “Don’t.”
But Enid didn’t listen. She turned, resting the book on the edge of the shelf, and opened to the rear index, running her finger along until it stopped.
She released a slow breath. “Look …”
She flipped rapidly through the book, finally stopping at a glossy photo page in the chapter on Lucien Holdfast.
Enid and Pol both stared at the photograph.
Soren Bayard, Helena Marino, and Luc Holdfast sat together on a sofa, Luc’s arm slung around Helena’s shoulders, as they all stared at the camera.
Helena was in the centre, painfully thin in a medical uniform too big for her and a knitted pullover. Her hair was drawn back into two taut braids, pinned into a thick knot at the base of her head. Her face set with large, devastated eyes that betrayed the attempted smile on her face.
Enid stared at the photo for several minutes before reaching out and gently touching it. “I’ve never seen a picture of her from the war. Your mum sent her student photos from the Institute, but there weren’t any others.”
Pol didn’t say anything, but when Enid wouldn’t stop staring at the photo, he rested a hesitant hand on her shoulder. She looked up and met his eyes before giving a sad smile, reminiscent of the girl in the photograph.
She looked down again, and her fingers ran along the words captioning the photograph as if she wanted to rub them away.
“Someday … someone should set the record straight,” she said quietly.
Pol cleared his throat. “You know Mum offered to. She wanted to tell what really happened to them, just up to the fire. Your mum and dad didn’t want her to.”
Enid nodded slowly, eyes still glued to the photo. “I know. I know they don’t. I get it. If I lived through everything they did—I’d just want to leave it all behind. There’s no point in trying to explain something like that; no one’s ever going to even want to understand.
“But—” Enid’s jaw trembled. “—she doesn’t deserve to be forgotten like this. She shouldn’t be a footnote. This shouldn’t be the only entry she even has. She deserves her own chapter. She deserves a whole damned book of her own.” Her voice quavered. “And the things they say about Dad—like he wanted it all, that he asked to have it done to him—” She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and drew a deep breath. “Sorry. I always think I can handle this, and then I get so mad I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
She blinked rapidly. “I’m glad I came here, though. I needed to see it. The city, where it all happened. It’s so hard not to have anyone to talk to about this. Mum says I can always talk to her or Dad, but she always has to take pills if I do and then she’ll start pressing her fingers near her heart when she thinks I won’t notice. I don’t want to put her through that just because I want to talk. And Dad, every time any of it comes up, I can tell he thinks I’m never going to speak to him again.”
Her knuckles were turning white as she gripped the book. She finally set it down and exhaled. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and Aunt Lila. I think you’re the only person who knows me.”
Pol smiled at her, his eyes bright and earnest. “You’ll always have me.”
Enid nodded, lips pressed together, but then she slowly smiled back.
There was a pause as they stood together, both seeming suddenly aware that they were alone in an empty aisle.
Enid’s cheeks flushed. Pol’s eyes darkened and he shifted forward, closing the space between them.
The bell at the door rang out sharply. Pol straightened, drawing his hand back and running it through his hair several times as he cleared his throat.
“Mum’ll probably show up any second. Or the guards. But once we get to the house … we should talk—more”—his head bobbed—“about—” He cleared his throat again. “Well, only if you want to—talk about—anything.”
Enid blinked and then nodded jerkily. “Yes! We should. At the house, though. It’s better to—talk there.”
She nodded again and shuffled quickly past him and out of the aisle.
They hurried together towards the front of the bookstore, leaving the history book behind, still open to the page with the photograph. The photo caption read:
HIBERNAL SOLSTICE, SOLAR YEAR 1786 PD. Principate Lucien Holdfast with Paladin Soren Bayard (See: Bayard, Soren; chapter 12, “A Life of Legacy”) and foreign-born alchemist Helena Marino. Marino left the city at the start of the Paladian Civil War to study healing. She survived the war but died during imprisonment prior to Liberation. She was a non-active member of the Order of the Eternal Flame and did not fight.
Content Notes from the Author
Alchemised is a work of dark fantasy containing wartime violence, religious abuse, depictions of complex trauma, suicidal ideation, self-harm, human experimentation, medical torture, eugenics, cannibalism, sexual assault, rape, and allusions to necrophilia. Please remember that depiction is not authorial endorsement. Because Alchemised is told in third-person limited point of view, it necessarily involves some distortions of vision as well as missed or misconstrued events. Reader discretion is advised.
Acknowledgements
The list of people I’d like to thank for supporting me in this journey is too long for this already incredibly long book, but allow me to express my heartfelt gratitude to each and every person who discovered my writing and has so enthusiastically supported me in every step of this unexpected journey. Your joy and excitement on my behalf have meant more than I can ever express.
To Caitlin Mahony and Rikki Bergman, my agents, thank you for your incredible patience, care, and protectiveness in this whirlwind experience, and for always taking the time to explain in text message the convoluted questions I should have sent you as emails. Suzy Ball, for wrangling the UK side of things. And Frankie Yackel for all your incredible work behind the scenes.
Emily Archbold, my dear editor, thank you for all your rambly emails that gave me an excuse to stop writing, for how thoughtfully you’d consider all my belated and harebrained ideas, and for your patient feedback and steadfast faith in my work. Jordan Pace, for dealing so expertly with all my preemptive panicking every time I was expected to promote my book in spoken rather than written words. To the incredible Del Rey team: Scott Shannon, Keith Clayton, Tricia Narwani, Julie Leung, Alex Larned, Marcelle Iten Busto, David Moench, Ashleigh Heaton, Tori Henson, Kay Popple, Maya Fenter, and Madi Margolis, thank you all so much for your vision, support, and enthusiasm at every step of the way.
I am forever grateful to the utterly delightful Rebecca Hilsdon, and the Michael Joseph team: Stella Newing, Riana Dixon, Sriya Varadharajan, Clare Parker, Jessie Beswick, Jack Hallam, Vicky Photiou, Bronwen Davies, Kelly Mason, Akua Akowuah, Richard Rowlands, Jessica Meredeen, Helen Eka, Dan Prescott, Jill Cole, and Hayley Shepherd.
My deepest thanks to everyone involved in the foreign editions. It is such an incredible honour to have my story translated.
To Jame, for sticking with me for these years through the thickest and thinnest despite my chronic abuse of commas; I wouldn’t be here without you. Rei, thank you for all your etymological research while navigating the convoluted lore I threw at you with zero context.