Claire blinked, because she was expecting an old, sick person; expecting it so much she looked around again, trying to find him. But the only man in the room sat in a chair, peacefully reading a book. He marked the spot with a finger, closed it, and looked up at Amelie.
He was young, or at least he looked it. Shoulder-length curling brown hair, big dark puppy-dog eyes, flawless, faintly golden skin. Frozen at the age of maybe twenty-five, just enough for creases to be forming at the corners of his eyes. Also, he was really really ... pretty.
And he didn't look sick. Not at all.
"I've been waiting for you," he said. He spoke English, but with some kind of accent, nothing that Claire could identify. It sounded a little bit like Irish, a little bit like Scottish, but more ... liquid, somehow. Welsh? "Claire, is it? Well, come forward, girl, I won't bite." He smiled, and unlike Amelie's cool attempt it was a warm, genuine expression, full of merriment. Claire took a couple of steps toward him. She sensed Amelie tensing behind her, and wondered why. Myrnin seemed okay. Seemed more okay than any vampire she'd seen so far, except maybe Sam, Michael's grandfather — next to Michael, the youngest vampire in Morganville.
"Hello," she said, and got an even wider smile.
"She speaks! Excellent. I have no use for someone without a backbone. Tell me, young Claire, do you like the sciences?"
That was an antique way of saying it ... the sciences. People usually said science or mentioned a specific thing, like biology or nuclear studies or chemistry. Still, she knew the right answer. "Yes sir. I love the sciences."
His dark eyes glittered, full of slightly wicked humor. "So very polite, you are. And philosophy?"
"I — I don't know. We didn't study it in high school. I just got to college."
"Science without philosophy is nonsense," he said, very seriously. "And alchemy? Do you know anything of it?"
She just shook her head to that one. She knew what it meant, but wasn't it all about turning lead into gold or something like that? Sort of con man science?
Myrnin looked tragically disappointed. She almost wanted to lie to him and tell him that she'd gotten an A in Alchemy 101.
"Don't be difficult, Myrnin," Amelie said. "I told you, this age doesn't regard the subject with much respect. You won't find anyone with a working knowledge of the Hermetic arts, so you'll have to use what's available. From all accounts, this girl is quite gifted. She should be able to understand what you have to teach, if you are patient."
Myrnin nodded soberly and put the book aside. He stood up — and up — and up. He was tall, gawky, with long legs and arms — like a human stick bug. He was wearing a weird mixture of clothes, too — not homeless-guy weird, but definitely funky. A vertically striped knit shirt under what looked like some kind of frock coat, and blue jeans, old ones, with holes in the knees. And flip-flops. Claire stared at his exposed toes. Somehow, with that outfit, flip-flops looked almost indecent.
But he had pretty feet.
He extended his hand to Claire, bending over to do it. She carefully took it and shook. Myrnin looked surprised, then delighted. He pumped the handshake enthusiastically enough to make her shoulder ache. "A handshake, is that the correct way to greet these days?" he asked. "Even for such a lovely young woman? I know it's common among men, but among women it seems quite a violent gesture — "
"Yes," Claire said quickly. "It's fine. Everybody does it." God, he wasn't going to try to kiss her hand or anything, was he? No, he was letting go and crossing his arms. Studying her.
"Quickly," he said. "What's the elemental designation for rubidium?"
"Um ... Rb."
"Atomic number?"
Claire frantically called to mind the periodic table. She'd used it the same way other kids used puzzles, back when she was young; she'd known everything. "Thirty-seven."
"Group number?"
She could see the square on the table now, as real as if it was a card in her hand. "Group one," she said confidently. "Alkali metal. The period number is five."
"And what are the dangers of working with rubidium, young Claire?"
"It spontaneously burns when exposed to air. It also reacts violently to water."
"Solid, liquid, gas, plasma?"
"Solid to forty degrees centigrade. That's the melting point." She waited for the next question, but Myrnin only cocked his head and watched her. "How did I do?"
"Adequately," he said. "You've memorized well. But memorization is not science, and science is not knowledge." Myrnin stalked over to a leaning stack of books, tossed some carelessly to the floor, and found a threadbare volume that he flipped open without much regard for the fragile pages. "Ah! Here. What is this, then?"
He held the book out to her. Claire squinted at the dim illustration. It looked a little like a small square sail, full of wind. She frowned and shook her head. Myrnin snapped the book closed with a sharp clap, making her jump.
"Too much to teach her," he said to Amelie. He began to pace, then got distracted and fiddled with a glass retort full of some noxious green liquid. "I don't have time to coddle infants, Amelie. Bring me someone who at least understands the basics of what I am trying to — "
"I've told you before, there is no one available who would recognize that symbol, and in any case, the field has never attracted the most trustworthy of characters. Give Claire a chance. She's a quick study." Her voice cooled to a measured, icy tone. "Do not force me to make it an order, Myrnin."
He stopped moving, but he didn't raise his head. "I don't want another student." He sounded resentful.
"Nevertheless, you must have one."
"Have you explained the risks?"
"I leave that to you. She is yours, Myrnin. But make no mistake, I will hold you responsible for her performance, and for her safety."
Claire heard the click of metal, and when she looked behind her, Amelie was ... gone.
She'd left her alone. With him.
When Claire turned back to him, Myrnin had raised his head and was staring straight at her. Warm, brown eyes no longer amused. Very serious.
"It seems neither of us has much choice," he said. "We'll just have to make the best of it, then." He fumbled through the stacks of books and came up with one that looked just as threadbare and fragile as the first one he'd mishandled, but this one was much was thinner. He thrust it forward, toward her, and Claire took it. The inscription on the cover was in English. Metals in Egyptian Inscriptions.
"The symbol I showed you is for copper," Myrnin said. "Know the rest when you come back tomorrow. I will also expect you to read Basil Valentine's Last Will and Testament. I have a copy here — " He shoved books around, almost frantic, and located something with a cry of satisfaction. He held that out to her as well. "Pay special attention to the alchemical symbols. You'll be expected to copy them out until you know them by heart."
"But — "
"Take them! Take them and get out! Out! I'm busy!"
Myrnin rushed past her, bowling over stacks of books in his haste, to fling open the door through which Amelie had disappeared. He was at least a foot taller than the door itself, like a human in a hobbit-house. He stood there, jittering his foot in impatience, the flip-flop making plastic slaps between flesh and floor.
"Did you hear me?" he snapped. "Go. No time now. Get out. Come tomorrow."
"But — I don't know how to get home. Or back here."
He stared for a second, and then he laughed. "Someone will have to bring you. I can't configure the system just for you!"
Configure the system? Claire stopped, staring back. "What system? These — doorways?" The implications were dizzying. If Myrnin understood the doorways, controlled the doorways, the ones that appeared and disappeared out of nowhere in Morganville ... I need to know. I need to know how that works.
"Yes, I am responsible for that, among many other things," he said. "Later, Claire. Go now. Talk tomorrow."