Once Max asked of Jeb a question, and the memory stands out clear as engraving in her mind, even now:
You're not really our father, are you?
In her memory he sets down his beaker of aqua fortis, turns from his work desk to meet her gaze. He motions for her to sit. I thought thou'dst ask that someday. Sit, and I'll tell thee.
She settles onto the four-legged stool, and he leans back against the desk, his brow drawn in the way that suggests he is searching for the words.
I'm not thy father, he says at last, with a heavy sigh. Nor am I Fang's, nor Ignatius's, nor Naomi's, nor Gabriel's, nor am I Anna's.
Then why do I look like you?
Because I made thee. Thou art bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh. He smiles kindly. Thou know'st I was an alchemist before I took and fled with thee and thy brothers and sisters.
Yes. She shifts on the stool. She was ten when they fled together. Does he not credit her remembering?
Then thou know'st thou wert my homunculus. Thee, and thy brothers and sisters.
Yes. I remember all the little jars. On their flight they had passed through a room where jars upon jars stood in ranks, each containing a failed homunculus, their eyes discolored to blindness by the fluid that preserved them.
That's right. He takes up a little blade from his desk, puts it to his thumb, presses down to draw a bead of blood. This is how I made thee. With a little drop of my blood. He sets aside the blade, wipes the blood on his smock.
And the same for Fang and Ignatius?
Just so.
Are we not your homunculi now?
No. He smiles again, reaches to tousle her hair. You grew.
"I thought you dead!"
He flinches from her words. His smock is stained with cinnabar, with copperas. His hands are patchy where he has spilled aqua regia on the skin.
"I cannot ask thy forgiveness," he says, his voice soft and pained. "But I'd ask thy help, if thou'dst give it."
"What use have you for my help?"
He looks tired, the lines around his eyes pronounced. His hair is salt-and-pepper. "Does thou remember when I told thee how I made thee?"
"Of course I do." She crosses her arms. He has made them two cups of chocolatl, and they both sit untouched on the table.
"Thou art part of me," he says. "I know thou wish pain upon me for deserting thee. That is just. But I need thy help, Max. I beseech thee, put aside thy greed for vengeance, lend me thine ear for a moment."
If nothing else, she owes him her life. They are linked by blood, one of the strongest bonds an alchemist can make. And it costs her nothing to listen.
"What is it you need?"
"I need thy help," he says, and he looks a thousand times older than the man who cut his thumb to show her part of her making. "To save the world."
I will guide you as a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night. His voice echoes in her head, his hand still seems to weigh upon her shoulder. Have faith. I will not abandon you.
They are alone in the swamp, seeking a way to go. The little ones are sleeping, and Iggy tends the fire.
"Where are we going next, Max?" Fang says. He is by her side. Always by her side. My strong right hand.
"I don't know yet," she says. "Can I tell thee something?"
He shrugs.
She slips one arm around him. "Thou art my strength, my rock. And upon thee I will build a future."
"And the gates of hell shall not prevail against it," he murmurs.
"Just so." Her father's voice speaking from her mouth, and she understands the way they will go forward.
She closes her eyes, and sees a pillar of fire standing on the earth where the sun had set.
I will throw your enemies into confusion. I will show you the way you should go.
I will shed light on the way you will take.
"Max?"
With reluctance she opens her eyes to the physical world again. "West. We'll go west."
The Prussian wears all the accoutrements of an alchemist. He has an alchemist's peering gaze and stained hands. This laboratory is furnished as an alchemist's.
Yet he is not an alchemist.
A low buzzing fills her head as the Prussian guides her through this strange laboratory. She smells aqua vitae, which is correct, but absent are the smells of roasting ovens and spirit of hartshorn.
"This is not like my father's laboratory," she says.
"No," the Prussian agrees. "He is an alchemist."
"And so are you," she points out. "Anyone who has a laboratory must practice alchemy — else why have one?"
"This is my laboratory," he says. "That is right. But I am not an alchemist."
It is as though he is a tutor, pressing her for an answer without coming out and saying that he wants one.
"Then what are you?" she says, and their conversation is cut short when they enter another room.
She is reminded of the room of jars, so long ago. The dead eyes staring at her.
But there are no jars here, and that is impossible. That is part of the making of a homunculus — growth in a jar, in a fluid whose mixture differs from alchemist to alchemist.
Instead there is a body, strapped to a table with lengths of leather. It must be dead, for it moves not to sit up — yet its chest moves with breath. There is an odd clear mask over its nose and mouth.
"This is not alchemy," she whispers, her voice stopped by horror.
"No." His voice is pleasant. "Not alchemy."
"Then what?"
He smiles. "Science."