Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [93]
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When Lymond left the Ostrich, Johnnie Bullo had stayed on, moving only to go to Midculter the following Saturday. His troop, as Guilelessly advertised to both Lymond and Scott, had gone—without him—to Edinburgh.
Shown now into the small, warm room, his bright eyes flickered over the Dowager and Mariotta, and rested a little longer on Lady Buccleuch. Janet dabbled in alchemy and medicine herself, and he was not altogether pleased to see her.
But he took, without diffidence, the stool offered him at a proper distance; and plunged, as arranged at Stirling with the Dowager, into the strange and fabulous history of the Philosopher’s Stone.
Time passed. The small panes of the Dowager’s window became grey, and then ultramarine, and the hot, scented air fondled and set about itself strange words. Sulphur, mercury and salt. The essential unity of matter. Meteors, perfect and imperfect compounds and the flesh of the Universe: Saturn and lead, Jupiter and tin, iron and Mars. The twelve processes of multiplication and projection. Cauda Pavonis. Ferrum Philosophorus. Dragon’s Blood.
Johnnie Bullo, judging his moment, stopped when the room was quite dark. There was a heavy silence. Then Janet Beaton said reflectively, “Lapis philosophorum. The basic idea is simple enough. In man, perfect proportion of the elements means health; in metals, it means gold. Equate the two produce a system capable of creating such an elemental fusion and you have a means on the one hand of creating health—long life, power, vigour—and on the other, of creating—”
“Gold,” said the gypsy softly. He watched their faces: Mariotta’s afraid and fascinated, Lady Buccleuch’s intent and practical, the Dowager’s vividly interested. “I have the secret. But I need the means of practising it.”
“And having made the Stone?” said Sybilla.
“I can transmute plain ore into gold, in any quantity you may want.”
Lady Buccleuch said practically, “We should, of course, have to reach a proper commercial agreement about that,” and Mariotta exclaimed, a shade wildly, “Dragon’s Blood!”
“It’s just a name for the residue, dear,” said Sybilla thoughtfully. She looked up with decision. “Glassware—I can get that: Janet, you’ll advise me. Ore … What sort? Lead? I can send to Edinburgh. Furnace … We’d have to rebuild one of the disused bakehouse ovens at the back of the courtyard.… Yes. Master Bullo,” said the Dowager, “I understand if we supply all this equipment, you’re willing to work here on creating the Stone, and to give us the benefit of it when it’s done?”
“If you do that,” said Johnnie sincerely, “you’ll be making an unique contribution to the great science of alchemy and the sum total of human wisdom.…”
Much later, when he had gone, Christian and Agnes Herries joined them and heard the tale.
The Baroness’s eyes were wide as platters. “The Philosopher’s Stone! We’ll all live to be ninety, and have everything gold!”
“Remember Midas, dear,” said Sybilla mildly. “Did you enjoy visiting Boghall?” And while the unsparing account unfolded itself, found and absently flourished a letter. “It came for you while you were away.”
Agnes stopped dead. Letters in this expensive and empty young life were rare birds: her mother never wrote; her grandfather seldom. She seized and bore it away without a word.
A moment later, she was back. “Can anyone,” asked Agnes in a voice oddly muted, “can anyone besides Christian translate Spanish?”
“No.”
The Dowager glanced over. “You seem to have a remarkably erudite correspondent, surely? But tell Christian if you want to. We shan’t listen.”
Agnes said, after a moment, “It doesn’t matter. It’s a poem.”
“A poem!” exclaimed Lady Buccleuch. “That girl’s got a love letter, or you can call me Ananias.”
The Dowager’s voice was gently amused. “I think you’d better put us out of our misery, Agnes. Who is it from?” And the Baroness,