The Alchemist’s Apprentice: The Child in White (Book 1: Chapter’s 1 & 8)

Chapter 1

Electrical poles whizzed past the open car window, the breeze barely easing the beads of sweat forming on his brow. Another hot summer, he mused, running his fingers through his thick black mop of curls. James Rose hummed along to the radio, Take It Easy playing on the station. As much as he enjoyed driving the back roads at night, he wished the radio signals were better. The sound quality was shoddy at best, but it was better than silence.

The spring semester was finally over, and James was elated to be heading home. Summer plans flitted through his mind. First, he would convince his father to let him work in his law office – which would look impressive on his law school applications next year. He would fix the air conditioning in his car finally, and then he would ask Anne Jensen, his high school sweetheart, to a movie and see if they might give it another go.

As he daydreamed, House of the Rising Sun began to play. James absentmindedly whistled along, the notes flying out the window as he accelerated down the open road. He watched the speedometer rise. The radio station began to crackle – James took his eyes from the road for only a moment to fiddle with the knob. The sound cut back in, and his eyes shifted back to the road as his headlights lit up the silhouette of an unmistakably human figure.

“Mother-“ he exclaimed, gripping the wheel tight. He slammed his foot on the break, the car screeching so loud he felt it in his teeth. As the car slid, he waited for the impending thump of the body bouncing across the hood of his car. He knew that at the speed he was traveling, the collision was inevitable. And yet there was no thump, nor tumbling beneath the wheels. The car came to a halt.

Panting, bile rising in the back of his throat, James willed his eyes to open. His headlights illuminated the empty dirt road.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, he thought to himself as he opened the car door, stepping out cautiously. He looked up and down the road, but there were no signs of life in sight. He shakily got down on hands and knees to peek under the car. Nothing.

James stood, dusting dirt from the worn knees of his jeans. He sighed in relief, leaning against the hood of his car.

“That’s the last time I drive after an all-nighter,” he muttered to himself with a shake of his head. He could already hear his mother telling him how reckless he was to drive this late at night, even if he wasn’t tired.

He rested against the car, allowing his heart time to decelerate. The silence, being so far away from a city or major roadway, felt unnatural after living in the dorms for the last twelve weeks. A wave of nausea rushed over him, and he doubled over, gripping his knees as he willed the sensation to pass.

When he opened his eyes, he was staring at two dainty, pale feet before his beat up Converse high-tops. Startled, he quickly straightened up. A young woman, who looked to be about his age, stood before him, clad in a white dress that had seen better days. Her gaze was uncomfortably probing, and yet he could not look away. Her eyes enthralled him – blackish blue as the midnight sky above him. James had to remind himself to breath. A smile slithered across her face that should have been disarming, and yet the sight of it made the hairs on the back of his arms stand on end.

The woman took his hand, and began to lead him away from his car towards the tree line. Every fiber of his being told him to turn, to run, to scream; yet his feet were compelled to follow, one in front of the other.

They moved deeper into the forest, the trees growing thicker. The moonlight trickled down through the canopy, bouncing off her hair so that as it moved it resembled mercury rippling down her back. The heady scent of mulch and moss intermingled with her natural scent, leaving James dazed.

The forest began to thin, and a clearing opened before them lit by a full moon. At the clearing’s center, eleven women gathered, and the woman before him released his hand, flitting off to join them. James hesitated at the edge of the clearing, watching the twelve women convene. They were all dressed in white, with hair the color of moonlight, and eyes black as night.

The crack of a twig off to his right ripped his attention from the women. Another man, face scruffy and smelling of bourbon, emerged, and began to approach the women – unaware he was not alone. James suddenly realized there were another ten men, also entering the clearing as if drawn in by a siren’s song. As they approached, the women turned outward, facing them. James felt compelled to follow as he locked eyes with the unnamed woman in white. The women began to sway in unison as if to music only they could hear.

When James reached the woman, she smiled up at him. From the folds of her skirt, she pulled out a crown of blood red flowers. He knelt down before her, as the other men followed suit. The twelve women placed crowns on each man’s head, and then helped them rise to lead them in their dance. Her touch was like fire, and his heart began to pound as he moved with her.

The circle turned dizzyingly, a sea of white and red. The women danced faster and faster. James struggled to keep up, tripping clumsily after her graceful motions. Suddenly, she pulled him to her, causing them both to fall. As they tumbled onto the grass, she kissed him hotly, as no woman had kissed him before. James felt his passion rising, his hands instinctually moving along her figure. They made passionate love, blissfully unaware of the other couples nearby. It was as if the world outside their embrace had melted away, and the woman in white above him was his only reality.

A death scream shattered the illusion. As the moon reached its zenith, a flash of red on silver jolted James out of his ecstasy as another woman slit the throat of the man she straddled. Fear consumed him. He shoved the woman off of him, scrambling out from under her just as a knife plunged into the grass where his head had lain a moment before. The flower crown tumbled from his temples as he yanked up his pants, struggling to run. The panicked screams as the men’s lives eked away in spurts of blood bombarded his ears. Don’t look back, he thought, struggling to the tree line. His toe snagged on a tree root, and he tumbled to the ground.

A cold, inhuman hand gripped the back of his arm, yanking him up. Panting, he girded himself for the final blow that would end his life. Her arm was poised at the ready. Defiantly, he refused to look away from her gaze. He wanted the woman to watch the light leave his eyes. Eyes of midnight grappled with eyes of green. And yet the blow never came. Her eyes welled with sorrow, and she gazed over her shoulder at her sisters as they tore apart their lovers. When she turned her eyes to his again, they were filled resolve. Once again, the woman in white took James by the hand, but this time, he was not afraid. The men’s cries echoed behind them – a macabre cacophony – but the woman pulled him away, back into the forest. The shrieks receded into the night like a bad dream. A minute later, James was back inside the safety of his car, the motor still running.

James wiped rivulets of sweat from his temples, blinking rapidly as he tried to process the memories, which had already begun to feel like a delusion. He hoped it was just that. Perhaps he had hit his head on the wheel when he slammed on the breaks and he had just been unconscious. Maybe he had fallen asleep at the wheel and it had all been a bizarre dream.

Whatever it had been, he didn’t want to sit on the empty road any longer – all he wanted was the safety of his bedroom at home in his sleepy town where nothing unusual ever happened to anyone. He put his hand on the wheel, put the car back in drive, and made his way home for the summer. He pulled into his parent’s driveway just as the sun topped the horizon line. James made no mention of the near car accident to his parents, and refused to think about the night he spent with the woman in white. He spent the rest of his summer working diligently in his father’s small law office, fishing with his old high school friends, and convinced Anne to go on a date with him.

On a Wednesday morning, a few weeks before the fall semester would start, James made his way downstairs. He could hear his father moving around in the kitchen – the soft thump of a cupboard closing, the squeak of a chair leg sliding across the floor, the clink of a glass placed on the table. Yawning, he dawdled to the front door for the morning paper.

When James opened the door, he found the paper wedged beneath a large picnic basket, a note safety pinned to the outside. Written in an elegant script was the name Emma Rose.

Now, as far as James was concerned, he had never heard of an Emma Rose in his family. It had always been himself and his parents, Mr. Gregory Rose and Mrs. Clementine Rose, who had lived in their house. The post office must have delivered this to the wrong Rose family, he thought to himself, pondering the lack of address. His breath halted as a quiet gurgle emitted from the basket at his feet. The card gently fluttered from his hands as his eyes drifted back down. He cautiously knelt down beside it, and lifted the lid.

Inside, from a tiny bundle of white peeked two large blue eyes the color of a midnight sky on a full moon. The eyes closed, and the bundle wriggled. Out popped a sharply pointed nose. Gingerly, James picked up the bundle, and the big blue eyes snapped back open. Green eyes locked with blue.

So focused on the baby girl in his arms, James failed to hear the soft footfalls of slippered feet approaching him from behind.

“Good morning, dear. Please grab the paper for your father, and close the door. You’ll let out all the A/C,” Clementine Rose warmly dictated, slumberously making her way to the kitchen for coffee.

James turned, his eyes wide, and white bundle in hand. Maternal instinct made Clementine pause in the hall. “James, what’s-“

An unmistakably infant coo silenced her. Her eyes widened, and the rose of her cheeks paled, her coffee entirely forgotten.

She looked questioningly – and more than a little reproachfully – at her only son, and then on tip toe, peeked inside the folds of the white blanket. But anyone who looked into those eyes could not help but fall in love with Emma Rose. A smile spread across the grandmother’s face, all fears of societal derision forgotten. The little girl smiled back at her grandmother, and a happy gurgle solidified Clementine’s resolve. Emma Rose would stay. 

Chapter 8

Emma turned back and forth in front of the bathroom mirror, triple checking every angle of her appearance. The blue gingham of the dress Flo Adams had lent her from Rory’s closet suited her, at least according to Marjory. Marjory had overheard Quincy ask Emma to dinner, so naturally the whole town knew. Flo had been nice enough to lend her clothing for the night so she would not have to resort to wearing Timothy’s heavy metal t-shirts on her date. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles absentmindedly, when she started at the sound of the grandfather clock in the lobby downstairs. Giving herself a last cursory glance in the mirror, she turned, and hurried downstairs.

Quincy was chatting pleasantly at the front desk with Marjory when Emma rushed down the stairs.

Marjory, looking pleased with herself, cooed, “Oh, Emma, don’t you look lovely! Doesn’t she, Doctor?”

Quincy smiled in concurrence, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Thanks, Marjory,” Emma replied, beaming. Then, addressed Quincy, “Ready to go?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered, shaking himself out of a daze. “I hope you haven’t gotten tired of César’s yet? I’m afraid Noplace lacks an array of fine dining experiences,” he joked.

“No complaints here. César’s it is!” she crowed, leading the way.

When they entered the diner, the entire town appeared to have turned out to see the couple. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned to watch at the sound of the door jingling open. César squeezed past a family of five, apologizing as he jostled a little boy’s cap.

“Hey there, Doc. Hi, Emma,” César greeted them warmly, wiping his hands on his apron. “Sorry about the crowd. You know Marjory,” he explained sheepishly.

Like a fish in a tank, Emma watched people blinking back at them expectantly – as if the pair might put on a performance on the tabletops. Her hands suddenly felt clammy, and the gingham dress – comfortable and flattering only a moment before – clung itchy.

Quincy, sensing her discomfort, leaned closer to César, and asked him a question. César smiled, and answered, “Give me a few minutes.” He dove back into the throng of people.

After a few agonizing minutes of blatant staring, César returned, and gestured for Emma and Quincy to follow him. He led them through the kitchen, and out the back door of the diner. The door opened onto a brick patio that faced the tree-line. How César had time to do it, Emma did not know. The patio was lit with string lights, and a table set for two situated in the center, replete with taper candles and a single long-stem rose.

Quincy pulled out her chair for her, and she carefully tucked her skirt beneath her as she sat down.

“Enjoy! Just call if you need anything,” César said as he closed the door behind himself.

The evening was going splendidly. They discussed her father’s bookstore, and Emma found herself telling him about her experience in college – of wanting to become a writer, but constantly being told she was not talented enough. She was floored when she heard herself discussing astronomy – a subject off-limits for the last eight years.

“Oh, before I forget,” Emma started as she reached into her bag on the ground beside her chair. After several seconds of rummaging, she produced a well-worn copy of a book bound in red and handed it to Quincy. He ran his fingers over the embossed silhouette of a Tyrannosaurus skeleton. “I found another copy in one of the boxes in my room,” Emma explained hesitantly.

“Thank you,” he replied honestly. Quincy had a sense that her sharing this with him was unusual, and possibly difficult for her – though he did not know the exact reason why. The more time he spent with Emma, the more he was intrigued.

“I feel like all I’ve done is talk about myself,” Emma laughed suddenly. “Tell me about yourself? Marjory mentioned you moved here a while ago. Where did you move from?” she asked as she picked at her food.

She failed to notice him shift uncomfortably at the change in subject, as he tried to think of a response. “Well, I’ve lived all over, but I was last settled in Boston.” He sipped his water, hoping she would accept this answer, and move on to something more general.

“What were you doing in Boston?”

“Just research. You wouldn’t find it interesting,” he prevaricated.

“Of course I would,” she replied stubbornly. “I assume it was medical research?”

“Yes, but nothing ever came of it. Would you like dessert?” He rose suddenly from the table, his chair scraping sharply on the bricks. Emma stopped him, placing her hand on his.

“I’m sorry if I was prying. I understand if you don’t want to talk about your past,” she assured him. Something in her expression gave him pause.

“Thank you,” he replied a he sat back down gradually.

Emma chose to change the subject in an attempt to make Quincy feel comfortable once more. “Marjory has been a fantastic host. You know, she taught me how to make muffins?”

“You never baked muffins before? Not even with your mother?”

A shadow passed over her expression, “No.”

He looked up from his plate when she did not elaborate. Reading her dower expression, he murmured, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Emma attempted to shake herself out of her darkened mood, and replied, “You didn’t know. And it’s not like it’s some horribly tragic story. It’s just that – well – I never knew my mother. And my father never had pictures of her, or letters even. So many other's have personal objects left from their parent’s once they’re gone. It was as if she never existed for me. You can’t really miss someone if it’s like they were never there.”

“All the same, it must have been hard to grow up without a mother,” he commiserated. He sympathized greatly with the woman sitting before him. Her loss was poignant – as was his own.

“You’d think that, but I had my Grandma Rose. She really filled that role for me as a kid, so I honestly don’t feel like I missed out on anything. It was difficult when she and my grandpa died three years ago. But I see so much of my grandparents in my father and some days even in myself… Seeing the same mannerisms, hearing the same phrases, and looking at things from the same perspectives they had makes it feel less like they’re gone.”

Warmth and admiration poured out of Emma as she discussed her fondest childhood memories of her grandparents and her father with Quincy. She spoke of the Halloween where she and her grandmother dressed up as witches in their front lawn and danced around a boiling cauldron her grandfather and father had rigged up for them. He laughed hysterically as she told him how the little children in town had peeked over the fence, and then spoke for weeks about how two witches lived in the forest behind the Rose family’s house. It became a tradition in the town after that night to spend All Hallows Eve in the woods behind their house – only the bravest children attempted the feat.

“It sound’s like you’ve had a truly special family. Not many have those kinds of stories,” he pointed out.

“It’s true. And I know as long as I have those memories I'll carry a small piece of them with me no matter where I am. No one is ever gone as long as one person still remembers them,” she murmured. It was a phrase her grandfather used to say.

“Most would say it was selfless of you to move back to help your father with his bookshop,” Quincy pointed out.

Emma smiled, “My father has given me everything. It seemed it was the least I could do after all he’s given up for me. He was going to become a lawyer when I was left with him. He could have given me up, placed me in the foster system, and pretended like I never existed. But he took me in, and raised me, even though it meant giving up his dreams.”

“Your father sounds like a good man.”

“He is,” she replied simply. A rush of homesickness overwhelmed her, and she found she was no longer hungry.

After a minute of silence, Quincy suddenly stood up. “Come on,” he said, reaching out his hand to help her rise. “Let’s go for a walk. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Angelica breathed deeply, enjoying a drag off the cigarette dangling between her fingertips as she sat beneath the shadows of the church. She watched people mulling in and out of the diner like her own personal ant farm. She watched as families laughed over heaping plates of burgers and fries. The simplicity of the scene seemed farcical in her present mood. She stamped her cigarette out on a fly that had the misfortune of crawling too near. She smiled as it sizzled.

She looked up as the diner door opened. The doctor and the young woman who had made her spill her coffee were leaving together. They were laughing about something, and walking arm in arm. Her ire rose at the sight of such a happy couple; it brought up memories she preferred buried. Regardless of her desire, the memories bubbled, seeping through the cracks in her resolve to forget.

Angelica had not always gone by the name Angelica. In 1782, she had gone by the name of Martha McCarter. She had been born in Ireland helping her mother spin thread and weave fabrics. But she had felt her delicate sensibilities were ill suited for hard work, and she had traveled to Dublin to seek her fortune in the arms of a wealthy man. Fate had not seen fit to give her the opportunity, and without money, she turned to pick pocketing. It wasn’t long before she was arrested for it, and was conscripted into indentured servitude. She crossed the Atlantic to work on the St. Claire plantation. When she arrived, she claimed to the mistress of the house, Henrietta St. Claire, that she had trained as a lady’s maid. Martha quickly learned how to darn stockings and to style hair for the St. Claire women in the latest fashions.

Martha grew fond of the entire St. Claire family, and they grew attached to her. As Martha grew into womanhood though, she began to attract the attention of one of the St. Claire sons, Josiah St. Claire.

Josiah was the dashing third son of Jeremiah and Henrietta St. Claire, and stood to inherit nothing from the estate. Despite his poor financial outlook, he had managed to steal the hearts of nearly every debutante from Chapel Hill to Savannah. He had the best seat in the county, and was a fearsome thing to behold on a hunt. Nothing stood between Josiah St. Claire and his quarry; he was ever relentless in his pursuit.

Perhaps if Martha had been aware of Josiah’s previous romantic dalliances, her story would have turned out differently. She might have been more on her guard when the debonair young man began contriving reasons to be in every room she found herself in. But youthful love is often blind, and when she found herself alone with Josiah one summer’s evening, his words sounded genuine as he promised to remain with her always. With each passionate phrase, he drew her closer to a spare guest bedroom.

When the family discovered her condition, she was cast out of the house. Henrietta St. Claire could not have her impressionable young daughters influenced by a harlot. A few weeks later, the St. Claire family announced Josiah’s engagement to a wealthy young widow from Atlanta.

Martha was incensed by Josiah’s betrayal, and immediately sought revenge for the promises he had reneged upon. She had sat at her grandmother’s feet as a girl, listening to fantastical stories as her mother passed the shuttle back and forth at the loom. On the half moon, Martha crept into the clearing carrying a sack laden with sloshing liquid. She kneeled, and poured out the contents, whispering the words her grandmother had taught her with her eyes shut tight.

“What do you want?”

Martha’s eyes snapped open, startled by the voice. A man – or what appeared to be a man – stood before her in a carless attitude. His shoulder length hair was white as snow, and tied neatly at the nape of his neck. The stark color contrasted sharply with his youthful face and figure.

She sat, blinking dumbly up at the unusual man, whose nose was a little too pointed, and eyes a little too large.

“I said, what do you want,” he reiterated, his tone sharpened by his irritation. His posture shifted to one of boredom.

“Oh, right, sorry.” She scrambled to her feet, and dipped into a deep curtsey. Her grandmother had warned her that if she ever met one of these creatures, she ought not offend it. “Please, sir, I ask – that is, I beg your aid.”

He appeared pleased by her polite address, and fawning attitude. An overly wide grin spread across his pale face. “Speak, my child.”

Martha eagerly told her story to the man, being certain to curtsey at intervals, and intersperse complements to maintain his interest, which often wandered when the topic did not pertain to him. He became grossly interested upon the mention of her condition.

“My poor dear girl. I have decided I shall help you. This rogue, who dared to injure such a sweet child such as yourself, will be punished.” He preened over his own generosity.

“Thank you ever so much, sir,” she replied, curtseying so deeply it may as well have been a kowtow. “How can I ever repay you?”

“Now, that is an interesting question,” the man mused. He sat back, and in an instant, an ornate wingback chair appeared where before there had been only air. He stretched out indolently, pondering what payment would be fitting.

He hemmed and hawed, then cried out in success, leaping from the chair in his excitement. As the chair toppled backward, it shrank until it had disappeared. “I know what my payment shall be. Being the generous man that I am, I shall ease you of the burden by which you so cruelly have been saddled.” The man smiled wolfishly. “Do you agree to my terms?”

Without thinking, Martha piped up, “Yes, sir. Thank you, a thousand times over.” At her attestation, the man snapped his fingers. Martha felt suddenly strange. Instinctually, her hands lightly touched her abdomen, suddenly realizing what she had used to buy her revenge. A pang of guilt touched her heart.

“Do not fret, my dear. She will be treated as a princess in my kingdom,” the man assured her. “Now, for my side of this bargain.” The man closed his eyes, and an expression of intense focus fell across his visage. Martha noticed a weight appear in her pocket. She reached inside and pulled out a small coin.

“What is it?” she asked.

The man laughed, sending a shiver down her spine. “Place the coin beneath the rogue's pillow on the next full moon. But remember, you must hang wolfs bane above your doors and windows, or you may not like the consequences.”

“I’ll remember, sir. Thank you.” And with that, he disappeared.

Martha returned to the town, enlisting the help of a naïve housemaid, who had also been a target of Josiah St. Claire’s fluctuating passions. She gave the maid the instructions, and then she waited. The full moon came, and if Martha had been awake, she would have heard the howl of a lone wolf.

The next morning, the town was abuzz with the news. In the dead of night, a rabid dog had killed the eldest St. Claire son, and Josiah St. Claire was missing.

Author: Molly Bruns

Genre: Sci-fi/Fantasy

Age range: 18-27

Approximate Word Count: 70,000 words

The Alchemist's Apprentice is a three-part series beginning with Emma Rose, a woman of unusual birth - a daughter of the Wilis, or White Women - whose kiss appears cursed. After the death of her high school love under traumatic circumstances, Emma retreats into herself. She attempts to finish college, but later leaves to work at her father's bookstore after the death of her grandparents. While returning home from an estate sale, a car accident leads Emma to a town affectionately referred to by the townspeople as Noplace. While chatting with the svelte Creole proprietor of Le Chat Noir Diner, Emma learns of a mysterious fire at the St. Claire plantation, which has left a young woman, Rory St. Claire, both catatonic and destitute. She is cared for by her mother's sisters, while her father's sister inherits the entirety of the St. Claire estate . A head injury from the car accident leads Emma to the front porch of the attractive local general practitioner, Dr. Quincy Beaumont. Quincy, the Alchemist's apprentice, has lived in Noplace for nearly a century, utilizing his spare time to cultivate a garden of poisonous flora in search of a cure for the Alchemist - a man preserved from death by a magically induced coma. Together, Quincy and Emma will attempt to unravel the mystery behind the deaths of Jonathan and Jane St. Claire; to cure Emma's cursed kiss; and thwart a three-hundred year old witch. But a witch is the least of their trouble when Emma draws the attention of Caius Invidia, the fairy king who conquered the first circle of Hell. In a case of mistaken - or not so mistaken - identity, Caius believes Emma to be the reincarnation of his wife, Dana, whom he betrayed to win his throne more than a millennia before. Meanwhile, Quincy's investigating the cause of death for Emma's high school sweetheart catches the attention of the Order, a sect of the Catholic church intent on hunting the Alchemists to gain the key to the Library. Can Quincy dodge the clutches of the Order? Will Emma succumb to the will of her past life?