but nobody could agree on what exactly could have caused it. There would be all the usual investigations, of course, but while various experts were wheeled out to outline their ideas, not a single one of their theories matched. The explosion—if that’s what it had been—was being classified as “mysterious” and “highly unusual.”
Yeah, Donna thought. A highly unusual demon attack.
She flipped over to Google, typing in “enlightenment gallery british museum.”
After scrolling past all the news reports about the blast, she came across several sites with information about the gallery Miranda had mentioned. The Enlightenment Gallery was where some of Dr. John Dee’s mystical equipment was displayed. Dr. Dee was the creepy sixteenth-century astrologer, mathematician, and Master Magus who had played a pivotal role—unknown to most academics and historians—in the founding of the current alchemical Orders. One of the collection’s centerpieces was Dee’s famous obsidian scrying mirror. The British Museum also held alchemical grimoires and other manuscripts, all of which would undoubtedly be nothing more than ash by now.
Sighing, Donna decided she’d had enough of staring at a computer screen. It wasn’t like she was learning anything useful. She headed down two flights of stairs to the library, hoping that the alchemists’ conference would last a good while longer. It was unusual for her to have some time to herself, and now she was glad of it.
There had to be some sort of weapon that could be used against Demian and his kind—she just needed to find out what it was.
Two
Stepping quietly into Miranda’s impressive library, Donna surveyed the eclectic décor. In the evenings, the room was dimly lit by iron chandeliers that hung from the high ceilings. Paintings adorned the walls—canvases of all sizes, framed prints of esoteric symbols—and gilt mirrors shone with reflected candlelight. The library was one of the grandest spaces, and yet also one of the most intimate, in the impressive old house.
Although Donna had been in London for almost a month, she still hadn’t been shown anything that related to the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone—even though this was, supposedly, the main reason she’d been sent to London in the first place. The alchemists needed the Stone before they could set to work re-creating the elixir of life, which Donna had (unfortunately yet necessarily) lost. But beyond the dry alchemical reading she’d been assigned, her so-called apprenticeship seemed to consist mostly of polishing ancient equipment and listening to Miranda’s stories of “English Alchemy Across the Centuries.” Donna was beginning to think that Robert’s lessons on how to control her powers were actually more interesting, even if they didn’t seem to have anything to do with alchemy.
True, it hadn’t been all boring, but she wanted to know when she was actually going to learn the real secrets. Robert had quickly disabused her of that notion when he’d told her, “Alchemy is all about the individual’s journey to transformation. We each find a different path to the truth.”
“But how am I supposed to find that?” After having spent two hours cleaning out a closet of esoteric test tubes, Donna was tired of dust and even more tired of being told what to do.
Robert had grinned. “Use your initiative, Initiate Underwood.”
So here she was, using her initiative. Miranda had given her the keys to the library and told her to shelve books whenever she had spare time. Fine. She would shelve books. She would take great care to examine even the ones that she wasn’t supposed to touch.
There was a locked cabinet of antiquarian books against the north wall. Donna knew it wasn’t just secured with an ordinary key; there were magical wards placed on it so that Miranda would know if anyone had disturbed the Order’s most precious volumes. Donna remembered thinking that that was pretty strange, when Robert gave her a tour of the house on her first full day here. Quentin Frost, the Archmaster back home in Ironbridge, had never forbidden her from touching any of the books in the Blue Room, his own personal library. He’d loved to see her enjoy reading when she was a kid; it was something they shared.
Seeing books under lock and key—and protected by magic—gave Donna an uncomfortable feeling. It was as if they were dangerous in some way … as though, if allowed to go free, they could cause unknowable damage and destruction. Which was a weird thing to think, but nothing was outside the realm of possibility in her experience. Seventeen years on this earth had shown her