Her dark eyes widened at his words. “Oh no. You are already betrothed! Is that what you were going to say?” She clutched his arm, this time digging her fingers into his sleeve.

“No, Elena. It’s not that, not at all.” The emotion in her voice caught him off guard. With Elena, his head clouded. She was a thing of both extraordinary liveliness and tempting softness, from the glossy dark curls on her head to the organdy tucked along the neckline of her gown. The scent of warm lavender oil rose from her bare throat. She was a beautiful little present, wrapped in silk and lace.

“Then there is no problem if you were to kiss me.” She smiled at her own daring. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes, clearly expecting him to take up her offer. He tingled with fear and desire. He had little experience kissing in passion aside from a few experiments with his cousins back in Hungary. The few whores he had known did not expect, or even particularly want, to be kissed. He tried to put these thoughts out of his mind as he looked at Elena. Why not kiss the girl? They were alone, no chaperones hovering at their side. The bishop’s footsteps echoed down the hall, but he was still a distance away.

The seconds ticking by, Adair closed his eyes and kissed her. Her softness yielded to him. He felt as though Elena wanted him—perhaps even more than he wanted her—and the idea of being desired stirred him. He leaned into her, pulling her tighter, and she responded, her mouth opening for him. And just as he felt he could pour himself into her until they became one, a hand fell on his shoulder. It was the bishop.

Adair sprang back, his heart leaping, but there was no enraged outcry from his host, no shove propelling him away from the young woman. Adair expected Rossi to lose his temper and accuse Adair of taking advantage of his hospitality, but no—Bishop Rossi was smiling. He clapped Adair on the back. “My boy, don’t be embarrassed on my account. It is only natural to have such feelings for a young lady as beautiful as my goddaughter.” Why, he practically beamed with happiness, and Elena, for her part, stood behind her godfather, blushing so furiously that her cheeks were like two perfect red apples.

In the laboratory that evening, the bishop’s mind seemed to wander, and so Adair took command of the experiment, measuring ingredients onto tiny silver salvers and tending the furnace while the bishop continued to wax eloquently about his ward. “Have I told you about her family, back in Florence? It’s very old, a fine family. It goes all the way back to the duchy’s beginnings. Her family has had their estate in the valley for as long as anyone can remember.” Adair listened but didn’t respond; the girl’s pedigree meant nothing to him since he had no intention of lengthening her family tree.

“And Elena is such a clever girl. She knows a little French, and Latin, of course, for mass. But she has other talents, too. . . . She dances like an angel, and sings beautifully. I always have her sing at my dinner parties for my guests and—why, we must have you over for one soon. We shall make you the guest of honor. Would you like that?” the bishop asked excitedly, as though the thought—after weeks of Adair’s company—had only just occurred to him.

“Certainly,” Adair replied, but only to end Rossi’s chattering. Even Elena’s kiss and snowy-white décolleté were fading from memory, unable to compete with the allure of the laboratory.

“Excellent! I will speak to my housekeeper to make the arrangements,” the bishop said, and beamed. Rossi clearly had no interest in their experiment that night; he was on a mission of a different kind. The old cleric studied Adair with an appraising eye. “She is a very lovely girl, wouldn’t you say? She’s considered one of the most beautiful girls in Florence, you know.”

She certainly spent enough of her father’s money on gowns and jewels, Adair thought. He put down the tiny pair of pincers he was using to count out crystals of salts of alum. “If that’s the case, why has she been sent here to live with you? If she is one of the most eligible girls in Florence, shouldn’t she be betrothed already?”

The bishop colored, having been caught. He leaned back into his chair, fussing with the billowing sleeves of his tunic to deflect scrutiny. “Well, if you wish to hear the whole story, she’s the youngest of three sisters, and neither of the other two has yet been betrothed, you understand. Elena’s father has his hands full right now finding suitable young men for the older two. And though it pains me to make any comparisons between the sisters, Elena is the fairest of the three. My friend needed to send her away until the other girls’ matches could be made, her beauty being something of a distraction. . . .” The bishop gave a craggy smile, showing his yellowed teeth, and there was something about the way his eyes settled on Adair, watching carefully for his reaction, that Adair had to think there was more to the story than the old bishop was admitting.

They wrapped up the experiment that night—slightly more successful than the rest, but still a disappointment in Adair’s opinion—and on his walk back to the doge’s palazzo, Adair realized that he needed to find someone else with an interest in alchemy, so that he would continue to have access to another laboratory. It was plain that the bishop meant to arrange for Adair to marry his goddaughter, and Adair had already resolved that this was not going to happen. There was another reason that he wanted to quit Rossi, however, and that was because it was obvious that Adair was more skilled than the bishop, and Adair had no desire to waste his time with a dilettante. He wanted to work with someone better than himself. Henrik, his former tutor, had had his limitations, but he’d shown Adair how to use the instruments correctly and gotten him off to a good start. Adair’s skills in the laboratory were solid: he was a competent journeyman alchemist, but now he needed to study with someone with greater knowledge or risk wasting precious time floundering about on his own.

Adair knew that he couldn’t quit Rossi abruptly; he didn’t want to make an enemy of the man. In any case, he knew it would be difficult to find someone to take Rossi’s place. He’d have to find someone in Venice with a laboratory, and then he’d need to convince this person to share it. Without a laboratory, Adair couldn’t continue his studies in alchemy. Try as he might to think of someone to replace Bishop Rossi, Adair came up empty-handed. While he kept his ear to the ground for potential mentors, he began to reconnoiter in merchants’ alleys, the more obscure the better, looking for booksellers’ stalls where he could spend his spare hours searching for books of secrets that would allow him to teach himself while he still had access to the bishop’s laboratory.

There were few books of any kind for sale, let alone books of occult secrets. Most books of the time were religious in nature: Bibles, or excerpts of Scriptures and sermons. He began to feel as though he was picking through the same moldy tomes over and over, his quest destined for fruitlessness, until one day when he stumbled across a shop buried in the basement of a dingy building on a side street. The shop carried a sparse and odd assortment of merchandise. There were a few books, yes, but also bits of the arcane: a crystal ball, a skull inscribed with runes, a writing stylus made from polished bone. There were chests lined up behind a counter, and when Adair looked inside, he saw they were filled with all sorts of unidentifiable things, dark and dried until wizened to unrecognizability, but with smells that promised unknown properties, unknown delights. Adair’s heart raced as he poked about, each discovery more interesting than the last.

The proprietor came down the stairs into the narrow shop just as Adair was riffling through one of the wooden chests behind the counter, clearly shocked by the young nobleman’s presence. With this trade being dangerous business under the scrutiny of the church, he probably knew all his customers well and so he would be greatly surprised to see a stranger visiting him—and a nobleman at that.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Adair said to put the man at ease, though his words seemed to have little effect. He recognized there was a dance to be done when it came to wares such as these, if the shopkeeper wished to be spared a visit by the inquisitors. This was Venice after all, and citizens were encouraged to tattle on their neighbors. There were even letter boxes at the doge’s palazzo for that express purpose.

The proprietor was an older man, bald with great wiry white whiskers, and over his tunic he wore a much-battered leather apron. He bowed his head in a show of deference. “Good day, my lord. To what do I owe the honor of your visit to my shop? Perhaps you came here on the recommendation of one of your lordship’s friends?” the shopkeeper asked, watching Adair closely for a reaction. “If you would be so good as to tell me the name, that would clear the matter up.”

Adair had no name to give and saw no sense in lying. “No, good fellow, I have no such recommendation to vouchsafe me. I was walking by your establishment and what I saw from the doorway intrigued me.” He gestured to the dusty shelves. “I’ve seen similar items before, you see. I come from another kingdom far away . . .”

The shopkeeper nodded. “I thought as much, from your accent.”

“Such objects are not as uncommon in my homeland as they are in Venice. I thought perhaps I might add to my collection, and came in to get a better look at your wares.”

“Your collection, you say?” the shopkeeper said, now curious. “And is there anything in particular you might be looking for?”

Adair leapt at this opening like a cat onto a mouse. “Why yes: I am looking to purchase a book of secrets. Have you heard of such a thing?”

The shopkeeper’s face clouded. “I’ve heard of them, yes . . .”

“Has one ever come into your possession?” Adair pressed.

The old man was obviously made uncomfortable by the subject and pursed his lips until his mouth almost disappeared in the thicket of his whiskers. “I have seen one or two, but never have had one to sell. These tend to be the property of collectors, such as yourself, and rarely are made available to purchase. It happens sometimes when a practitioner passes away, if the book is found among his things. But more commonly, the book is burned”—the shopkeeper glanced quickly again at Adair—“by the family, so as to hide the loved one’s interest in the occult.”

“Such a waste of knowledge,” Adair said, shaking his head.

“Indeed,” the shopkeeper agreed. But there was a fresh gleam in his eye now that they had an understanding. “But knowing of your interest, my lord, I shall keep an ear out should any such item find its way on the market. And in the unlikely event that one of these books should come into my possession, how might I get in contact with you?”

“You might send word to me.” He took the quill from the ink pot on the man’s desk and scribbled his name and address on a scrap of rough paper. He blew on the wet ink before handing it to the shopkeeper.

The man squinted at the writing before exclaiming in surprise, “But this address is for the doge’s palazzo!”

“Yes,” Adair said, his cheeks singed with embarrassment. “It is. I am a ward of the doge.”

The shopkeeper peered at him curiously. “I doubt you are a fool, sir, so I can only surmise that you find great sport in playing with fire.”

Adair thought about it and answered honestly. “Such is my interest in the topic, sir. I would risk everything in its pursuit.”

Before the new cycle of the moon, Adair received word from the bookseller, a cryptic note delivered by a kitchen boy that said he should come to the shop at his earliest convenience, but to come alone—as though Adair needed a reminder that such interests were best kept concealed. He went to the shop late in the afternoon on his way to a medical lecture at Professore Scolari’s.

The shopkeeper threw a bolt across the door after Adair entered, and led him to his residence on the upper level. It was a very modest dwelling, from what Adair could see, and very dim. There was only one window, which made for privacy. The shopkeeper gestured for Adair to sit at the table and went off through a doorway, and within a few minutes came back with a parcel in his hands.

“This book only recently came into my possession. It is one of the finest examples of its kind that I have ever seen,” he said as he put it on the table and peeled back the deerskin wrapping. The book’s cover was such a brilliant blue that it cut through the room’s murkiness and commanded Adair’s attention. He held his breath as he picked it up, opened it carefully, and began inspecting the pages. It was so beautifully and precisely constructed that it had to be the work of a monk. The pages were parchment and adorned with bits of gold leaf inserted here and there. There were illustrations, too—magic circles, runes, and all manner of pictures Adair couldn’t make sense of it without further study. It smelled of candle wax and incense, and whispered of late hours in a scriptorium as its creator worked in secret, after his brothers had turned in for the night. Someone had risked his life and possibly his soul to make this book.