“So... let me get this straight...” quizzed the Alchemist. “You really did send an acolyte with a philosopher’s gnome express from Stonehenge?”

The leader of the assembled druids made a number of confirmatory gestures.

“Mmh,” mused the Alchemist sotto voce. “Strange that the Elixir had no effect... must have been the honey... Note to selves: no sweeteners next time!”

The Archdruid clearly had more to say: the gestures grew more insistent.

The Alchemist shrugged disingeniusly.137 “I can honestly say I have no idea where he is now. But... a young druid like that, with copious amounts of money and time on his hands... well... he could have drunk his way through half the pubs from here to Spittlefield by now. Perhaps you should choose your couriers more wisely next time?”

The Archdruid’s gestures were sceptical.

“Your best, you say?” the Alchemist said, with raised eyebrows. “Well! It seems standards have been slipping down south! Perhaps it is time we made another pilgrimage...?”

The entire grove grew gesticularly animated at that! The Archdruid threw up his hands in a half placating, half warding gesture–

“No?” sniffed the Alchemist with an amused twist of his lips. “Very well, then. If you are sure...”138

The druids were unanimous in their fingerwork.

“Well then!” the Alchemist beamed, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? It seems I am in the market – and the mood – for a gnome! Thinking it flawed, I disposed of the remnants of the former. I presume you bought... the latter?”

The Archdruid nodded. A few impatient gestures later and a small hooded shape was passed from the ranks. The Archdruid raised it for inspection.

The Alchemist removed the hood: this one had a fishing rod. He concealed his distaste. “Excellent! Now, to terms! I trust there will be a significant discount given the previous debacle?”

It was perhaps unfortunate that this was the moment Isabella chose to enter.

There was something oddly obscene about the two cloaked men, one in white, one in most crimson red, close about the body of a small cheekily grinning hominin with a fishing rod and pointed yellow hat. They both looked at her and froze, as if caught in the act that cannot spell its name.

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“Oh!” said Isabella. “I’m sorry... am I interrupting?”

The Alchemist was the first to recover (bluster being something of an art form for him): “How now, daughter, how now? Where hast thou withered? I thought we agreed you would confine yourself during the gibbous waxings of the moon?”

“You agreed,” said Isabella, “not we. I’ve been praying, if you must know.”

“Ah!” said the Alchemist, “but to which deity, might I ask?”

“All of them. I like to cover my bases.”

The Alchemist nodded, pleased. “Truly, thoroughness is a virtue, my daughter! Much like confinement, and waxing...”

Isabella pointed at the statue. “What’s that?”

“Nothing your feeble female mind could possibly comprehend—”

“It’s a statue of a small man with a fishing rod.”

“You perceive but brazen surface! You know NOTHING of that which lies beyond —”

“Are you going to smash it like the last one and then feed it to one of your mates?”

“I... get thee to a nunnery!”

“Er, dissolved. Duh?”

“Curse that Coppernose! Fine! For want of a nunnery, your room will have to suffice! Remove thyself from my sight!”

“Fine! Don’t stay up late, Dad. It’s bad for your sinuses.”

Isabella flounced from the laboratory, slamming the door to her bedroom behind her.

The Archdruid made a few soft gestures, his shoulders humping, as if laughing.

The Alchemist inclined, conceding the point. “Yes, I know... I do dote ’pon her. But if an old widower can’t spoil his only daughter, who else can he ruin? Speaking of which, you will of course be staying for the ritual?” It wasn’t really a question.

The Archdruid’s gestures were apologetic, arguably apoplectic.

“Nonsense!” wafted the Alchemist with one hand, while pulling a rope bell pull with the other. “I won’t hear of it!”

There was no bell. Only a low rumbling. The room rocked abruptly. The grove of druids swayed and cowered.

The Alchemist paced towards the windows. The shadows from the cames were crawling across the walls, the light angling and dimming. “I want it done properly this time, no more mistakes... Besides, I need someone on the organ. Creating the right mood, after all, lies at the very heart of the scientific method!”

The windows grew suddenly dark. Only the unnatural luminescence that was at once everywhere and nowhere in Nonsuch remained.

The Archdruid moved tentatively towards the windows. What new sorcery was this? Could the old warlock now command the celestial bodies themselves; dismiss the sun and summon forth the moon at but the pull of a rope? Had time itself become his own personal piece; the weighty hands of fate wound forward with a mere twist of nature’s crown? Peering into the swirling darkness beyond the frames, it took a moment for him to realise the truth...

Something moved in the darkness. Scaled, finned; two eyes and as many mouths.

The Archdruid gasped. Forty years of silence, maintained despite torture and turnstyles, all came to an end in one heretically careless expletive: “Jesus Christ!”

They were only under the bloody river!

The Alchemist turned from the window to regard them.

“So! Until the Elixir is perfected, you will tarry a while... all of you... as my guests!” The strange lighting added new and eldritch shadows to his grinning visage. “And let us pray that it works this time. For all your sakes!”