Free The Accidental Alchemist by Gigi Pandian Page B

things I had learned the hard way was that when faced with a stressful task, it’s important to take a few deep breaths before beginning. Books served as a psychological deep breath. Before I tackled the task of deciphering the pages of Dorian’s book, I could give myself these few minutes to enjoy a cup of tea and a few of my favorite passages.
    Living out of my trailer, I didn’t have space for many books, so I owned only a few dozen favorite paperbacks. If I wanted to keep a new book, something old had to go. It was a small cost for living on the road, but a difficult one.
    One of the very few purely positive things about living so long was getting to read so many books. While styles of prose changed over time and varied across different cultures, storytelling remained fundamentally the same. People have changed how they express themselves, but the human condition doesn’t change, and neither does how we relate to it. Instead of making new stories unnecessary, each successful storyteller puts their own twist on a familiar tale and finds a way to connect with the readers of their time. Especially successful writers reach across time, ending up as classics.
    It was fascinating to see how history created false images of famous authors after their deaths. Even the author whose book I now held in my hand, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, was far different than popular culture would have people believe. Casual fans of Sherlock Holmes assume his creator was a scientific-minded man like his famous detective. People who study his life in more depth believe he gave up rationalism for spiritualism. Neither was the whole story. He was grieving for deceased loved ones—his wife and son, among others. It was a feeling I knew all too well. One part of his life was blown out of proportion as he sought to reconnect with those he missed dearly.
    Regardless of how history documented the man, there’s no arguing that his stories stood the test of time. I opened my battered copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles .
    The teashop didn’t sell coffee, but that didn’t prevent it from doing a bustling business. From the moment Blue went back to the counter, people funneled into the teashop, keeping her busy. Though an assortment of pastries was available, most customers only ordered tea.
    “Did you hear about the murder?” a woman whispered loudly to her friend as they stood in line.
    My shoulders tensed and I felt an instinctive desire to flee. I shoved the book back into my pocket and stood up to leave.
    “Oh, don’t go.” The voice came from the table next to mine. The older woman sat alone. She sat with her back to the wall, giving her a full view of her surroundings. “You’re the one who bought the house on the hill, aren’t you?”
    So much for settling in quietly.
    “I need to get going,” I said, forcing a smile.
    “Nonsense. What an awful introduction to our neighborhood you’ve had. Let me buy you another cup of tea.”
    “Thank you, but—”
    “I won’t take no for an answer.”
    She stood and swooped in on the counter. That was really the only way to describe it. She wore a blood-red shawl and timed her approach to the counter perfectly to correspond to a lull in customers. I had a moment to study her unobserved as she ordered two teas. She knew who I was, knew about Charles and his murder the previous day, and nodded at several of the people in the teashop. I guessed she spent a fair amount of her time here. Though it was difficult to discern because of her perfect makeup and rich brown hair that was pulled back into a bun, I guessed she was old enough to be retired, giving her plenty of time to spend at the teashop. She couldn’t have been much taller than five feet, and I doubted she weighed a hundred pounds.
    She returned a minute later with a pot of tea and two small mugs. The aroma told me it was a simple black tea, but smelled high quality and delicious.
    “Olivia Strum,” she said.
    “Zoe Faust. And thank you