Free The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil by Heidi Cullinan Page A

D’lor. But then the pin in his arm began to ache, and he felt his head swing around in time to see the strangers from the pub room emerge from the shadows. Timothy wanted to look at the one who had said he was Jonathan’s brother—Charles, Jonathan had called him—but he could only look at the other, the taller, thinner one, standing in the center of the yard, smiling serenely with his hands tucked into his pockets.
    The alchemist.
    “Welcome home, Jonathan Perry,” he said, removing one hand from his pocket to place it over his abdomen as he made a formal bow. “Allow me to introduce myself; I am Martin Smith, a practical alchemist.”
    “Ah.” Jonathan spoke casually. “I did wonder what a guild alchemist would be doing this far north. Now I understand: you are one of the renegades.”
    Smith waved his hand airily. “We prefer practical alchemists, but yes, you are correct. I am not of the guild.” The alchemist’s eyes darkened; both Timothy and Charles swayed as the alchemist spoke again. “We have business between us, Jonathan Perry.”
    Jonathan walked forward, and Timothy came along, his feet all but floating off the ground. The chasm below him was huge now, sucking so hard he felt it in the center of his chest. He looked up at Jonathan’s brother, wondering if he felt it too. He couldn’t tell; Charles Perry simply looked dull and lost, and he kept his head down. Jonathan, however, seemed entirely unaffected, and he continued with Timothy at his side out to the place where the alchemist stood, his only hindrance his ruined leg.
    “I can’t see what business I have with an alchemist,” Jonathan replied breezily. “I’m here only for a brief visit; I was injured in the war, and I come to seek healing from the Morgan. I doubt she will willingly tolerate any alchemists in her parish, practical or otherwise.”
    The note of warning in Jonathan’s voice made Timothy think the alchemist would be apprehensive, but Smith in fact only seemed to gloat more. “Oh, this is unfortunate. I suppose you would not have heard, having been not just out of the parish but of the country. The Morgan is dead. Her Apprentice is standing in her place.” Timothy felt Jonathan’s shock at the news; even as he was still reeling, the alchemist went on. “You might be happier for it, however; her Apprentice is an old friend of yours, I understand. Madeline Elliott.”
    Jonathan’s knee gave way, and he leaned hard on Timothy, who in turn had to lean on the woman or he would have fallen to the ground. Jonathan was shaking. Whoever this Apprentice was, the mere mention of her made him very upset. Timothy wanted to comfort him, but he felt the spell pushing at him, holding him back. The vortex in his mind opened wider, and he felt now as if he stood on the edge of a knife, high wind whipping all around him. Only the glowing woman kept him from teetering away.
    “Stop it.” Jonathan regained his footing and propped Timothy up again. “Stop pushing on his mind. You have me here before you, which is what you wanted. There is no need to torture my equerry.”
    “No, there is no need ,” Smith conceded, “but it does seem to alleviate some of my frustration at not being able to enchant you . Besides,” he added, smiling wickedly at Timothy, “he’s something of a collector’s piece, isn’t he? A Catalian pleasure slave. I thought they had all been tortured to death in the Cloister camps, and yet here he is.”
    Court concubine , Timothy tried to growl at him, but he no more than formed the angry thought and he was reeling again, crying out and sagging between Jonathan and the woman’s arms as his head threatened to split in two.
    Smith was laughing. Timothy lifted his head and saw, through blurred vision, Smith leering at him, tucking both hands into his pockets. “And such will . I must have him as soon as I deal with you, Mr. Perry. The possibilities simply enchant me.”
    “And how do you propose to deal with