The Alchemy of Forever

takes his hand away, and I gasp.
    The red rose I had once worn in my hair is in full bloom, the velvety surface of its petals no longer dried or wilted.
    “Magic?” I whisper.
    “Science,” he replies.
    I am astounded, and delighted. “I don’t care what you call it,” I say. “It’s still magic to me.”
    “Will you take off your mask?” he asks, looking deep into my eyes. “I must know who you are.”
    “Only if you remove yours as well.”
    He nods, and I untie the ribbons that hold the butterfly mask to my face, and pull it aside. He does the same with his scarlet mask, the same color as my rose.
    We look at each other and let out small gasps of surprise.
    “Seraphina,” he says breathlessly.
    “Cyrus,” I say wonderingly. Cyrus is the apothecary’s son, and I’ve stolen more than a few glances at him when he and his father come to the house to visit. He is handsome with his white-blond hair, solid cheekbones, and vivid eyes. When I dream of my marriage, I often imagine Cyrus as my husband.
    “You are even more beautiful than I remember,” he says, and it is clear that he has thought of me, too. “And so I give you a promise. I will come to your home to speak with your father. And next time I will bring you something more than flowers.”
    There is no holding it back; I blush a deep crimson. I am overwhelmed, dazed, dazzled. The roses’ heady scent fills my senses and I close my eyes. Is this my destiny?
    We hardly notice when the two figures appear from the shadows and approach us: a man and a woman wearing filthy clothes, their faces half covered with cloths to conceal their mouths. The swords strapped around their waists, however, look well made and sharp.
    “Sir!” spits the man, addressing Cyrus. “Pass me your purse.”
    I stiffen with fright, and Cyrus shields me with his body. “Be gone,” he commands. “I have nothing for you.”
    The man draws his sword. “Your lady, then.”
    I am not carrying any money either. But I do have a jeweled crucifix that I always wear around my neck, and I hurriedly unfasten it to hand it to the man.
    He grabs it roughly, nearly breaking the chain. “Is that it?” He grunts, turns his head, and spits on the ground.
    “It is all I have,” I tell him in a tremulous voice.
    Before I can move he has me pinned under his arm. His teeth are rotten, and I can smell alcohol on his breath.
    “Get away from her!” Cyrus screams, springing to action. In one swift movement he grabs the woman’s sword, kicks the man with his boot, and sinks the sword into his belly. His blood, sickeningly warm, splashes onto the front of my gown. We watch his body slump to the stone.
    Cyrus locks his eyes with mine, and I see his expression change, his eyes grow round, terrified. And then, for the second time in an evening, my world changes forever.
    To say that the woman’s small dagger pierces my back sounds too delicate, as if she is preparing my earlobes for jewelry. It is an eruption of pain. I feel the knife go in, feel it scrape against bone, feel a hot gush as blood starts pouring down my back, pumping in unison with my alarmed heartbeat.
    Cyrus knocks the woman over. She falls hard, her head cracking against the stone. She does not get up.
    I sink to my knees, looking up at the moon shining brightly, as if nothing horrible has just happened.
    I feel Cyrus’s arms encircle me, feel his breath as he leans close, putting pressure on the wound, see my blood running over his white fingers, turning them completely scarlet.
    In a haze, I see him rip open his tunic and pull out a small vial. The world grows dim as I close my eyes.
    “I will save you, Sera. Don’t leave me!” He pours a drop of liquid from the vial onto his finger and holds it to my lips.
    As it touches my tongue, I cry out in pain. “What is this poison?” I gasp.
    “It is an elixir,” he explains hurriedly. “My father and I created it during the Black Death. He fell ill, and we used this to save him. The body you know—he was not born into it.”
    I feel a tug as something in my throat burns. “I am on fire!”
    “It’s the silver cord that binds your soul to your body,” he says urgently, “and this potion is unraveling it. You’ll soon be free.”
    I begin to feel weightless, like I could drift toward the sky, like I could join the planets in their joyful arcs.
    “Sera. Don’t go.” I hear Cyrus’s voice, but it sounds so unimportant. I want to explain to him where I am going: