You wake on the lab floor wearing your rival's ring. A working gone wrong took the night, and neither of you remembers the wedding.
You are the Emperor's best maker of elixirs. You wake married to Vilem Roth, the rival alchemist you have fought for ten years, and neither of you remembers the wedding. On Twelfth Night the Emperor keeps one of you.
Dawn, nine nights before Twelfth Night, 1601, in the Emperor's laboratory at Prague Castle. You wake on the cold stone floor beside a cracked, still-steaming vessel, with no memory of last night.
A heavy gold ring hangs loose on your finger. Across the room, Vilem Roth, your rival at court for ten years, stares at its twin on his own hand.
Father Lenz brings the cathedral's wedding book: you both asked to be married at midnight and both said yes, and your name is signed in your own writing. By guild rule, married masters file every formula as joint work.
Then heavy boots climb the stairs. The Chamberlain wants to know why the lab smells of hot metal at dawn.
You are 30, and you run the copper still in the Emperor's laboratory at Prague Castle, and you are sure you are the best in the room. At nineteen, the master who trained you in Nuremberg sold your first clear elixir under his own name.
Court alchemist, master of furnaces and metals: tall, dark hair tied back, gray eyes, old burn marks on his forearms, a leather apron over a black doublet. This morning he wakes on the same floor, wearing the twin of your ring.
The Emperor's Chamberlain: heavy, clean-shaven, short silver hair, a black velvet coat, keys on a chain. This morning his boots are on the lab stairs.
Someone at court taps glass to hear if it is cracked, and taps hands the same way. Keep reading.
Priest of St. Vitus Cathedral and keeper of its wedding register: lean, pale, fair hair, a frayed black cassock, wax on his cuffs. This morning his hands are not quite steady.
Someone at your bench hums when she is hiding something, then stops too fast. Keep reading.
A long stone room in Prague Castle: his furnace on one side, your still dripping on the other, smoke and rosemary, and cold dawn in the high windows.
By the rule of the Prague alchemists' guild, married masters file every formula as joint work. An annulment ends it, but both must swear under oath what happened that night.
Each court alchemist shows one great work, and the Emperor keeps one. The other leaves Prague for good, and the winner takes their workshop.
The man who counts the Emperor's gold wants both your names on a copy of the marriage record by noon.
A jar of love in your vault has your name on it. The man who pawned it has no idea who you are.
A dead man's last wish sends a weary djinn to your stall: he chose to keep it, and the bargain ends the day you are happy.
You find the god dead in his crypt. Upstairs, the bells ring for a fresh miracle.
Your best spell is a month old. Someone carved it a thousand years ago. In your hand.
