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promise. They pulsed with energy. The alchemist remembered how the poem had even appeared to glow slightly on the page.
The dead will rise
From glade to glen
And ancient will be young again.
    Below these lines an additional note had been written:
    The Most Powerful Magic in the World (use sparingly) .
    The meaning was clear enough. The magic could restore youth to the old and bring the dead back to life: ancient, dangerous, powerful magic.
    It had been a complicated and difficult magic to make and control. Just the ingredients required had, at first, been enough to discourage him. A perfect snowflake! The laughter of a child! A summer afternoon! The alchemist had never seen a spell quite like it.
    And then, of course, there was the most difficult ingredient of all to procure: pure sunlight (1 cup) .
    That had been tricky. Very tricky and troublesome indeed. He had nearly given up on several occasions; it was very hard to bottle pure sunlight, and over the years the alchemist had had to suck and bleed and wheedle the sky dry, until the sun shriveled up entirely and the world turned to gray.
    But he had done it. After five long years, the alchemist had done it.
    And now the Lady Premiere would acknowledge his genius and celebrate his masterpiece, and he would become the Official Alchemist of the State, or the First Alchemist of the Highest Order, and he would attend state dinners and distribute thick cream-colored business cards with his name and title printed neatly on them—but not his number. It would be for him to decide whom he wanted to contact, and when. And he would have a real laboratory for his experiments, and absolutely no one would dare call him Magician anymore.
    At last they had reached the tall wrought-iron fence that encircled the Lady Premiere’s six-story town house. Beyond the gates a rising mist made it impossible to see the Lady Premiere’s vast residence clearly. But various lit windows smoldered there beyond the fog, and made the alchemist think of rich upholstered furniture, and gold, and dark wood. He was very eager to get inside. The Lady Premiere was a princess in her native country—was it Austria or Russia? The alchemist could never remember. No, no. Perhaps it was Germany. Difficult to know. He had heard different things at different times. In any case, she was wonderfully and fabulously wealthy, and as a favorite of the mayor’s, she was also extremely powerful.
    At the gates a guard halted their progress. The alchemist could barely announce himself, he was so excited.
    “And who’s that?” the guard asked, nodding toward Will.
    “Nobody,” the alchemist said. “He’s just my apprentice.” He was annoyed that the guard had reminded him of the boy’s existence—he had almost managed to forget him entirely. It was necessary that someone be there to witness and record his meeting with the Lady Premiere, but the alchemist wished it could have been otherwise.
    There was a curious, rattling sound coming from the boy now. The alchemist frowned. The boy’s teeth were chattering—that was it—bouncing off each other with a noise like a bunch of dice rolling around in a wooden box. The alchemist squeezed his fists together and breathed heavily through his nose, trying to stay calm. When he became Official, he would get a real assistant, not some scrimp of a shrimp of a boy who couldn’t even keep his teeth from knocking together in public.
    “It’s awfully late for the boy to be out,” the guard said thoughtfully. The alchemist could tell he was slow.
    “He’s fine,” the alchemist snapped.
    “He looks cold.” The guard now sounded reproachful. “He should have a hat, at least. His ears is as purple as a rib steak.”
    “He’s no concern of yours.” The alchemist was losing his temper. “Your concern is to announce us, and escort us inside. We are expected, and we are already late, and I doubt you can afford to upset the Lady Premiere.”
    The guard shot one more look at