The Alchemist's Daughter by Eileen Kernaghan

she tried to flee as it staggered towards her on its half-formed limbs, but her feet were mired in wet clay, and she could not move.
    All at once the darkness rolled back and the world was flooded with a luminous ice-cold light. A gibbous moon hung low on the horizon. Sidonie reached out and seized it with both hands but like quicksilver it slid from her grasp. And then she was walking through a vast arched space where rooms endlessly unfolded into other rooms. Everywhere there were mirrors, and in each one, other mirrors were reflected, infinitely receding.
    She found herself in a library, where every book was written in some indecipherable foreign script; where gramaries, herbals, works of mathematics lay scattered beneath her feet like broken tiles.
    Bells chimed a long way off, and she knew she was late for a wedding, though whether it was her own, or Lady Mary’s, or the Queen’s, she could not recall. Seized by a feverish urgency, she hurried from room to room. The corridors were lined with statues of heraldic beasts — leopards, panthers, griffins, dragons. They snapped and snarled at her as she passed.
    Now she came to a walled garden where a copperhaired woman sat by the edge of a pool. Her skin was as pale as milk and her gown was the red of cinnabar. She looked up at Sidonie with topaz-yellow eyes. “They call this chamber Paradise,” she said. “Sidonie Quince, where is my gold?”
    Lost in her fever-dream Sidonie rushed on, until she found herself at last inside a cavern with curving walls and roof of glass, walled round with flame. She could not breathe in that furnace-heat. It seared her skin, set her hair aflame; her flesh dripped away like tallow. And there in the midst of the flames stood a lion with a burning mane and wings as red as pomegranate seeds. She leaped astride his back, clutched his fiery mane. Together they broke through the walls of glass, soared higher and higher, until they flew into the golden mirror of the sun and were consumed.

    There was a murmur of voices. She felt cool fingers pressed to her brow.
    â€œThe fever has broken,” a man’s voice said. “By God’s grace the worst is over, I think.”
    Another, younger voice. Kit’s voice, surely? “But she is still unconscious?”
    â€œNo, merely asleep, now. A wholesome sleep, at last.”
    Sidonie opened her eyes. She stared up at the plaster foliage on the ceiling, blinking hard until its blurred outlines sharpened.
    â€œSidonie . . . ” She turned her head on the damp pillow. Why did Kit sound so tired, so anxious? His face, as he leaned towards her, looked thinner and paler than she remembered. There were dark circles under his eyes.
    She struggled to sit up, feeling weak and light-headed. The effort made sweat spring out on her forehead and she fell back, exhausted.
    â€œKit — what has happened to me?” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.
    â€œYou have been ill,” Kit said gently, “Quite out of your head for three days, and worrying us half to death.”
    â€œBut what is this place?”
    â€œYou are at Wilton House, and thanks to the good Dr. Moffett” — he nodded to the physician, who, looking grave but relieved, was standing at the foot of the bed — “it seems you will live.”
    Memory came flooding back. She struggled to lift herself up on her elbows. The room swam. “Wait,” Kit said, and he pushed an embroidered cushion behind her back. “Lie still, Sidonie. There is nothing you must do now but rest.”
    â€œBut Kit — three days! What will my father think, when he returns from London and finds me gone?”
    â€œFear not, Lady Mary has sent a most devious message to Charing Cross. She has written to your father that she was in need of a scryer, and sent for you in his absence, and that you fell ill, but are recovering. Much of which is true.”
    â€œMistress Sidonie?” A small