The Masquerading Magician by Gigi Pandian Page A

begun. The vase of wildflowers dominated the table, dwarfing the emaciated man sitting there.
    Ivan Danko hadn’t been this small a man when I’d met him earlier that winter. Although his ongoing illness seemed stable, his recent bout of pneumonia had taken its toll. His blue eyes had a cast of gray, and his short beard was ragged. He’d barely touched his breakfast.
    â€œI thought I had an image of the book on my laptop,” Ivan said after we exchanged pleasantries, “but I was mistaken. I’m sorry to have sent you on a fool’s errand.”
    My heart sank. Each time I thought I was coming close to a breakthrough with Dorian’s book, something got in my way. It was as if the universe was teasing me. “Do you remember anything about it?”
    â€œI don’t know exactly how to explain it,” Ivan said. “It would be easiest to show you.”
    I stared at him. “Wait, I thought you didn’t have it.”
    â€œNot here. In my home library. I’m nearly done with my tea. Do you want to accompany me back to my house?”
    â€œI’ll get my tea to go.”
    Ivan lived in a small house on the north side of Hawthorne Boulevard. We walked to his home, breathing in the sweet scents of plum and cherry trees, newly blossoming as spring took hold after an especially brutal winter. I made an effort not to speed up our leisurely pace to the brisk walking I preferred, since I knew Ivan hadn’t been well.
    One look at his house made it clear that the retired professor of chemistry was a scholar. Ivan had transformed the largest room of his house into an alchemy library. He was writing a book about the unsung heroes of science—scientists who experimented with alchemy as part of their work. Isaac Newton was one of the more famous scientists who conducted alchemical experiments. Knowing how men of science viewed alchemy, Newton had hidden his work, yet he felt it was important enough to continue in secret.
    Finishing his academic book on unsung scientists who worked on alchemy was Ivan’s goal before he died. I was again struck by the collection he’d amassed.
    â€œIt’s here somewhere,” he said, rooting around in a stack of papers on a side table. “Now if only I could remember where I put it … ”
    While he searched, I looked around the room. The oak bookshelves had been custom-made to fit into the dimensions of the room, including a low bookshelf that ran underneath the window that dominated one wall. The window looked out onto evergreen trees that towered over the house, making this the perfect room for contemplative research. On the window sill were several photos, including a recent one of him and Max smiling as they held giant beer steins. The two men were friends who’d met as regulars at Blue Sky Teas.
    A photo album lay open on Ivan’s desk. An enlarged photograph showed Ivan as a young man. I stepped closer to his desk to take a better look at the photograph. Ivan was pictured with two other men in Staromestske Namesti, the historic Old Town Square in Prague, in front of the famous astrological clock. He wore a beard even then, and his hair was just as unkempt. The buttons of his white dress shirt were mismatched. I smiled, amused to see he’d always been an absentminded professor.
    Ivan reached across me and closed the album.
    â€œI’ve never asked you why you left Prague,” I said. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to write this book there, in the heart of alchemical history?”
    He looked to the photo album, a mixture of joy and sadness on his face. “Too many painful memories. Someone so young will not fully understand—”
    â€œI thought you said I was an old soul.”
    Ivan gave me a sad smile. “Before I came to be at peace with my illness, I behaved quite foolishly. I tell people my condition made it necessary for me to take early retirement. This is true—up to a