The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 11

The Princess and the Alchemist - Part 11
The ice was retreating like a weary army.
In the palace garden, the slow war between winter and spring left its marks in silence: mounds of melting snow trickled through the stone channels, droplets hung from leaves like beads of glass, and here and there, green patches broke through the white — timid, yet stubborn.
The wind carried a new scent: the dense smell of living earth, damp, mixed with the perfume of wet wood coming from the newly awakened trees. The air was still cold, but it no longer bit the skin — it merely brushed against it, a reminder that the world was about to change its colors.
On the other side of the greenhouse glass, Lissandra watched the thaw as one watches a secret slowly revealed. Inside, a mist of vapor covered everything — the warm, sweet air trapped beneath the glass roof. Droplets gathered on the panes, distorting the outside world in shades of silver and gray-green. Within, the scent was different — a mix of sap, pollen, and something faintly acidic, the smell of life confined.
She walked the narrow path between the garden beds, her dress catching on the tall herbs, and stopped before the most fragile plants: the moon-herbs. Their translucent leaves, once vibrant, were now faded, and the veins had turned gray, like threads of tarnished silver. The plant seemed to breathe with effort.
Lissandra ran her fingers over one leaf carefully. The texture was cold, almost sticky. It was drying from the inside out.
She frowned, took a wooden clipboard, and began jotting notes: air temperature, condensation on the windows, soil humidity. A few months ago, she would have simply prayed — or hoped the gardener knew what to do. But since she’d begun visiting the laboratory, she’d learned to measure, compare, and test.
The notes filled three lines before she stopped. The greenhouse’s inner balance was wrong. Too much heat, too much moisture — perhaps the stone heaters were running higher than needed. The plant’s cycle, tuned to constant cold, had been broken.
Lissandra pressed the pencil to her lips and bit the wood lightly. The gesture was thoughtless, almost childlike. She thought of Agon. He would have spotted the problem in minutes, with that restless gaze that saw patterns even in shadows. But the memory of Tristan crossed her mind with the same weight as ice on a branch.
Since the banquet, her brother had barely spoken to her. His anger was a physical presence in the corridors — invisible, but impossible to ignore. She knew what the unspoken warning meant: stay away from “certain assistants.” And yet here she was, among withering plants, about to defy him once again.
Lissandra brushed a strand of hair from her face and sighed. There was a constant hum from the heating pipes, the muffled sound of water running beneath the floor. Everything felt too warm. The surface of the pots was damp; the roots must have been drowning.
She took a small copper scoop and lifted some soil to examine it. The smell was sweet and strong — a sign of decay. An invisible pest was forming, perhaps a fungus.
She wrote another line, tracing the diagnosis with hesitation.
The moon-herb did not handle sudden temperature shifts well. The explanation was simple, almost obvious. But something still disturbed her: even the hardier species were wilting. Flowers that once opened at night, reflecting the moon’s glow, now stayed tightly shut, as if refusing to awaken.
Looking at them, Lissandra felt a pang of frustration.
She remembered the first time she’d seen Agon handle a vial in the lab — the precision of his movements, the way he described chemical reactions with the tone of someone reciting poetry. For him, everything had a cause. For her, until recently, everything had a meaning. And now, caught between those two worlds, Lissandra began to feel that perhaps they were just two different ways of seeking the same thing: understanding.
A flutter of wings pulled her from her thoughts. A sparrow had slipped through a crack in the open window and now beat frantically against the glass, trying to escape. Lissandra approached, raised her hand slowly, and opened another window wider. The bird fled, vanishing into the morning mist. She watched the direction it had flown, and a brief feeling of freedom crossed her chest.
Outside, the servants were starting to appear in the gardens, collecting the stakes that had protected the young trees. Their voices mingled with the dripping of water from the gutters. Winter was leaving. And with it, perhaps, it was time for certain distances to thaw as well.
Lissandra wiped her fingertips on the hem of her dress, closed her notebook, and stood still for a moment, listening to the sound of droplets falling from the glass ceiling onto the stone floor. The rhythm was irregular, almost musical. The humidity turned the air into a veil.
“Everything’s changing too fast,” she murmured to herself.
She looked again at the gray leaves of the moon-herbs and, with a sudden impulse, went to the table where she kept the notes exchanged with the laboratory. She pulled out a sheet of paper and left it there, blank, hesitating between writing and giving up.
Tristan had forbidden her to meet with Agon, but he had never said anything about keeping him from the greenhouse — nor about exchanging notes with him, like the one she was leaving now. Notes that he answered the same way, leaving them there for her to find when she arrived.
At last, she traced the first words in a restrained hand:
“I need help. Meet me here after lunch.”
She folded the note and set it on the bench, where the filtered sunlight was beginning to touch the paper.

…

The sound of Agon’s footsteps mingled with the rustling of leaves and the crackle of ice that still clung beneath the gravel. When he appeared in the doorway of the greenhouse, the warm air inside seemed to react — the temperature difference made the glass tremble with droplets. He wore a dark coat, a little worn at the sleeves, and a leather case in his hand. As soon as he entered, his familiar scent preceded him: alcohol, metal, and something indefinable — a mixture of dried roots and old ink.
Lissandra, waiting near the main table, straightened unconsciously. The reunion was formal, almost ceremonial. She inclined her head in a discreet greeting; he responded with equal restraint. There was a polished tension between them — the kind disguised by good manners.
“Your Highness mentioned a problem with the plants,” Agon said, setting the case on the stone surface.
“Yes. Something’s wrong with the humidity,” Lissandra replied. “The moon-herbs have started to wither. I thought it best to call you before it was too late.”
He nodded, already opening the clasps of his case. The metallic sound echoed through the greenhouse. From within, he drew a set of instruments: tweezers, small vials, a rust-edged magnifying lens. With every movement, the smell of metal and disinfectant spread, blending with the sweet, vegetal scent of the plants.
Lissandra guided him to the central bed. The leaves were dry at the edges, their veins pale. Agon knelt without hesitation, touching the soil with his fingertips. He rubbed some between his thumb and forefinger, then brought the handful close to his nose and inhaled slowly.
“The smell’s heavy,” he murmured. “Too much condensation. Too much heat. The roots aren’t breathing.”
He lifted his gaze to her, standing with her arms crossed, trying to contain her anxiety.
“The greenhouse has trapped more vapor than it should,” he explained in a near-didactic tone. “The change of season disrupts the natural balance. The soil in here still believes it’s winter.”
Lissandra tilted her head. “And how do you convince the soil that the world has changed?”
He lifted one corner of his mouth, almost smiling. “With patience… and ventilation.”
As he spoke, he rose and moved through the greenhouse, inspecting the upper windows. He adjusted the opening levers, letting a gust of cold air in. The vapor dispersed in seconds, revealing the damp gleam of the leaves.
“The climate in Norden,” he remarked, fiddling with one of the latches, “changes faster than the moods of the court.”
Lissandra looked sideways at him, holding back a smile. “And it’s just as unpredictable.”
Agon made a brief sound that might have been a laugh, though muffled. Then he took a small glass vial from his case, inside which a yellowish substance shimmered in the light. He mixed it with water in a ceramic bowl, watching the liquid change color — first pale, then greenish. His movements were meticulous, almost hypnotic.
“It’s a nutrient solution,” he explained. “It’ll restore some of the soil’s energy. The roots need to breathe, and this helps push out excess moisture. It’s like teaching the plants to relearn air.”
Lissandra watched him closely, fascinated. There was a calmness in him that contrasted with the precision of his hands. He spoke little, but each word carried weight. He wasn’t the eccentric scientist the palace halls whispered about with distrust — he was a man who understood the logic of the world through observation, treating even the smallest sprout with a kind of silent reverence.
When he knelt to apply the mixture, Lissandra took a small scoop and helped him, pouring the liquid gently over the roots. The cooperation happened naturally, without the need for words. The sound of the liquid soaking into the soil was like a long, renewed breath.
“See,” Agon said, pointing to one of the still-living leaves. “Plant tissue responds to the season. During the cold, they retain water and slow their gas exchange. When the temperature rises, they need time to readjust the cycle.”
She frowned slightly, intrigued. “As if… they were waking up?”
“In a way.” He lifted his gaze, his pupils reflecting the light through the panes. “But waking too quickly can kill them too.”
Lissandra was silent for a few seconds. There was something in that phrase that went beyond plants. He seemed to notice — and looked away, adjusting the ventilation again.
The rhythm between them shifted gradually. The initial stiffness melted into work. They moved in sync, trading instruments, discussing measurements, and debating temperature variations. It was a precise dance of gestures and pauses, leaving no room for discomfort.
Agon mentioned that the cycle of seasons was the true engine of plant life: “Roots breathe according to air density, and the soil needs rest as much as lungs do.”
Lissandra listened closely, as if learning a new language. His words had their own rhythm — part science, part metaphor. And the more he explained, the more she felt the fascination of seeing the world through causes, not symbols. Understanding that the imbalance was not punishment, nor luck, but only a consequence.
She realized that this way of thinking — cold at first glance — hid a deep compassion. Seeking the cause was, at its core, an attempt to prevent suffering from repeating.
The sound of droplets falling from the ceiling was the only noise — until suddenly, another replaced it: hurried footsteps on gravel. The echo came from outside, quick and urgent. Lissandra raised her head, her body immediately tense.
The greenhouse door burst open, and one of the palace servants appeared, carrying a child in his arms. The girl’s face was pale, her arm wrapped in bloodstained cloth. Eron was probably unavailable, or the way to him was too long, and somehow the servant had learned that Agon was in the greenhouse.
“She fell from the cart, my lady!” the servant gasped. “On the south gate road — the ice hasn’t fully melted yet!”
Lissandra ran to him without thinking. “Lay her here,” she said, pointing to the table where moments before there had been pots and vials.
Agon was already moving. In an instant, he wiped the bench clean, pushed objects aside, and opened his case. His voice, until then calm and low, was now firm, precise — leaving no room for doubt.
“Clean cloths. Hot water. Alcohol. Quickly.”