Page 47 of Atlas of Unknowable Things

THE DOCTRINE OF SIGNATURES

All herbs, flowers, trees, and other things which proceed out of the Earth, are books, and magick signs, communicated to us, by the immense mercy of God, which signs our medicine.

Leaning back in my chair, I pinched the bridge of my nose to try to ease the tension that had been slowly building.

Ostensibly I had everything I needed to get me where I needed to be, and yet I was stuck.

I tried to think back through everything I had at my fingertips—all the clues, all the information that seemed to, more often than not, lead me somewhat closer to where I needed to be, but never quite close enough.

I decided I needed a change of scene, so after locking up the cabinet, I started back toward campus, my mind spinning.

As I reviewed the clues that had led me to where I was now, I could feel the answer finally within my grasp.

The light in the woods had led me to the grave, which gave me the peacock key, which led me to the secret room, which led me to the desk clue, which led me to the photos and The Book of Widows.

The entry in the book had led me to the cabinet key, which led me to Project Bluebird.

It all seemed so clear and easy, and yet I kept snagging on The Book of Widows and the divination tools.

There was more to these items. I knew there had to be.

On the way to my cabana, I knocked on Aspen’s door.

When she didn’t answer, I decided to go and see if she might still be up and working in the apothecary garden.

It couldn’t hurt to show her everything.

She was the person I trusted most at Hildegard, and although our fields didn’t overlap, she seemed to know the most about the occult. She might have insight I lacked.

I darted into my cabana, and after slipping the relic in my coat pocket, I grabbed a tote from the closet and shoved everything else inside. Then I headed down to the apothecary garden. The garden itself was silent and still, but I saw that a light burned in the window of the garden house.

I made my way back, and when I knocked, Aspen greeted me.

“The gang’s all here,” she said with a smile, and behind her I could make out the others gathered around. Dorian stood over by the bookshelves, Lexi was stretched out on the couch, and Finn sat in a chair, a look of fierce concentration on his brow.

“What are you all doing?”

“Emergency meeting,” said Aspen, ushering me inside. “Finn has informed us all that you know that you are Isabelle.” She gave me a quick wink, and I realized that whatever suspicion she’d held of the others persisted.

“Welcome back,” said Dorian with a smile. “Took you long enough.”

Ignoring him, I pulled The Book of Widows out of the tote and held it up. “What the hell is this thing?”

Aspen took it from me and started leafing through it. “I’ve never seen it before. Finn, what is this?”

“No idea. It was with her things. We found it on her desk like it was one of the last things she consulted before she left, so I tried to use it to jog her memory.”

“Did it?” Aspen asked, looking up at me.

“If it did, would I be here asking you what it is?”

“What else is in the bag?” asked Lexi.

I dumped everything out onto the coffee table. “Do any of you know what any of this stuff is?”

“I told you,” said Dorian, “the cards are local folk superstition. The rest of it we have no idea. It was with the book.”

Aspen picked up one of the widows’ keys. “So you draw these and then consult this to get a reading? It’s a divinatory text?”

“Has to be,” I said. “But why would I be using divination in the middle of a complete catastrophe? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Suddenly Aspen looked up from the book, her eyes flashing. “I think this book isn’t just about divination. I think it might be something much more important.”

“What do you think it is?”

She was smiling now, nearly shaking with excitement.

“When esoteric knowledge is passed down, it needs to be steeped in secrecy, right? It has to be encoded so that if it falls into the wrong hands, it can’t be misused.

Historically, there has always been a reliance on symbols.

For instance, in alchemy, birds have always been important.

Peacocks, for example.” She pointed to the key.

“The peacock represents a key stage in the literal alchemical process during which a key substance became iridescent, but metaphorically, it also represents a spiritual pivot for the alchemist as well, like a transition to a different, higher realm of being.”

Suddenly I was struck by my choice of name. I’d named myself Robin, and Paloma meant dove. I’d named us after birds as if I was trying to enact an alchemical transformation on our very identities.

Aspen opened the book and turned it around to face us. “Our predecessors had to find clever ways of hiding information while still getting it across to the intended audience. So it absolutely makes sense that someone could hide information in images like these.”

“So it’s not a divinatory text?” asked Finn.

“It is. Very much so, in the vein of the I Ching, but if I’m not mistaken, it has a secondary purpose as well.” She looked at me. “Okay, show me the four symbols you drew.”

I pointed them out within the text, but because they only ever appeared in groups of three, they never appeared all together.

“Okay, now do you remember the recipe from the Joan of Arc–Gilles de Rais letter?”

Excitement pulsed through me. We were getting close now. “Of course. It was aconite, angelica, and hoopoe’s blood. But what does The Book of Widows have to do with the letter?”

“I think it has everything to do with it, Isabelle,” she said. With a flourish, she set the book on the coffee table, her charm bracelet tinkling. “I think this is a recipe book. And I would bet that one of these entries corresponds to the recipe for the witch’s ointment in your letter.”

Shaking with excitement, I leaned over and paged through the book. “This is a recipe book? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She gave me a sly smile. “The I Ching is actually what gave me the idea. It can be interpreted as an alchemical recipe book as well.”

“What?” A shock coursed through me. “How is that possible? The I Ching is an ancient divinatory text based on cleromancy.”

“Yes, but it can also be interpreted as a recipe book. This is common knowledge. I’m not making it up.

” Aspen smiled, the slant of her cheek almost breathtakingly beautiful.

“And I’m also not vouching for the recipes, but there are some alchemical traditions where each of the trigrams in the I Ching is thought to stand for an element.

The three unbroken yang lines stand for true lead, the three broken yin lines stand for true mercury, and so on.

The same might be true here. Look, this crescent moon could stand for one substance, the full moon for another, and so on, and here it probably tells you what order you’re supposed to combine them in. ”

Suddenly I understood what she was getting at. “And you think each of these symbols stands for a different medicinal herb?”

“I think it’s very likely. My guess is that depending on the combination of the herbs and the order in which they are decocted, each recipe will create a different effect. Isabelle, I think this is the key to breaking through your last barrier to remembering the code.”

Finn looked over at me. “What do you think that is, that barrier?”

Breathing deeply, I took a moment and looked around the room, stared at their eager faces, listened to the faint sounds coming from outside the window, to the creatures stirring, the night world coming to life.

“I think Symon wanted me to make the procedure permanent. But I found a loophole, a way to undo it. I think Aspen is right. I think it has something to do with the ingredients of the witch’s ointment, and something to do with the four symbols.

Clearly my Joan of Arc–Gilles de Rais letter isn’t authentic.

It’s an encoded message I created for myself. We just have to decode it.”

“Unfortunately,” said Aspen, “without something to tell us which herb corresponds to which symbol, we’re stuck with guesswork. And guesswork can be deadly when it comes to herbology.”

“So we’re back to square one,” I said, tapping my pen against the table. “There has to be a clue I missed somewhere along the line. Finn, check my work here.”

Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, I started working out the order of the clues, drawing a flow chart.

Light→Grave→Peacock Key→Divination / Clue to Desk→Photo / Book of Widows→ Cabinet Key→ Project Bluebird→Borges Coordinates→Owl Key→Relic.

“This is how I got from the light to the relic. Am I missing anything?”

He took the pen from me and drew an X in the flow chart.

Light→Grave→Peacock Key→Divination / Clue to Desk→Photo / Book of Widows→Cabinet Key→Project Bluebird—X—Borges Coordinates→Owl Key→Relic.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about. Project Bluebird was the end of the game,” he said.

The room grew quiet. “No,” I said. “What about the Borges book?”

He shook his head. “Seriously, what are you talking about?”

Then how had I gotten to the Borges book?

Tracing it back, I realized that Finn was right.

The clues that led me to the book hadn’t come from him.

They’d come from my own dreams. The blazing sun appearing repeatedly had been my subconscious trying to direct me to it, but I hadn’t listened until my dreaming mind procured a masked Isabelle to literally point me to the book.

I should have realized why the clue it contained, the coordinates, had seemed so different from the others. It seemed different because it was different. Finn didn’t leave it for me to find.

“Oh god.” Swallowing over a lump in my throat, I looked around the room. “I think I left this clue for myself.”

Finn leaned forward. “When?”