Philomena Bucket and Drury, the skeletal hound, drifted through The Squid and Teapot in a state of lucid dreaming, in order to enter the pages of a mysterious grimoire. Their only reason for doing anything quite so reckless was to rescue Durosimi O’Stoat, who had somehow managed to get himself trapped within the book.

Before I reveal whether the pair succeeded in their mission, it is worth recounting exactly how the sorcerer got himself into this mess in the first place.

Durosimi was sitting in candlelight, cradling the magical tome recently gifted to him by Philomena. While the two could hardly be described as friends, Philomena would only have entrusted him with such a thing if she believed that it demanded mastery, but over which she herself could exercise no control. Durosimi grudgingly accepted that Philomena was his superior in the application of Rough Magic, traditionally the province of witches. This particular book, however, required the attention of one schooled in High Magic, and the practice of High Magic has never been the business of a witch, however powerful she might be.

It was in the deepest hour of the night when he heard it.

“It is time,” someone – or something – whispered – and with those words, Durosimi knew that the book was allowing itself to be revealed to him.

Only then did he notice the illustration gracing its cover, which must always have been there, yet somehow Durosimi had not seen it until now. The cracked leather was embossed with a faded sigil that resembled nothing so much as a confused octopus attempting yoga.

Gingerly, he opened the book, half expecting it to complain violently, but it behaved in very much the way that any self-respecting book might.

“The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz,” he read aloud, with the reverence of a man about to make a terrible mistake.

One of his candles flickered ominously. The other blew itself out in protest.

“You might want to put that book down,” said a small voice in Durosimi’s head.

“Nonsense,” he replied aloud. “It’s about alchemy, and purely allegorical.”

For a moment, the book seemed to shiver – yes, shiver – and let out a soft, satisfied sigh, like a cat curling up after a large meal.

The last candle flickered… and died.

And Durosimi disappeared into the darkness.

Thus began a journey through a book that was not quite a book, in which our scholar would learn far more about the nature of truth, transmutation, and terribly awkward wedding etiquette than he had ever intended.

Day One – The Invitation

Durosimi opened his eyes to find himself lying on a floor of black-and-white marble, the sort usually reserved for palaces, ornate chess boards, and particularly ambitious bathrooms. Overhead, a vaulted ceiling stretched into darkness, strangely punctuated by mechanical stars and gilded cogs, each one ticking softly.

He sat up, groaning slightly. His robes smelled of candle smoke. The book was nowhere to be seen.

The table before him was long, ornate, and quite possibly alive. Vines of silver crept across its surface, winding around the legs of a bronze bird whose single glass eye followed Durosimi’s every movement with a look of vague disapproval.

At the table’s centre, on a silver charger, lay a vellum envelope, sealed with crimson wax. The sigil was of a rose entwined around a cross.

The paper inside was crisp and scented faintly of frankincense and foreboding. It read:

You are cordially invited to the Royal Wedding of the Century (or thereabouts). Attendance is not optional.

You are expected to bring: your wits, a willingness to transform when necessary, and a suitable offering.

The ceremony will commence at moonrise.

Failure to arrive on time will result in your possible disintegration.

Dress code: Alchemical Formal.

Durosimi blinked. The writing was elegant, looping, and faintly smug. There was no signature. After a few moments the invitation gradually faded from his fingers. 

“Well,” he muttered, “that clears absolutely nothing up.”

A polite cough echoed behind him.

Durosimi turned to find a liveried footman standing there, and holding a tray upon which lay a mask: the left half was the sun, the right half, the moon.

“For your face, sir,” said the footman in a voice that dripped like candle wax.

Durosimi sighed, and accepted the mask with a degree of resignation.

“This fellow Rosenkreutz, the one who’s getting married,” he said. “I can’t say that I know him.”

“Herr Rosenkreutz was not the bridegroom sir,” replied the footman. There was a slight hint of mocking condescension in his tone. “He was purely a guest, as are you.”

“Was?” Durosimi looked puzzled at the footman’s choice of the past tense.

“Indeed sir. Herr Rosenkreutz had his opportunity, but he made no great impression. It is your turn now.”  

“My turn…?” began Durosimi, but the footman was nowhere to be seen.

Then the great brass doors creaked open, and the wedding began.

Day Two – The Tower

Durosimi awoke in a tower.

This in itself was not entirely unexpected. Sorcerers, he reasoned, tended to find themselves in towers sooner or later. Still, he had no memory of going to sleep. The wedding, if it had happened at all, had been little more than a blur of golden light, masked figures, and a disturbing number of doves. 

Durosimi couldn’t help but wonder if he had enjoyed himself.

Now, he sat on a narrow bed beside a window that was too high to see out of, and the walls were bare stone. A spiral staircase led downwards into darkness and upwards into a shaft of brilliant blue light. 

The only furniture on the room was a small writing desk, an hourglass, and a cracked mirror that did not reflect him as he was, but as he might have been – somewhat younger, noticeably thinner, and, unaccountably, wearing a powdered wig.

There was a small notebook on the desk. Durosimi picked it up and opened it, hoping that it might provide some clue as to what exactly was going on. Inside, a single sentence stretched across the first page:

TO ASCEND YOU MUST FIRST DESCEND.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Durosimi uttered with a sigh.

He turned the hourglass on its head and began the long walk down the staircase, which narrowed with each revolution. The light dimmed. Symbols began to appear on the stone. Some were alchemical, some anatomical, and one in particular was a very rude graphic in anybody’s language.

He passed a door marked ‘Calcination’, behind which came the unmistakable sound of something being enthusiastically reduced to ashes. This did not seem to be the sort of place where he should linger.

The next door bore the word ‘Dissolution’. Durosimi sensed a discernible dampness seeping through its timbers. He quickened his pace.

When he reached the door marked ‘Separation’ he heard the sound of sobbing. Tentatively, Durosimi stepped inside. He found himself to be in a small room, warm and dim, and utterly silent save for the weeping. In the centre sat a figure hunched over a basin of black liquid. The figure looked up.

It came as something of a shock to see that it was none other than Durosimi sitting there.

Or rather, it was a version of him, bedraggled, tear-streaked, wild-eyed and whispering something over and over into the basin.

Durosimi took a cautious step forward.

“What is this?” he asked, confused. 

“You,” said the other Durosimi, without looking up. “The bit of you that pretends not to care.”

The real Durosimi, if indeed he still qualified for that title, stared. 

“I care perfectly well,” he said stiffly. “I just don’t like to express it.”

“Exactly.” His double offered a thin smile. “You might want to do something about that.”

The basin trembled. For a moment, Durosimi noticed several faces flicker across its surface. First of all he saw those of his dead parents, then his daughter, Salamandra. More surprisingly there followed the faces of Reverend Davies, Philomena, Reggie Upton, Tenzin, Doc Willoughby, and even Granny Bucket. People who, unaccountably, seemed to suddenly matter.

He quickly closed the door behind him and kept walking.

Confusingly, the staircase began to lead upwards again, slowly widening, brightening, and warming as it rose. The topmost chamber was filled with golden light, strange perfumes, and something that smelled faintly of breakfast.

A robed figure stood at the centre, faceless, and holding a jug of what looked like hot chocolate.

“Welcome,” it said. “You have passed the first gate.”

Durosimi, exhausted, slightly soot-smudged, and desperately hoping that this was all a bad dream, took the offered mug.

“The first gate?” he asked warily. “You mean that there’s another one?” 

“There are seven,” the figure said gently.

Durosimi closed his eyes.

“Of course there are,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Of course there are.” 

To be continued…

Author’s note: Readers with long memories, and nothing better to think about, will recall that Reggie Upton came across the “Chemical Wedding” when ransacking the attics in the tale “About Time.”

As there were no obvious mishaps when he opened it, I can only imagine that the book was hibernating.