Alchemy Of Air Quotes

Don’t call her Sunshine,” he commanded. “Why not?” If Carrion’s plan was to poke the bear, then he sure as hell knew how to go about it. But Kingfisher didn’t respond to the taunting note in his question. He just cocked his head a little, nostrils flaring, and spoke in a low rumble. “Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the killing starts. You have no idea what she is. What she could be. You should call her Majesty.

Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the killing starts. You have no idea what she is. What she could be. You should call her Majesty.

It was a large room, heavily outfitted with the usual badly ventilated furnaces, rows of bubbling crucibles, and one stuffed alligator. Things floated in jars. The air smelled of a limited life expectancy.

As long as your work remains unwritten in your head, it has no effect on anyone. Except you. And not in a good way. Once you let your idea out of the hermetically sealed vault of your brain and out into the fresh air, it will immediately start to evolve. The minute you get it down on a piece of paper, it will change. And once you let it out of the house — once someone else gets to experience it — everything is changed. You are changed. The project is changed. The audience is changed. That’s the alchemy of art.

Imagine a young Isaac Newton time-travelling from 1670s England to teach Harvard undergrads in 2017. After the time-jump, Newton still has an obsessive, paranoid personality, with Asperger’s syndrome, a bad stutter, unstable moods, and episodes of psychotic mania and depression. But now he’s subject to Harvard’s speech codes that prohibit any “disrespect for the dignity of others”; any violations will get him in trouble with Harvard’s Inquisition (the ‘Office for Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion’). Newton also wants to publish Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica, to explain the laws of motion governing the universe. But his literary agent explains that he can’t get a decent book deal until Newton builds his ‘author platform’ to include at least 20k Twitter followers – without provoking any backlash for airing his eccentric views on ancient Greek alchemy, Biblical cryptography, fiat currency, Jewish mysticism, or how to predict the exact date of the Apocalypse. Newton wouldn’t last long as a ‘public intellectual’ in modern American culture. Sooner or later, he would say ‘offensive’ things that get reported to Harvard and that get picked up by mainstream media as moral-outrage clickbait. His eccentric, ornery awkwardness would lead to swift expulsion from academia, social media, and publishing. Result? On the upside, he’d drive some traffic through Huffpost, Buzzfeed, and Jezebel, and people would have a fresh controversy to virtue-signal about on Facebook. On the downside, we wouldn’t have Newton’s Laws of Motion.

Air is the element most needed by fire. This is why you need open spaces, the wind, and to fly. Because you have fire in you. This is why you look into the sky, why you make wishes, why you tread lightly. You, too, are the air, because inside you there is fire. Why do you think we breathe? Because we are kindling our fires.

Careful, human. We Fae have an excellent sense of smell. You’d be amazed what we can scent floating on the air.” “I—I wasn’t doing anything. I didn’t—” Oh, gods. I was going to die of embarrassment.

Know this: I, Mercurius, have here set down a full, true and infallible account of the Great Work. But I give you fair warning that unless you seek the true philosophical gold and not the gold of the vulgar, unless you heart is fixed with unbending intent on the true Stone of the Philosophers, unless you are steadfast in your quest, abiding by God’s laws in all faith and humility and eschewing all vanity, conceit, falsehood, intemperance, pride, lust and faint-heartedness, read no farther lest I prove fatal to you. For I am the watery venomous serpent who lies buried at the earth’s centre; I am the fiery dragon who flies through the air. I am the one thing necessary for the whole Opus. I am the spirit of metals, the fire which does not burn, the water which does not wet the hands. If you find the way to slay me you will find the philosophical mercury of the wise, even the White Stone beloved of the Philosophers. If you find the way to raise me up again, you will find the philosophical sulphur, that is, the Red Stone and Elixir of Life. Obey me and I will be your servant; free me and I will be your friend. Enslave me and I am a dangerous enemy; command me and I will make you mad; give me life and you will die.

There is no greater code for courtship than walking. Learning to keep in step; the opportunity to express little concerns -- alarm, caution, the touch on the elbow; the blood running in the veins; the sense of movement and shared goal; the sense of just being two amid the swirl; and above all the ability to talk expansively in the open air without the anxiety of each other's gaze and close scrutiny. Those who wish to find love should learn to walk.

The embrace of present and past time, in which English antiquarianism becomes a form of alchemy, engenders a strange timelessness. It is as if the little bird which flew through the Anglo-Saxon banqueting hall, in Bede's Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, gained the outer air and became the lark ascending in Vaughan Williams's orchestral setting. The unbroken chain is that of English music itself.

She was born as music–a single, mellow note suspended in the air. Suspended as if strung from nothing, held into possibilities of sound. Her clear note hung a lone, sweet tone in the midst of us all; as silence captured its ache and tenderly, reluctantly released it, dipped it lower into a breath of melancholy only to lift again to its earlier height both rich and real and complete–one solitary note swaying into the early dawn. Emily arrived in the cold, grey hours of the newborn year, between the breathing dark and the pearl, winter light. A child of the dawn, before dawn broke.

In an attempt to deeper explore the infinite game of Life, we explore: • Earth that is fixed, rigid, static and quiet, and symbolizes your world of senses; • Water that is the primordial Chaos, is fluidity and flexibility, and symbolizes your subconscious mind; Intuition is a deeper perception. Without clear evidence or proof, intuition perceives the subtle inner relationships and underlying processes creatively, and imaginatively. • Fire that is boundless and invisible, and is a parching heat that consumes all, or within its highest manifestation, becomes the expression of Divine Love. It is a symbol of your emotions, and • Air that has no shape and is incapable of any fixed form. It symbolizes your world of thoughts. It is a rational, systematic process, it is our intellectual comprehension of things. All elements are bound by: • Soul that stands at the center of the four elements as an Essence, an Observer, Consciousness coming forth to experience the magic of Life.

He was all I could see. All I could smell. He was cold morning air, and smoke, and fresh-turned earth, and a thousand other complex scents I didn’t even have names for.

Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air

He was cold morning air, and smoke, and fresh-turned earth,

You know Pastor, baking is a real art. Especially bread baking. There is something so divine about it. It is a pure alchemy. And all alchemical elements are there: flour that comes from the earth and represents material, water that you mix with flour to make the dough, air released by the yeast fermentation that makes dough rise, fire that bakes the bread. It is fantastic. And the aroma of hot bread released during baking is the most pleasant fragrance for our senses. Think about that for a moment, Pastor. Any food aroma that we like, no matter how much we like it, gets overwhelming after a while, and we open the kitchen windows and close kitchen doors so the smell doesn’t get into the living room. Any smell, but the smell of freshly baked bread. Did you ever hear anybody complain about the smell of baked bread? Nobody, Pastor! Nobody. You hear people complaining about their neighbors frying fish, roasting pork, barbecuing sausages, but nobody ever complains about the smell of baked bread. And you know why? Because it is divine. It is magic – the magic of the craft.

SOUTH AMERICA’S GREAT Atacama Desert is a place unlike any other. Its climate is different, with close to zero rainfall but occasional thick fogs. Its plants and animals are different—what there are of them, which is to say almost none—capable of living with almost no water. Even its rocks are different. The floor of the Atacama is crusted and shot through with a riot of strange chemicals: nitrates, chromates, and dichromates; perchlorates, iodates, sulfates, and borates; chlorides of potassium, magnesium, and calcium; minerals “so extraordinary,” a researcher wrote, “were it not for their existence, geologists could easily conclude that such deposits could not form in nature.” How

Lizards frolicked in the flames of a bonfire; two lonely fish swam toward each other under the sea; a lion devoured the sun. An eagle flying high in the air was incongruously chained to a toad crawling on the ground. A wolf and dog battled in the middle of a deserted town. A slithering serpent entwined itself around a female corpse lying in an open grave. Another serpent lay nailed to a cross, while other serpents and dragons chased their own tails in never ending circles.

I found myself being flashed by a pair of wickedly sharp canines. The sight of them sent a thrill of panic-tinged intrigue through me. Heat rose up from the pit of my stomach, my blood rushing to my cheeks. Kingfisher’s gaze snapped up, singling in on mine. “Careful, human. We Fae have an excellent sense of smell. You’d be amazed what we can scent floating on the air.

Your Eve was wise, John. She knew that Paradise would make her mad, if she were to live forever with Adam and know no other thing but strawberries and tigers and rivers of milk. She knew they would tire of these things, and each other. They would grow to hate every fruit, every stone, every creature they touched. Yet where could they go to find any new thing? It takes strength to live in Paradise and not collapse under the weight of it. It is every day a trial. And so Eve gave her lover the gift of time, time to the timeless, so that they could grasp at happiness. ... And this is what Queen Abir gave to us, her apple in the garden, her wisdom--without which we might all have leapt into the Rimal in a century. The rite bears her name still. For she knew the alchemy of demarcation far better than any clock, and decreed that every third century husbands and wives should separate, customs should shift and parchmenters become architects, architects farmers of geese and monkeys, Kings should become fishermen, and fishermen become players of scenes. Mothers and fathers should leave their children and go forth to get other sons and daughters, or to get none if that was their wish. On the roads of Pentexore folk might meet who were once famous lovers, or a mother and child of uncommon devotion--and they would laugh, and remember, but call each other by new names, and begin again as friends, or sisters, or lovers, or enemies. And some time hence all things would be tossed up into the air once more and land in some other pattern. If not for this, how fastened, how frozen we would be, bound to one self, forever a mother, forever a child. We anticipate this refurbishing of the world like children at a holiday. We never know what we will be, who we will love in our new, brave life, how deeply we will wish and yearn and hope for who knows what impossible thing! Well, we anticipate it. There is fear too, and grief. There is shaking, and a worry deep in the bone. Only the Oinokha remains herself for all time--that is her sacrifice for us. There is sadness in all this, of course--and poets with long elegant noses have sung ballads full of tears that break at one blow the hearts of a flock of passing crows! But even the most ardent lover or doting father has only two hundred years to wait until he may try again at the wheel of the world, and perhaps the wheel will return his wife or his son to him. Perhaps not. Wheels, and worlds, are cruel. Time to the timeless, apples to those who live without hunger. There is nothing so sweet and so bitter, nothing so fine and so sharp.

There is now a great emphasis on cause and effect, with earlier forms of thought focusing on resemblances, such as famously through the Greek and then Medieval notion of the Humours, in which Earth, Air, Fire and Water were linked to the constitution and condition of the human body. Those who embrace a scientific attitude stand apart from the universe, attempting to understand it in an abstract manner in order to then manipulate it.

The BFMSS [British False Memory Syndrome Society] The founder of the 'false memory' movement in Britain is an accused father. Two of his adult daughters say that Roger Scotford sexually abused them in childhood. He denied this and responded by launching a spectacular counter-attack, which enjoyed apparently unlimited and uncritical air time in the mass media and provoke Establishment institutions that had made no public utterance about abuse to pronounce on the accused adults' repudiation of it. p171-172 The 'British False Memory Syndrome Society' lent a scientific aura to the allegations - the alchemy of 'falsehood' and 'memory' stirred with disease and science. The new name pathologised the accusers and drew attention away from the accused. But the so-called syndrome attacked not only the source of the stories but also the alliances between the survivors' movement and practitioners in the health, welfare, and the criminal justice system. The allies were represented no longer as credulous dupes but as malevolent agents who imported a miasma of the 'false memories' into the imaginations of distressed victims. Roger Scotford was a former naval officer turned successful property developer living in a Georgian house overlooking an uninterrupted valley in luscious middle England. He was a rich man and was able to give up everything to devote himself to the crusade. He says his family life was normal and that he had been a 'Dr Spock father'. But his first wife disagrees and his second wife, although believing him innocent, describes his children's childhood as very difficult. His daughters say they had a significantly unhappy childhood. In the autumn of 1991, his middle daughter invited him to her home to confront him with the story of her childhood. She was supported by a friend and he was invited to listen and then leave. She told him that he had abused her throughout her youth. Scotford, however, said that the daughter went to a homeopath for treatment for thrush/candida and then blamed the condition on him. He also said his daughter, who was in her twenties, had been upset during a recent trip to France to buy a property. He said he booked them into a hotel where they would share a room. This was not odd, he insisted, 'to me it was quite natural'. He told journalists and scholars the same story, in the same way, reciting the details of her allegations, drawing attention to her body and the details of what she said he had done to her. Some seemed to find the detail persuasive. Several found it spooky. p172-173

Krulak wrote back that the United States did not need the Marine Corps; the Army and Air Force could do anything the Marines could. The Marine Corps flourished, he said, because of what “the grassroots of our country believes we are and believes we can do.” He said that America had three beliefs about the Marine Corps. First, when troubles come, the Marines will take care of them and do so at once. Second, Americans had an “almost mystical” belief that when the Marines go to war, their performance will be “dramatically and decisively successful—not most of the time, but always.” And third, Americans saw the Marines as masters of an “unfailing alchemy” that converts “unoriented youths into proud, self-reliant, stable citizens into whose hands the nation’s affairs may safely be entrusted.” He ended by saying that although America did not need the Marines, it wanted them. But, he warned, if Marines ever lost the ability to meet the high, almost spiritual standards of the American people, “the Marine Corps will then quickly disappear.

Interlaken Get a running start. Catch a good wind, he said: Be a good bird. I thought him German as his hand did the wave––tumult of syllables, the ocean. A gust carried us from the top of a ridge to where land helixes hug vague bodies of water, pebbled pastures skimming treelines across the range littered with wildflowers. Winds lilted: It’s not your day to go, as I watched clouds blush vermillion, flying in tandem as a crow does over reservoirs and glacial gorges. That high up, I thought maybe we could fall in love, full of pomp and spectacle, but he was a stranger, and to him, I was strange; possibly ugly. Everyone peddles timing––the random alchemy of abutting molecules––though I’ve grown weary of waiting. Stillness is the danger. So I spread out my arms, carved ciphers into ether while a choir could be heard along the nave where winding trails scissor the basin. Spiraling downward, I mouthed a new prayer, knelt in air for deliverance, morphing into needle of a compass, unbeholden to a place inhospitable: the mind. The mind bent on forgetting: I was blown wide open.

Interest in alchemy seems to be nowadays on the rise. Whereas the educated public at large remains no doubt skeptical and indeed disdainful of the ancient discipline, there is today a deepening awareness among the better informed that what stands behind many an “exploded superstition” may be in fact a long-forgotten wisdom. Although Carl Jung was obviously exaggerating when ! he suggested that four centuries after being expelled from our universities,- alchemy stands “knocking at the door,” a number of factors have conspired; to render the prospect of re-admission less remote, at least, than it had been ; during the heyday of materialism. In any case, no truly solid grounds for rejecting the ancient doctrine have yet been proposed. Take the case of the so-called four elements: earth, water, air and fire. One can be reasonably certain that these terms were not employed alchemically in their ordinary sense, but were used to designate elements, precisely, out of which substances, as we know them, are constituted. Somewhat like the quarks of modern physics, these elements are not found empirically in isolation, but occur in their multiple combinations, that is to say, as the perceptible substances that constitute what I term the corporeal domain. Now, as I have argued at length in The Quantum Enigma (Peru, Illinois: Sherwood Sugden, 1995), corporeal objects are not in fact mere aggregates of quantum particles; and this clearly suggests that there may indeed be elements of the aforesaid kind. It turns out that our habitual opposition to alchemy is based mainly upon scientistic prejudice: upon a reductionist dogma, namely, for which there is in reality no scientific support at all.

If we do this I won’t be able to quit you, Adaline.” His face silently pleads with me to let him go. So I step back from his embrace and nod my head, and watch him walk away from me for a second time. I will give him today. But there is no way I’m done breathing in his air. ~Adaline, Breathing Air

There was an alchemy in this noise and exultation: spellbound in the sorcery of these songs, I became we, me became us. For there was an empowerment in this empathy, a catharsis in this energy, as if each man gathered the bare bones of his personal circumstances and was banging a rhythm out of them, a rhythm that sang with the ferocious energy of survival, a heartbeat that said they weren’t beat. Because singing was breathing and dancing was moving, and breathing and moving were for the quick and not the dead. And suddenly, the air was full of wet — damp with breath and sweat. Face were dripping, arms were flailing, kids were kissing, Pas were cussing, and Mas were laughing, and all were swaying in a way that had something to do with the homebrew, something to do with the music, with the way things are, with the way they should be, and the way they have always been.

their work was a way to understand the workings of the divine.

I bet she’d want to tell them every day that their mind is their own, that their observations and beliefs are valid, that the things grownups try shamelessly to pass off as facts and rules and foundations of stone are in fact as ephemeral as air. Subjective beliefs. Shaky social constructs. I bet she’d teach them to nurture their own worldview and to accept those of everyone around them without feeling threatened.

This man. What is it about him? God, he’s so… Impressive. Dominating. Forceful. I don’t know—there’s simply this presence about him I can’t ignore. Gravitas. That’s what it is, I suppose. He’s so substantial. So masculine. I think about the inane crap guys my age spout. They’re so full of swagger and hot air. Not Rafe. He doesn’t have any of that. I could sense the first time I set eyes on him that he has no need to prove himself. His self-confidence is of the quiet variety. But I’d guess it’s unwavering. And I’d bet the reason it’s unwavering is that he’s never had any reason to doubt it. I bet he gets what he wants. Especially when it comes to women.

Birds of the Western Front Your mess-tin cover's lost. Kestrels hover above the shelling. They don't turn a feather when hunting-ground explodes in yellow earth, flickering star-shells and flares from the Revelation of St John. You look away from artillery lobbing roar and suck and snap against one corner of a thicket to the partridge of the war zone making its nest in shattered clods. History floods into subsoil to be blown apart. You cling to the hard dry stars of observation. How you survive. They were all at it: Orchids of the Crimea nature notes from the trench leaving everything unsaid - hell's cauldron with souls pushed in, demons stoking flames beneath - for the pink-flecked wings of a chaffinch flashed like mediaeval glass. You replace gangrene and gas mask with a dream of alchemy: language of the birds translating human earth to abstract and divine. While machine-gun tracery gutted that stricken wood you watched the chaffinch flutter to and fro through splintered branches, breaking buds and never a green bough left. Hundreds lay in there wounded. If any, you say, spotted one bird they may have wondered why a thing with wings would stay in such a place. She must have, sure, had chicks she was too terrified to feed, too loyal to desert. Like roots clutching at air you stick to the lark singing fit to burst at dawn sounding insincere above the burning bush: plough-land latticed like folds of brain with shell-ravines where nothing stirs but black rats, jittery sentries and the lice sliding across your faces every night. Where every elixir's gone wrong you hold to what you know. A little nature study. A solitary magpie blue and white spearing a strand of willow. One for sorrow. One for Babylon, Ninevah and Northern France, for mice and desolation, the burgeoning barn-owl population and never a green bough left.

I’ll be hanged if I can understand how it concerns Evolution to get us out of a mere scrape.” “Out of all kinds of scrapes, my dear Brumm, Evolution has the power to deliver us. There is no conceivable scrape which is not a link in the great chain—in Chance, which is the empirical name for Evolution, and bears the same relation to it that alchemy bears to chemistry, and astrology to astronomy. And the last little scrape of all, death, is simply the charming means Evolution takes to get us out of the great big scrape, life. You will never be happy, my dear friend, until you submit to the Evolutionary will. If it were not so amusing, nothing would be more insufferable than the unanimity and persistency with which all men and kindreds and nations shout up into space, ‘What a scrape were in!’ It is the first thing the child says in its inarticulate way with the first breath of air it is able to employ. ‘Oh, what a scrape to be sure!’ And it is the last thing the man feels on his death-bed. And you will find that all the books and newspapers and music in the world are only expositions and sermons and fugues and variations on the one theme. ‘Oh, what a scrape!’ Now, it is my mission to change the world’s tune. I mean to teach it that scrape, luck, chance, is law, is Evolution, is the soul of the universe; and having brought man’s will into accord with the Evolutionary will, in a very short time it will come about that children will laugh with their first breath, as much as to say, ‘ What a delightful thing it is to come into the world.’ And on their death-beds men will cry, ‘How refreshing and noble it is to pass away,’ while all the books and newspapers and music of the world will cease to be a mere complaint, will cease—altogether, the books and newspapers, perhaps, and only glad music remain.

There was the jewelled boy with the voice of a nightingale, after all; some sort of modern Bagoas who’d been enchanted to life for an Emperor with alchemy, a blood pact and a bird’s fresh heart, small and slippery as a newly-plucked cherry. When our hero had been a prince, nightingale hearts had been a local delicacy; he remembers the crunch of them between his teeth and gags. The boy was called Artemis and he spoke in cursive, ink and hands, paper and air; the first time he signed shyly in our hero’s direction it was as though his name had been rewritten anew in artificial bone and muscle.

Love is the strangest alchemy. Even the most leaden heart it can make light as air.

Careful, human. We Fae have an excellent sense of smell. You'd be amazed what we can scent floating on the air.

I remembered pieces of him, and all at once, and I remembered how to drown. I needed him like I needed air.

I remembered pieces of him, and all at once, and I remembered how to drown. I needed him like I needed air. I reached for him like I was reaching for the surface of a still, flat lake.

the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the

There were memories that could be put into words, even if it felt like dying to give them light and air. And then there were those that couldn't.

Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the killing starts.

Bacon understood the political significance of alchemy as a source of wealth to the crown. He also speculated on the numerological importance of the number five to the defence of the realm in the form of the Cinque Ports (Sandwich, Dover, Hythe, New Romney and Hastings).21 Bacon’s introduction to the Secreta distinguished legitimate from false astrology, claiming that the Church Fathers had attacked only a false kind of astrology, just as they inveighed against debased forms of the true sciences of geomancy (divination by earth), hydromancy (divination by water), aeromancy (divination by air) and pyromancy (divination by fire). Bacon went so far as to advise Henry III to do nothing without the advice of learned astrologers.

To Bruno and the hermeticists, of course, the four X were metaphysical as well as psychological. The cosmology of earth-air-fire-water has such a long history in alchemical-hermetic literature that it hardly needs to be insisted on; Jung has tried to find modern translations for this somewhat archaic system in his Psychology and Alchemy. The traditional system meanwhile lives on and is used by many occult groups still surviving; the reader will find it expounded in most of the works of Aleister Crowley, especially The Book of Thoth.

I would call that field of play--the place in which humans test their natural limits and often break them--science.

The Earth is the same as the cauldron, Tricia. The nurturing power of the feminine grows something wonderful from the dark womb that is our Mother Earth. Although most people take this for granted because they are disconnected from the natural world, it is still true. The Mother gives us everything: air, food, water, all our plants, our trees, our wood, our fabrics, even our animals. It’s all offered from the bounty of the Mother. Life germinates in the womb. This is true for all creatures. It is part of the Great Mystery of life, death, and rebirth. Cauldrons represent the alchemical laboratories that symbolize the nature of women and sacred life. This is also why the cauldron was used in alchemy.

Plato's theory of the elements was drawn from the Pythagoreans. In Timaeus, Plato describes the four elements in terms of the five regular geometric solids that now bear his name, the Platonic Solids. The triangle is the fundamental building block of these solids, which are: the Tetrahedron— Fire, built of three triangles; the Octahedron—Air, made of eight triangles; the Icosahedron—Water, made of twenty triangles; the Cube— Earth, made of twelve triangles or twenty-four triangles; and the Dodecahedron— Space or the Quintessence, made of sixty triangles.

The next time you see a wee chickadee, calling contentedly and happily while the air makes you shiver from head to foot, think of the hard-shelled frozen insects passing down his throat, the icy air entering lungs and air-sacs, and ponder a moment on the wondrous little laboratory concealed in his mite of a body; which his wings bear up with so little effort, which his tiny legs support, now hopping along a branch, now suspended from some wormy twig. Can we do aught but silently marvel at this alchemy? A little bundle of muscle and blood, which in this freezing weather can transmute frozen beetles and zero air into a happy, cheery little Black-capped Chickadee, as he names himself, whose bravery shames us, whose trustfulness warms our hearts! And the next time you raise your gun to needlessly take a feathered life, think of the marvellous little engine which your lead will stifle forever; lower your weapon and look into the clear bright eyes of the bird whose body equals yours in physical perfection, and whose tiny brain can generate a sympathy, a love for its mate, which in sincerity and unselfishness suffers little when compared with human affection.

In the Harry Potter Universe, alchemy is a branch of magic. It’s an ancient science, which deals with the study of the four classical elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Magical alchemy also concerns itself with the transmutation of substances. So, it’s linked to chemistry, potion-making, and the magic of transformation. Dating back to antiquity, alchemy is fused with philosophy, and mixed up with metaphysical and mystical conjecture. Even in the 20th century, there were still some members of wizard kind who actively studied magical alchemy. And, should there have been sufficient demand, alchemy was taught at Hogwarts, to those sixth and seventh year students who chose it.

Everyone peddles timing––the random alchemy of abutting molecules––though I’ve grown weary of waiting. Stillness is the danger. So I spread out my arms, carved ciphers into ether while a choir could be heard along the nave where winding trails scissor the basin. Spiraling downward, I mouthed a new prayer, knelt in air for deliverance, morphing into needle of a compass, unbeholden to a place inhospitable: the mind. The mind bent on forgetting: I was blown wide open Interlaken

When we understand energy clearly, we'll know how our actions or inactions affect the larger flow of events. We become regenerative and resilient when others are too vulnerable to withstand. This skillfully clears the air of general tension, denial, or game-playing. By doing so, we can clear the collective conscience, help to break old patterns and make a difference in the larger flow of events.

I’ll make you beg, Little Osha. I’ll fill every one of those pretty little holes. I’ll fuck you so hard, you'll never want another male ever again. I'd imagined the words. Fabricated them out of thin air and somehow played them aloud in my own head in his voice. Fisher's body was openly promising these things to me, though, and I didn't want to wait any longer.

Kingfisher's gaze snapped up, singling in on mine. “Careful, human. We Fae have an excellent sense of smell. You'd be amazed what we can scent floating on the air.” “I—I wasn't doing anything. I didn't—” Oh, gods. I was going to die of embarrassment. The moment had been fleeting. I hadn't even meant to think it. I despised Kingfisher. I was not attracted to him. I was not thinking about his tongue or his teeth... He set down the piece of bread and meat he was holding and sat back in his chair very slowly. His expression was suddenly serious, his eyes alert, his voice low and smooth as velvet. “You're making it worse.

The thing about Doady’s brownbread is when you take a bite of it you’ve taken a bite out of the elements, earth, air, fire and water all, and while your mouth negotiates with the grainy dryness now made a ball by the moisture of the butter, while you realise that by an alchemy of bakery the lump of the bread in your mouth is bigger than it seemed in your hand, keep chewing, and that there’s nothing you can do now because you’re getting a first-hand practical demonstration of what Duns Scotus called Thisness, keep chewing, the dense solid mass of the undeniable, you can say nothing for a bit. You can wave at a couple of drowsy bees warmed awake and delirious on the early coconut of the furze blooms. You can make a low throat sound to signal you’ll say something shortly, but while you’re eating Doady’s brownbread, keep chewing, you’re gagged by the essential stuff of substance, that insists on its own primacy, that, like life itself, is partways laughing at you and partways saying Take me seriously, because otherwise it may just choke you. So, I said nothing for a bit.

Kingfisher’s gaze snapped up, singling in on mine. “Careful, human. We Fae have an excellent sense of smell. You’d be amazed what we can scent floating on the air.

He shook his head, hands palm up in the air. “And? I've known you since I was a thousand and eighty-six. Do I win a prize?” “You didn't tell me that you were heir to a fucking Fae throne!” “Well, it's hardly something you just tell people, Fane. And anyway, my grandmother made me promise not to.

of. I know how horrifying they are, and I wouldn’t wish them upon anyone! Can’t you just trust that I—” Black shadows spilled from Fisher’s fingers. Smoke roiled up the table legs and swept across the tabletop like morning mist rolling across a field. It swallowed our food, the wicker basket, everything. With a crash, the table flipped, toppling to the floor, and then Fisher was on his feet, lifting me out of my chair, lifting me from the ground...crossing the tent. My back slammed up against something solid and hard—a bookcase?—but it wasn’t the shock of the pain that ripped the air from my lungs. It was Fisher’s mouth. His lips crashed down onto mine. For a brief moment, I didn’t react. I’d slipped into a daydream. This was a fantasy. It wasn’t...it wasn’t real.

Carrion’s grin faltered. “You are extra fucking miserable today. You should really get laid. Might help improve your mood. Tell him, Sunshine.” I choked. Loudly. Carrion couldn’t have made a more unfortunate suggestion if he’d tried. I thumped my chest, trying to get a breath down, and all the while, Fisher just looked at me. He wore no emotion. No expression at all. The quicksilver swirling in his iris was the only thing suggesting that he might not be as calm inside as he appeared on the outside. His eyes seemed to drink the light as he eventually turned a disdainful glare on Carrion. “Don’t call her Sunshine,” he commanded. “Why not?” If Carrion’s plan was to poke the bear, then he sure as hell knew how to go about it. But Kingfisher didn’t respond to the taunting note in his question. He just cocked his head a little, nostrils flaring, and spoke in a low rumble. “Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the killing starts. You have no idea what she is. What she could be. You should call her Majesty.

Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the killing starts. You have no idea what she is.

Carrion was here, too, sprawled out on a chair, sitting by the fire. A small plate rested on his stomach; the fucker was eating a fat slice of cake, unfazed by the tension hanging thick in the air.

The higher civilization rises, the viler man becomes.

He was cold morning air, and smoke, and fresh-turned earth, and a thousand other complex scents I didn’t even have names for.

Because she is moonlight. The mist that shrouds the mountains. The bite of electricity in the air before a storm. The smoke that rolls across a battlefield before the killing starts. You have no idea what she is. What she could be.

— Porque ella es la luz de la luna. La niebla que envuelve las montañas. La picadura de electricidad en el aire antes de una tormenta. El humo que recorre un campo de batalla antes de que comience la matanza. No tienes ni idea de lo que es. De lo que podría ser. Deberías llamarla Majestad.

I shoved a finger in his face. “Because you’re an asshole. I’ve known you since I was fifteen!” He shook his head, hands palm up in the air. “And? I’ve known you since I was a thousand and eighty-six. Do I win a prize?