Alchemical Solutions: The Dreamless City Steampunk Series, #1

By Tracy Cembor

Fanciful ladies, jugglers, and freaks…

…the Gaslight Carnival has it all.

They also have her brother. What will Margo do to get him back?

In an unlicensed Alchemy shop surrounded by Victorian finery, Margo sits. The money in the bronze-buttoned till is every shilling she's saved. Will it be enough to buy her twin brother's freedom?

Come one, come all, to see the show.

The Ringmaster's velvet coat is nearly as loud as her banter. She draws them in and fills the seats. Under the red and white tents a cornucopia of glorious oddities, magicians, and high wire acts. Anyone can buy a ticket, but can they afford the price? 

Three days only, the Gaslight Carnival comes to town.

The Ringmaster took her money, but her brother's price is higher still. Margo must become a contestant in the carnival's cruel games. The clock is ticking. If she doesn't win, will they ever escape?

Let the contest begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Book Designs
• Release date: Feb 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393851301

Tracy Cembor

Once upon a time there was a girl who read too many books and played too many video games. She grew up and kept playing games. Tracy Cembor is an Amazon bestselling author of steampunk and fantasy novels. She also reads fairytales, wants a clockwork horse, and plays make believe. She lives in the Southeast with her family and dog, Reno.

Book preview

Chapter One – Elixir Claritas 

MARGO CRESTLEY PUSHED her spectacles up her nose, frowning at the elixir claritas she was brewing in Mrs. Pettigrew's front parlor. The aqua primus was unexpectedly slow to heat on the portable cogswatt burner. Her alchemist’s instincts told her something was wrong. Her father had always said, If you’re expecting green and it turns out red, stop what you’re doing before it explodes. 

Too bad he had never applied the same logic to gambling, like when he had lost their money and sold her twin brother to the carnival. 

The elixir’s color was not what it usually was at this stage of the process. Maybe the aqua primus had been tainted. She ran her finger along the tidy rows of vials in her alchemist’s satchel without looking, pausing when her finger brushed a vial of powdered alum. She knew every bottle, flask, and vial by its shape and location. 

It will be just another moment, ma’am. I need to purify the elixir then add the final ingredient, Margo said. She shifted her carefully braided sapphire hair back over her shoulder. She did not want it anywhere near the workspace. Even a single strand would muddle the elixir, causing her to start over. 

Take all the time you want, Mrs. Pettigrew said in a huffy tone. I’ll just sit here sipping my tea. Can’t see what you’re doing anyway, don’t you know? 

Yes ma’am. The eye drops will be ready shortly. Margo carefully measured a half gram of powdered alum onto a silver spoon, then tapped it into the flask. The liquid bubbled, and the color shifted from a murky green to a clear verdigris. Seeing the proper hue for the elixir, Margo allowed herself a small smile. 

Ignoring the agitated tink of her client’s teaspoon against the expensive porcelain teacup, Margo unstopped the oil of opalescence. This was the tricky part. She needed three drops to complete the elixir, but the oil often clung to the dropper, quickly turning three drops into four and ruining the concoction. She needed to move carefully, but with haste. 

She squeezed the dropper, once, twice, then a miss. The third drop splashed on the edge of the flask and ran down the outside. Exhaling slowly, she squeezed harder, hoping the shimmering oil would not splatter everywhere. 

The iridescent drop hung pendulous and shimmering on the tip of the dropper. Margo resisted the urge to shake it. The ticking of the grandfather clock behind her ticked unbearably loud as she waited. 

And finally, it fell, landing in the brew with barely a splash. Margo leaned away from the writing desk as the elixir emitted a puff of glittery smoke, smelling vaguely of daffodils. She switched off the burner and began to pack away her alchemical supplies. 

Finally finished, ma’am. I apologize for the delay. I wanted to ensure it was brewed perfectly for you. 

Mrs. Pettigrew slurped her tea before replying. I should certainly hope so. Your father never took so long when he was doing this. 

Margo resisted telling this client, or any of her clients, that it was unfair to expect the same performance from her. She had only studied under father for four years and had never gone to the Academie Alchemique for proper training. Father had gambled away their funds, even after he had sold away her twin brother, Leonard. But now her father was dead from vitriol poisoning. She was alone. 

She wore her father’s medallion of accomplishment while she worked, constantly praying no one would notice it was not hers. It was the only way she was able to continue running the alchemy shop. Without the formal training and graduation certificate, it was forbidden for Margo to transmute mischmetal into a pure metal, thereby creating her own medallion.  

Feeling the side of the rapidly cooling flask, she corked it. She folded up her heavy leather blotter and checked to ensure she had left no tools behind. Alchemical tools were expensive. Margo did not have the funds free for replacements. She had saved every frankel for the past year for her brother, and tonight she was finally going to see him again. 

Margo handed the elixir claritas to Mrs. Pettigrew’s maid, who passed her a small wallet in return. She tucked it into the drawstring purse at her waist, not wanting to open her satchel and reveal the larger pouch wedged between the vials. Leonard’s money must be kept safe and sound. 

Three drops in each eye, morning and night, and your sight should become as clear as your maid’s within a fortnight. 

Mrs. Pettigrew waved her hand at Margo, dismissing her without further comment. The elderly woman had heard those instructions for her cataracts many times before. 

The maid escorted her out and closed the front door firmly behind her. Margo adjusted her coat and scarf against the evening chill. When she and her brother were children, she had loved this time of year, when the leaves were beginning to change from greens to golds and vermilion reds with an alchemy all their own. It had seemed like magic when the gaslight carnival came to Grancanal, a bustling middle class district near the heart of the Dreamless City. 

Rivenloss, the Dreamless City, all that was left of civilization. A brassy dame of a city, her iron skirts a wall against the endless wastelands beyond. A few explorers left the city. Most, like the Crestley family, never even peered over the wall.

Margo and Leonard had always gone to the carnival during the day when the sun was bright and winds were brisk. The pennons snapped in the breeze, and tethered gaslights floated overhead. They had clapped for the jugglers and firebreathers, peered into the cages of the exotic menagerie, and played silly carnival games for a couple pence apiece. Margo had not known what happened when the sun went down.

The dangerous daredevil stunts, the freak show, the rigged games of chance. 

Gambling was how her father had lost his son, and it was all Margo’s fault. 

Shaking off such gloomy thoughts, she trotted down the steps, her navy skirts swishing with the movement. Things would be better now. She had the money to buy Leonard’s freedom. She just needed to talk to the carnival’s ringmaster, and her brother would finally be home soon. 

The evening was growing foggy, fed by the moist air from the canals. The cobblestone streets that ran between the cramped row houses were damp. Margo slipped and nearly tumbled over. She was so focused on her footing that she did not notice the two men who appeared from the fog and grabbed her arms. One slapped a gloved palm over her mouth before she could think the scream. Margo struggled, but they hauled her into the nearest alleyway and shoved her back against the brick wall as if she was a weak kitten. The glass tubes in her satchel rattled. Margo's eyes watered with the force of the shove.  

Miss Crestley, you have not been responding to my repeated invitations, and you have not signed the documents I sent you. Why do you insist on me paying you a visit in person? The gloved hand was pulled away, and Margo was free to move her head.  

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she straightened her spectacles and inspected the men in the dim light. She recognized both men, one thin man in a cobalt blue brocade vest too rich for Grancanal district and the other beefier man with the beard still holding her upper arm. She straightened her spine against the familiar foe. I haven’t been insisting on anything, Mr. Dresher. I simply am not interested in your offer. 

Surely that isn’t the case, my dear, the thin man said in an urbane tone. He ran a hand over the gold chain of his pocket watch. My business offer is more than generous. 

I am not interested in a partnership of any kind. I have done my best to make myself clear. Mr. Drescher was a widdersman, a member of the district’s left-handed trade. His unwholesome business interests involved the procurement and distribution of illegal substances, including dangerous alchemical elixirs and addictive drugs. 

The enforcer shook Margo, and the vials clattered together again. She prayed they had not heard the jingle of coin. If they took her year’s worth of savings, she would never be able to free her brother from the ringmaster.  

Stop that, Margo said. If you break the wrong vials, they’ll explode with such force to blow us to the Steam Meisters floating castles in the sky. That would be a terrible way to die. If a single speck of phosphor combined