Sophie slipped the dark glasses onto her face. The relief was immediate, and she could see by her brother’s expression that he felt the same. “Tell me,” she said. “I thought it was just a lot of ancient stuff she passed on to me. I didn’t realize any of it would be useful.”

Nicholas handed over two bottles of water, and the twins fell into step beside him as he hurried down the street toward St. Marylebone Church. “The Witch passed on all her knowledge to you when she wrapped you in the shroud of air. It was, I’ll admit, too much for you to handle. But I’d no idea she was going to do it,” he added quickly, seeing the scowl appear on Josh’s face. “It was totally unexpected and completely out of character. Generations ago, priestesses would study with the Witch all their lives to be rewarded with only the tiniest fragment of her knowledge.”

“Why did she give it all to me?” Sophie asked, confused.

“It’s a mystery,” he admitted. Spotting a gap in the traffic, the Alchemyst hurried the twins across Marylebone High Street. They were close enough now to see the elegant facade of the church ahead of them. “I know Joan helped sift through the Witch’s knowledge for you.”

Sophie nodded. In Paris, while she’d slept, Joan of Arc had taught her techniques for controlling the jumble of arcane and obscure information that washed through her brain.

“I believe that what is happening now is that the Witch of Endor’s memories and knowledge are gradually being absorbed into your own memories. Rather than simply just knowing what the Witch knows, you will also know how she knows it. In effect, her memories are becoming yours.”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

They had finally reached the church. Nicholas climbed two steps and looked up and down the road, quickly scanning the passersby, twisting to look out toward Regent’s Park before turning back to the twins. “It’s like the difference between watching a game and playing the game. When you met Saint-Germain,” he added, “you instantly knew what the Witch knows about him, right?”

Sophie nodded. It had come to her in a flash that the Witch of Endor neither liked nor trusted the Comte de Saint-Germain.

“Think about Saint-Germain now,” the Alchemyst suggested.

She looked at her brother, who shrugged, eyes invisible behind his own dark glasses. Sophie turned over her right wrist. On the underside of her arm was a gold circle with a red dot in the center. Saint-Germain had painlessly burned the tattoo into the flesh of her wrist when he’d taught her about the Magic of Fire. Thinking of Saint-Germain brought a sudden flood of memories: brilliantly intense physical memories. Sophie closed her eyes and in an instant she was in another time, another place.

London, 1740.