A month later, Francisco had made several discoveries — though none were truly useful — and frustration had begun to weigh on him. His father came to see him one morning.
"We're already in August. You've got two months left," Carlos said, his brow furrowed. "Have you found anything yet?"
"Not really," Francisco sighed, rubbing his eyes. "This alcohol has some strange properties, but making it drinkable is turning out to be harder than I thought."
Carlos glanced around the small workshop. The air smelled sharp, thick with the sting of alcohol and smoke. Other workers were still distilling regular spirits in the background, but Francisco's table was a chaotic mess — dozens of bowls filled with liquids, herbs, and minerals.
"Well, don't worry too much," Carlos said, trying to sound encouraging. "Why don't you show me what you've discovered?"
Francisco, tired and irritated, decided it might help to explain, if only to relax a bit. "Sure. Here — this bowl has flowers in it. I tried to infuse them with alcohol, but the flowers lost all their color, and the alcohol absorbed it instead." He held up the bowl, showing a clear red liquid that caught the light.
Carlos's eyes brightened. "So you think we could make dyes from this?"
"I thought the same at first," Francisco said with a small smile. "But it doesn't work. Look." He brushed a bit of the liquid onto a scrap of paper — it went on nearly transparent. "The color doesn't hold."
Carlos's brief excitement faded. The dye industry was huge; if such a simple process worked, it could have made them rich. But after a pause, he shook his head. "Forget it."
"It's not impossible," Francisco added softly. "There must be some material that makes the color stronger. I just don't have the time, energy, or knowledge for that right now." He gave a helpless smile. "But I've written everything down. You could try it while I'm in Germany—or I can pick it up again when I return."
Carlos thought of how much time Francisco had already spent on this "alchemy" and felt a chill. "No, no. I'll leave that to you."
"Alright then." Francisco nodded.
Carlos's eyes wandered to another bowl filled with clear liquid. "And this one?"
Francisco's expression brightened briefly, then turned grim. "That one was my closest attempt. The alcohol spent a long time mixed with charcoal — it lost its strong smell, but when I tested it on a rabbit…" He hesitated. "Let's just say the poor creature nearly died. The result was the opposite of what I wanted." He gave a short, dry laugh.
Carlos frowned. "I can't say I understand much."
He moved to another bowl — this one had a piece of meat submerged inside. "And this?"
"That one's the only useful result so far," Francisco explained. "Not for selling, but for the estate. The chicken meat you see there hasn't spoiled for weeks. So, I think alcohol can slow the decay of meat — though I haven't tried it with fruits or vegetables yet."
"Stopping decay? That could be useful," Carlos said, his eyes lighting up. "We could pack fish in alcohol and sell it in Bogotá — the rich folk would pay for that."
Francisco shook his head. "It's not worth it. Producing pure alcohol is expensive — it needs more raw material. Then there's the risk. Alcohol-soaked fish would be easy to steal, and the Crown forbids selling alcohol for anything other than drinking. If Cádiz finds out, we'll be in trouble. But for home use, it's good. You could keep the mountain game fresh longer."
He pointed to another bowl. "Now this one's strange. It's just a mineral, but apparently, alcohol preserves meat while corroding metal. The copper turned greener after soaking in it." He gave a half-smile. "I don't quite understand it, but I'm beginning to see a pattern — though I can't explain it yet."
As they walked further, Carlos suddenly stopped beside a bowl. "Why does this one smell so strongly of oranges?" He leaned in, puzzled.
Francisco frowned. "That one… I don't remember." He called out, "Hey, you!"
A servant hurried over. "Yes, young master?"
"Do you know who touched this bowl?" Francisco asked sharply.
"I'm not sure, sir. Should I ask the night staff?"
"Yes. Find out exactly who it was and what they did."
The servant ran off.
Carlos watched his son's tense expression. "It's just alcohol, isn't it? No need to get angry."
Francisco shook his head. "It's not about the cost. I work with dangerous things, Father. You saw what happened to Ogundele after he drank a little of that batch. Some of these liquids are deadly — and highly flammable. Let me show you."
He held a torch close to another bowl of alcohol. Instantly, a flame leapt up with a hiss, bright and hot, before fading just as fast.
Carlos jumped back. "Witchcraft?" he whispered.
Francisco laughed softly. "Of course not. I don't know how it works exactly, but it seems the fumes can ignite the fire."
Carlos's eyes widened. "Does that mean if someone inhales too much, they could… burn from the inside?"
Francisco looked alarmed but amused. "I don't think so. You might get dizzy, though."
Carlos quickly pulled a handkerchief over his nose anyway, muttering, "I'll take no chances."
A few minutes later, the servant returned with a younger boy who kept his eyes down.
"Young master," said the servant, "this is the son of one of our men. He was brought here two days ago to learn the work. When I questioned him, he confessed. I've already sent for his father."
Francisco studied the boy — barely two years younger than himself, maybe the same age he'd been when he first started having those strange visions. "Tell me what happened," he said.
Before the boy could speak, his father rushed in and bowed. "Young master, please forgive him. He's too young — it's my fault for not teaching him better."
The boy spoke quickly, eyes wide with fear. "That's not true, sir! It was my fault alone. My father had nothing to do with it. Please don't fire him!"
The father hissed, "Quiet, boy! We'll handle this at home."
The boy froze, trembling under his father's glare.