The Crimson Shard (11 page)

Jeremiah squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain. “William has left us to go to the country.”

“In the middle of the night?” she persisted.

“That was when his transport departed.”

Sunni noticed Blaise shudder at Jeremiah’s words. She carried her stack of ink sketches to her new table. It was odd to sit in the absent boy’s seat, and the more she sat there, the more unsettled she became. She saw that Toby’s chin crumpled every time he glanced at her, and Robert kept wiping his eyes. Worst of all, Blaise would not look at her. It was as if she were not even there.

“Gentlemen,” said Jeremiah, finally turning around. “The weather is fine this morning, and we will build a green-wood fire in the back courtyard. Toby, go downstairs and start the blaze.”

He dug around under his table. It was piled with old books, folios, broken bits of sculpture, and scrunched-up papers. At last, he found what he was looking for and laid several tattered books on Sunni’s desk. When he opened the top one, a reek of mildew made her turn away.

“This book has been unloved for too long,” said Jeremiah. “We shall give its pages new life today.” He pulled a tiny pocketknife from his waistcoat and, with a quick slice along the book’s spine, its blank first page came free in his hand. “Now you attempt it.”

Jeremiah had Sunni lean over the book and use her weight to hold it steady. Hesitantly, she drew the blade down the edge of the second page and yanked it out.

The Master nodded his approval. “Now we must make this edge match the other three.” He lightly ran the blade up and down the raw cut edge of the paper till it was soft and its corners were rounded. “Now cut as many blank pages as you can from these and prepare their edges.”

Jeremiah dropped a pile of books with Blaise and gave him the same lesson. Sunni watched her friend go through the motions, his mouth drooping, and desperately wished she could talk to him.

Throgmorton appeared with Livia at his side. He wore a waistcoat of indigo blue and a wig of deep chestnut, making his cold eyes all the more disconcerting. Livia’s moss-green dress was embroidered with leaves, and diamonds sparkled from her earlobes.

“Good morning, Mr. Starling,” said Throgmorton.

Sunni thought she heard Jeremiah answer, “Is it?” under his breath, but he returned the greeting with a perfunctory bow before turning back to Blaise.

“Why is that one not yet finished, Mr. Starling?” Throgmorton nodded at Will’s copy of the Flemish angel.

“Because, sir, the boy is gone and cannot finish it.”

“Then another must do it. Now.”

Jeremiah bounded over to where Sunni sat. “These boys have only two hands.” He snatched up Will’s painting and set it onto his own easel. “I shall finish it myself.”

“As you wish,” Throgmorton said, moving languidly among the tables and looking over the boys’ shoulders. “And as soon as possible, if you please.”

Livia swished to Blaise’s side and peered at what he was doing, her dazzling smile on show. But it dropped ever so slightly when he kept his head lowered.

Sunni smirked to herself, watching the girl position herself at different angles to catch Blaise’s attention but getting nowhere.

“Eyes down and finish your work, Jack Sunniver,” said Throgmorton, standing just behind her. He leaned forward and leafed through the papers she had cut from various books.

She scraped the knife along the paper’s edge, her lips pressed together hard. When she finished, Throgmorton’s hand caught hold of her page and pulled it away. From his waistcoat, he pulled a small shard of red stone, its tip curved into a point, then he rubbed it along the paper’s edge. As he did this, he observed Sunni with his hooded eyes.

“How did you sleep, Jack?”

“Fine.”

“I am delighted.” Without warning, he ran the razor-sharp blade down the middle of the paper and severed it in two.

T
he walled courtyard was so small that there was barely room for Toby and Sunni, let alone a small fire in an iron brazier. Toby prodded the flames and lifted his face to the sky, drinking in the sunlight. Sunni was struck with the thought that he wouldn’t be half bad to look at if he was a little heavier, smelled a bit cleaner, and had teeth that weren’t brown.

“Pass me a sheet of your paper.” Toby held it in the smoke, letting it become darker and darker before turning it over.

“Why are we doing this?”

“To tint the paper,” said Toby. “And make it look old.”

“It already is,” said Sunni.

“Not old enough. We want this paper to look two hundred years old.”

“Then what?’

Toby handed her the perfectly aged paper. “We will copy a picture on it.”

“Don’t you ever draw anything
you
want to?”

“Copying is the way we learn. We see how a master artist made a drawing and we try to make ours the same. Mr. Starling says this is how artists have always learned.”

“I know that. But why do all this extra work to make paper look old?” Sunni asked. “Unless you want to fool people into thinking they’re authentic originals from the Renaissance or something. It sounds crooked to me.”

Toby tensed and tipped his head toward the window behind her. “Take care. That’s
his
study.”

“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“No,” said Toby, his voice hardening. “You ask too many questions and bring trouble into the workshop.”

“I don’t want to make trouble. That’s the last thing I want. I like all of you.”

“It is already too late.” He poked the fire and would say nothing further.

When Sunni had finished tinting her loose papers, she laid them carefully inside a leather folio for protection. Toby told her to go back to the workshop and send Blaise down.

She could hear a man’s spluttering cough coming from the front parlor, but she dared not listen at the door this time. As she started up the stairs, she was interrupted by a gravelly voice.

“You. With that folio.”

Sunni pressed herself against the stairwell wall and turned. A stout, red-faced man in a grand wig had staggered out of the parlor.

“What have you in there?” he called.

She lifted her chin and spoke clearly. “Just papers, sir.”

“Let me see.” He lurched toward her, bringing the stench of alcohol with him.

Sunni untied the strings and opened the folio, recoiling from his pungent breath.

“Humph.” The man waved the folio away. “Who are you?” His voice was slurred.

“I’m one of Mr. Starling’s pupils.”

“Have you seen Mr. Throgmorton?” The man stamped his foot and then yowled in pain. “I am a busy man, and he’s kept me waiting for half an hour. Summoned me saying he has urgent information about two nightsneaks stealing paintings, and then leaves me sitting here.”

Sunni’s ears pricked up. “I don’t know where he is, sir. Should I fetch Mistress Biggins for you?”

“Why would I want anyone called Mistress Biggins? No, boy, you tell Throgmorton he will have to come along to see me himself. I cannot seize the thieves until formalities have been followed.” The man paused to expel a wheezing cough. “And certain fees paid. And documents submitted. And so on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I shall take my leave then. If Throgmorton wishes to find me, he may visit the Saracen coffeehouse in Leadpurse Lane. Pray tell him Mr. Justice Wright will be at business there.”

“I’ll tell him, sir,” Sunni said, stealthily crossing her fingers.

“Now unlock this door so I may go,” grumbled Mr. Justice Wright, hobbling away unsteadily.

But by the time Mr. Justice Wright got to the front door, Sunni had already raced to the next floor, a plan forming in her mind. She ignored his outraged shouts and let Mary scurry up from the kitchen to let him out.

Blaise wished Livia would just go away, but she insisted on watching him dissect the smelly old books. For dissection was what he was doing — and it was what some surgeon was going to do to Will, if he hadn’t already. He threw the small knife down in disgust.

Livia touched the back of his hand with one delicate finger. “You look tired.”

He shrugged her hand away and began smoothing down the paper edges. “I don’t sleep too well when I’m trapped in a place.”

“I will see that you get extra food for supper,” she whispered.

“Don’t bother. I’ll have the same as everyone else.”

Livia bit her lip and withdrew her hand. As she did, Blaise noticed a red scratch across her palm. “Have I offended you, Blaise?”

Yes,
he wanted to shout.
You reported to your slimy father and he got rid of Will. And you act like Throgmorton’s doing us a big favor by keeping us here.

“How do you expect me to act when I can’t get out of this house?”

“Can’t get out?” Livia looked at him with wide eyes. “I thought you liked me. But you now want to get away from me.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” said Blaise with an irritated sigh. “It’s not all about you.”

Sunni burst into the workshop, her face smeared with soot, and emptied her folio.

“Barbecued paper,” she announced for Blaise’s benefit, holding up a sheet.

Jeremiah examined Sunni’s smoked paper. “Excellent. Blaise, carry your paper down to the fire and do the same.”

Livia accompanied Blaise downstairs, then flounced into her bedroom and shut the door. He couldn’t care less that he had put her lovely nose out of joint. Something ugly lurked below her perfect skin and made her beauty drain away. Even so, Blaise was confused by his own shifting feelings, made worse by exhaustion. His heart had beat like a tom-tom at first, ready to jump out of his chest at the sight of Livia, but now there was no buzz at all, just aversion and distrust.

It was a relief to stand by the fire with Toby in companionable silence, smoking the papers. When Robert joined them with a huge sack of refuse to burn, they took turns feeding rubbish into the brazier and enjoying the smell of smoldering wood in the late-summer air.

Blaise noticed how quiet the surroundings were. No planes or cars, just the sound of passersby and the wheels of an occasional cart. When Toby doused the fire, Blaise felt his heart sink at having to go back inside.

The morning passed into afternoon. Another simple meal and several anemic cups of tea later, Blaise found himself back at his worktable with a large bound album of drawings in front of him.

“Copy one of these on your tinted paper,” said Jeremiah, tapping his snuffbox for his after-lunch snort.

“Who drew these, sir?”

“I did.”

“What are they copied from?”

“They are not copies. They are originals, done from life.” Jeremiah let out a snuff-ridden sneeze.

“Mr. Throgmorton told us you made the paintings in the parlor, too. They’re beautiful.”

Jeremiah’s shoulders slumped. “Beauty means little when there are bills to pay. If I could but spend my days making beautiful paintings, I would be content, but I cannot live on it.”

Blaise was heartened by Jeremiah’s willingness to talk. “Aren’t there people who would buy them?”

“Not enough,” said Jeremiah bitterly. “My work is not fashionable, so I must take what I can get.” He tossed one of the boys’ copies aside, and it landed facedown on the floor. With a sigh, he picked it up and dusted it off.

“Please don’t give up, sir,” said Blaise in a quiet voice, gazing over at the painted door. “You painted that, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes, last year. I decided to attempt mural painting,” said Jeremiah, wiping his nose. “Though now I am sorely tempted to hide it with white paint and be done with it.”

“No, please don’t do that,” said Blaise, alarmed at the thought of losing their only way back. “It’s an amazing painting. You could paint murals in people’s houses and make a living that way.”

“More like that hellish door? By heaven, I wish I’d never painted it.”

“Then why did you, sir?”

“To make my workshop wall look symmetrical and balanced. It seemed important at the time.” Jeremiah frowned. “How wrong I was.”

Fleet and Sleek breezed into the workshop on the stroke of nine that night. Fleet picked his teeth with a fingernail as Jeremiah packed up a painting to go back to its owner.

“I never did find out where you was from,” Fleet said to Blaise.