The Crimson Shard (2 page)

T
he girl was smiling at him. At him! And she was gorgeous.

Throgmorton was saying something, but Blaise was lost in her jade-and-ocean eyes.

The girl giggled.

“Blaise!” Sunni was trying to catch his attention. “Will you get a grip?”

“What? I’m listening.”

She glared at him. “At last.”

“Are you ready?” Throgmorton repeated.

“Sorry,” said Sunni. “We are ready. Really.”

“Then we shall begin. My daughter, Livia, and I will show you the house. No cameras or recording devices, please. Please do not touch the walls, and do not eat or drink while you are here.”

“Am I allowed to draw?” Blaise tapped his sketchbook, casting a sidelong glance at Livia to see if she was impressed.

A flicker of interest lit Throgmorton’s impassive face, and his daughter smiled her approval of this idea. “You may draw, yes, if it does not take too long. And we will be interested to see what you make.”

Blaise stuck his pencil behind one ear and opened his sketchbook to a fresh page.

“We’ll never get to the park now,” Sunni muttered.

Throgmorton bowed deeply. “Welcome to our tour of Starling House. This was the home and workshop of the artist Jeremiah Starling. He was born in 1723 and died in 1791, an eccentric who did not always fit into the art establishment of his time. But today we recognize him as the genius he was. This house was his canvas. Every room is filled with surprises and little visual jokes, like the ladybugs on the floor.”

He herded them into the front room on the ground floor. “The dining room.”

A huge tiled fireplace and mantelpiece overlooked an oval table and wooden chairs. In alcoves on either side of the fireplace were sideboards laden with crockery and candlesticks. Tall cake stands of sweets and confectionery rose up into the alcoves like fruit trees ready for harvest. Portraits of gentlemen and ladies gazed from the walls. A birdcage in one corner contained a brightly plumed parrot, and in another corner a cat was curled up behind a chair draped with a Turkish carpet.

“As you can see,” said Throgmorton, with a knowing look, as if he were playing a familiar game, “this room contains only a table and chairs.”

Sunni peered at the alcoves and realized that not only were they painted, but so were all the fruits, plates, and candlesticks.

“It’s an illusion. This wall is completely flat,” she said. “There’s no recess here at all. It just looks like one.”

“And the portraits were done straight onto the wall. The frames, too,” said Blaise, his pencil flying across his sketchbook. “And that birdcage.”

“This is what the French called
trompe l’oeil,
” said Throgmorton. “It means ‘fool the eye.’ Starling went out of his way to trick and entertain the viewer with his paintings.”

“Trump loy,” repeated Blaise, his best attempt at a French accent still sounding American. “I’ve heard of that before. . . .”

“Aw, Blaise, come look at the cat,” said Sunni, kneeling down to see the painted tabby close up.

But Blaise did not move. Livia was standing close behind him, her gown brushing against his leg.

“Your hand is so quick,” she said. She had a melodious accent that was hard to place.

“Th-thank you,” he stammered. It was wonderful and yet awful, having her watch him draw. He dreaded making a mistake or smudging something.

“Where are you from?” asked the girl.

“A town called Braeside in Scotland. Well, Sunni’s from there — I’m not, I just live there.” Blaise was sure he was babbling, but he couldn’t stop. “I’m American. My dad is, too. He’s a professor and he had to go to a conference in London, so we came with him for the weekend — well, three days, actually, because we got Friday off from school —”

“Do you wear that same dress on every tour, Livia?” Sunni interrupted, still studying the cat. “You must be roasting hot in it.”

“I have many dresses.” Livia did not take her eyes off Blaise. “And I always feel fresh.”

“Really? Is it true people didn’t wash much in the olden days?”

Blaise stopped drawing. “We’re not in the olden days, Sunni.”

“I was just wondering, that’s all.” Sunni shrugged.

“Continue drawing, please,” Livia said. “It’s almost finished!”

Blaise made a few more marks on the sketch and held it out at arm’s length. Livia clapped her hands.

“Bravo!” said Throgmorton. “You are very composed under scrutiny. That is an admirable quality in a young man. Let us see how you do in the next room.”

Sunni came over to look at Blaise’s sketch.

“Let’s see it,” she said, her hand out, but Livia had already begun guiding Blaise toward the hall, murmuring, “I love artists.”

“I’m not an artist yet. But I want to be one,” Blaise said.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Blaise.”

“Like the blaze of fire,” said Livia. “You have a very
powerful
name.”

Powerful!
Blaise walked a bit taller.

“Watch out you don’t combust.” Sunni folded her sunglasses with a sharp snap and shoved them into her bag. “His name is spelled B-L-A-I-S-E, and it’s got nothing to do with fire.”

Livia stopped short, and Sunni tripped against her.

“I am sorry,” said Livia, turning to her with wide eyes. “I did not notice you there.”

“No problem.”

“What is your name?”

“Sunni.”

“Ah, like the weather.” Livia tilted her head in a most winsome way.

“No, it’s Sunniva, actually, after a Norwegian saint.”

Livia let out another “Ah,” and turned back to Blaise. “You will adore this,” she said, steering him toward a back room.

Sunni slid after them in her felt slippers, stone-faced.

Throgmorton was already in the room, holding a worn book in his hand. Sunlight filtered in from the solitary window onto walls lined from ceiling to floor with shelves, each tightly packed with books.

“The library,” said Throgmorton, closing his book. “Would you care to count the number of books in this room?”

Sunni met his eye. “One,” she said. “It’s in your hand.”

“Correct,” he said with a smile. “You begin to understand. All the books are painted onto the walls, except for this one.”

“Didn’t Jeremiah Starling own any books?” asked Sunni. “Or any plates to eat from? Or real candlesticks?”

“Yes, but most of them are gone now.” Throgmorton flicked a dead fly from papers strewn on a desk. They did not rustle or shift, painted as they were on the wooden surface. “Sold or passed on.”

He raised his eyebrows at his daughter and beckoned toward Blaise, who was at work on a new sketch.

“Blaise,” breathed Livia, “may my father look at your sketchbook, please?” Before he had time to object, she drew it away from him.

“Uh, sure.” Blaise held his pencil in midair for a moment.

Throgmorton leafed through the sketchbook, his lips pursed. Livia hung on his arm, pointing out things she liked. A smile blossomed on Throgmorton’s face, growing as he moved on to the next page, and the next. He stopped at one drawing and tensed with concentration, but just as Blaise was wondering what had caught his attention, their guide gestured to him.

“You make beautiful drawings,” said Throgmorton, handing the sketchbook back. “And your hand is swift. I am very impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“And you take this sketchbook with you wherever you go?”

“Yes. I draw pretty much everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” Throgmorton repeated. “And everything.”

“And from memory,” said Blaise, watching Livia stroke a platinum curl into place. “When I have to.”

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Sunni frowning.
What’s her problem now?

“To the second floor, please,” said Throgmorton. He led Blaise through the hall and up the staircase, high into the painted sky, followed by Livia, who hoisted her gown to climb and revealed delicate slippers with suede soles. Sunni was last.

Upstairs, the grand sitting room was decorated from floor to ceiling with ornate pillars, marble busts tucked away in arched recesses, and grinning cherubs, all painted to look three-dimensional. The floor was a complex grid of colored geometric tiles. There were a few good-quality chairs and a table set with a real china teapot and cups.

Livia glided over to the fireplace and gazed up at a cherub. “This is my favorite room.”

“I don’t like it as much as the others,” said Sunni.

Livia’s smile did not slip. “Why not?”

“It’s cold. As if no one is ever allowed in because they might leave a speck of dirt somewhere.”

“I do not see anything wrong in having a beautiful, clean room,” said Livia with a tinkling laugh. “You prefer a dirty one?”

“No, that’s not what I meant —”

Livia suddenly approached Blaise and tapped him playfully on the elbow. “I caught you! Father, look, Blaise is drawing me!”

“Well, you were standing still. . . .” Blaise blushed to the roots of his floppy dark hair, but it was just as much with pleasure as embarrassment.

Sunni’s lip curled as she watched Livia dance away with the sketchbook again and thrust it under her father’s nose.

Throgmorton glanced at the sketch and said, “No one could do justice to my lovely Livia. But it is a good start. Shall we continue the tour?”

“I’ll put the sketchbook away if I’m going too slow,” said Blaise.

“No!” Livia hugged it to her chest. “I want Blaise to finish my portrait.”

“Now, now,” her father said. “We will see whether he has time. He may be obliged to hurry off somewhere else.”

“You’re not hurrying off, are you, Blaise?” Livia asked. “Do you have time to finish my portrait?”

“Sure. We’re not in a hurry.”

“We need to get to Tottenham Court Road,” Sunni said. “Your dad said he’d be finished early today.”

“But not yet,” said Blaise. “We’ve got tons of time.”

Throgmorton’s face brightened, as if an idea had just come to him. “In that case, perhaps you would be interested in . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “Perhaps not.”

“What, Father?” Livia held Blaise’s sketchbook close. “What were you going to say?”

“Well, my dear, I was thinking of a visit to the Academy,” said Throgmorton.

“Yes, yes, Blaise must see it! He wants to be an artist, and he will love the Academy.”

Sunni jumped in to ask, “What is it?” but Livia ignored her.

“Father,” Livia said, “I think Blaise should stay to see the Academy
and
finish my portrait.”

“Should he?” Smiling, Throgmorton eased the sketchbook away from his daughter. “Then, of course, Blaise
will
stay.”

“I
f you wish to see the Academy, that is,” Throgmorton said to Blaise, almost as an afterthought, handing back the sketchbook.

“Uh, what’s the Academy?” Blaise finally found his voice.

“An art school — but only for the best, the most talented pupils. The Academy teaches young people the secrets of the Old Masters. It is so exclusive, students are admitted by personal recommendation only.”

“Really?”

Sunni could see a familiar alertness come over Blaise, like a hunter sensing he was near an elusive treasure.

“The Academy is not for everyone,” said Throgmorton. “It is only for those willing to work hard and learn from the Master.”

“I’d love to go to a school like that,” Blaise said.

“You are the sort of young man who would make an ideal student,” Throgmorton said. “The Master will be delighted to meet you.”

“Right,” said Blaise, his eyes wide.

“And we can discuss your drawings in depth,” Throgmorton said. “I have a number of thoughts about them, as will he.”

“That would be so amazing.” Blaise beamed.

Sunni waved her hand. “Hello? I’m here, too, you know, Blaise.”

“Aw, sorry, Sunni,” he said quickly. “Sunni wants to be an artist, too. She’s excellent at drawing.”

“Oh, yes?” said Throgmorton. “You have a sketchbook you can show us?”

Sunni shook her head. “I didn’t bring it today.”

“That is a pity.” Throgmorton shrugged and turned away.

At that moment, Sunni wasn’t sure what made her more angry: this tour guide and his daughter treating her like she was smaller than Jeremiah Starling’s ladybugs or seeing Blaise’s soppy grin whenever Livia hurled herself at him in her flashy gown. Watching the way his eyes now followed Livia, with all her shining hair and slender grace, Sunni couldn’t blame him. But deep down inside, her feelings were buzzing around and around like an outraged wasp caught under a glass.