Read Online Dreams of Fire (Maple Hill Chronicles Book 1) by Elizabeth Alix - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Alix
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woman’s voice was muted and pleading. There was a sharp sound of flesh being struck, and Marianne hurried down the now very long hallway to help. A woman came out of the back bedroom holding her face and looking away as she rushed past Marianne. A man’s backlit silhouette filled the doorway, radiating anger and satisfaction. He was in his prime and full of his own power.
She approached him to say something like, “That was mean!” but he grabbed her arm hard, pulling her angrily toward the other bedroom. As he thrust her into the room, he said harshly, “Look what you’ve done!”
The room contained bookcases full of leather bound volumes overseeing an imposing desk of dark wood and a green leather wing back chair. A brass table lamp with a green glass cover illuminated the papers on the desk. The furnishings belonged in a tasteful gentleman’s club from the early twentieth century, surrounded by moss green walls and expensive flooring. Instead these walls were glaring white, making the furniture seem out of place and overdone.
“You have no right to paint my house! This is my house not yours,” he said angrily. “Put it back the way it was!”
Marianne surfaced from the dream, becoming aware of the dark bedroom with the unfamiliar lights on the walls and Oscar’s warm bulk next to her. That was important. I’ve got to remember that, she thought muzzily as she sank into sleep again. Through successive dreams she kept trying to tell people about the angry man and the sad woman and the out of place furniture. When she woke in the morning, she recalled the dream enough to jot it down in her notebook.
Chapter 6
Ruari roused himself from his bed groggily and put the coffee on. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, lying on top of his comforter again. His muse had only let him go reluctantly after he’d cut himself several times from tiredness. He thought of her as a tough old broad, but the outcome was nearly always worth it. He looked at his hands and saw the fresh gouge marks and dried blood. While the coffee perked, he carefully washed his hands, putting ointment and band-aids on. After he’d splashed some cream and sugar into a huge mug of coffee, he made his way down the steps to the workshop.
He was so lucky to have found this old garage/shed with the little room upstairs. It had come up on the realtor’s sheet a couple of years ago, and he’d grabbed it before anyone else could. It hadn’t been terribly expensive since it needed many repairs, but it was the perfect combination of living and working space for him. He needed the wood stove in winter, but the space was all his. He’d gradually made repairs and improvements.
Warm mug in hand, he went down to the table where he’d been working. The cover lay over his work, and for a moment he wondered what he’d find. He’d spent hours with the piece last night, but his muse took him to another realm when he carved. Sometimes he was only half aware of what his hands were doing. He drew the cover off and stood looking at it.
He could see the roughed out features of a face emerging from the red cherry wood. It was between the folds of something heavy, cloth maybe, and the vague shape of a hand seemed to be pushing aside the cloth on one side. He had the feeling the face was feminine and wondered if his muse was creating a portrait or an avatar. He picked up the piece and rolled it gently between his scarred hands and examined the back. It was roughly shaped, rounded like a pod or a seed. He set it down again, knowing that he was too tired to work for now. Reverently, he placed the cloth over it again.
After breakfast Marianne took a walk up the block trying to determine if any of the neighbors were home. Next door there was a car in the drive, and the inner front door was open. She walked up the flagstone path and rang the doorbell next to the glass of the storm door. A middle-aged man with thinning, dark hair and a fleshy paunch under his
She approached him to say something like, “That was mean!” but he grabbed her arm hard, pulling her angrily toward the other bedroom. As he thrust her into the room, he said harshly, “Look what you’ve done!”
The room contained bookcases full of leather bound volumes overseeing an imposing desk of dark wood and a green leather wing back chair. A brass table lamp with a green glass cover illuminated the papers on the desk. The furnishings belonged in a tasteful gentleman’s club from the early twentieth century, surrounded by moss green walls and expensive flooring. Instead these walls were glaring white, making the furniture seem out of place and overdone.
“You have no right to paint my house! This is my house not yours,” he said angrily. “Put it back the way it was!”
Marianne surfaced from the dream, becoming aware of the dark bedroom with the unfamiliar lights on the walls and Oscar’s warm bulk next to her. That was important. I’ve got to remember that, she thought muzzily as she sank into sleep again. Through successive dreams she kept trying to tell people about the angry man and the sad woman and the out of place furniture. When she woke in the morning, she recalled the dream enough to jot it down in her notebook.
Chapter 6
Ruari roused himself from his bed groggily and put the coffee on. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, lying on top of his comforter again. His muse had only let him go reluctantly after he’d cut himself several times from tiredness. He thought of her as a tough old broad, but the outcome was nearly always worth it. He looked at his hands and saw the fresh gouge marks and dried blood. While the coffee perked, he carefully washed his hands, putting ointment and band-aids on. After he’d splashed some cream and sugar into a huge mug of coffee, he made his way down the steps to the workshop.
He was so lucky to have found this old garage/shed with the little room upstairs. It had come up on the realtor’s sheet a couple of years ago, and he’d grabbed it before anyone else could. It hadn’t been terribly expensive since it needed many repairs, but it was the perfect combination of living and working space for him. He needed the wood stove in winter, but the space was all his. He’d gradually made repairs and improvements.
Warm mug in hand, he went down to the table where he’d been working. The cover lay over his work, and for a moment he wondered what he’d find. He’d spent hours with the piece last night, but his muse took him to another realm when he carved. Sometimes he was only half aware of what his hands were doing. He drew the cover off and stood looking at it.
He could see the roughed out features of a face emerging from the red cherry wood. It was between the folds of something heavy, cloth maybe, and the vague shape of a hand seemed to be pushing aside the cloth on one side. He had the feeling the face was feminine and wondered if his muse was creating a portrait or an avatar. He picked up the piece and rolled it gently between his scarred hands and examined the back. It was roughly shaped, rounded like a pod or a seed. He set it down again, knowing that he was too tired to work for now. Reverently, he placed the cloth over it again.
After breakfast Marianne took a walk up the block trying to determine if any of the neighbors were home. Next door there was a car in the drive, and the inner front door was open. She walked up the flagstone path and rang the doorbell next to the glass of the storm door. A middle-aged man with thinning, dark hair and a fleshy paunch under his
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