Read Online Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) by Freda Warrington - Free Book Online
Authors: Freda Warrington
Ads: Link
hibernating potted plants enveloped her. Condensation streamed down the glass. Rubbing a clear patch, she looked out at the garden. The lawn edges vanished under masses of shrubbery and dark conifers. The high walls surrounding the garden were thickly cloaked with ivy. A stone goddess tilted a shell towards a round, mossy basin, but no water ran.
She recalled long afternoons spent in here with Daniel, talking as he worked. His battered easel still stood in a corner. She shivered with an eerie sense of nostalgia.
Daniel had been gentle and quiet by nature—but once he got going, he would talk endlessly about his ideas, his visions. He rarely asked about her course; hammering and soldering fiddly bits of metal must have seemed a dull business to a fine artist.
Stevie hadn’t minded. She’d never cared to talk about herself. There was no egotism in Daniel’s character. Rather, he’d possessed a sort of wild yet innocent enthusiasm that he couldn’t suppress.
A spasm of loss went through her. Daniel should be here but he wasn’t. Where was he, what had happened to him?
Humphrey came scampering in. Frances was in the doorway with a tray. “Do come and sit down. Close these doors, and I’ll try to get the fire going. We’ll soon warm up.”
Stevie obeyed, realizing that the house was almost colder inside than out. She sat on a sagging couch in front of the fireplace and poured tea into flowery cups while Professor Manifold added logs to the sulking fire. Sparks spiraled up the chimney.
With a faint huff the professor sat down at the far end of the couch, her knees making bony angles in her trousers. Stevie, seeing how underweight she was, how tired, felt her concern deepen. Frances sat straight-backed but brokenhearted, diminished by anxiety.
“So, you say he sent you some artwork?”
“Yes.” Stevie handed Daniel’s scribbled note to her. “This is all he said. That’s why I’m trying to contact him.”
Frances’s hand tightened on the paper, making creases. “Damn. I so hoped you might be able to tell me something. Did you even realize that he hasn’t been well?”
“I didn’t know.” Stevie felt irrationally guilty. She wished she hadn’t let their friendship drift, but at times Daniel had simply been too intense for comfort. That was partly why she’d let him go in the first place. “He had a studio in London, so I thought he was doing okay. What happened?”
“He was overstretching himself in every aspect of his life. That was my opinion.” The comment was waspish. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”
“But weren’t you proud of him? You must have visited his studio, seen his latest work?”
A pause. Damp logs popped and whined on the fire. “No.”
“Why not?”
“The rare times he phoned or came home, all we did was argue. He invited me, but I made a point of not going. And now I feel dreadful about it, of course, but I couldn’t give my approval…”
She trailed off. Stevie said, “When you say he wasn’t well, how do you mean?”
“Oh, you know how he was.” Frances flapped a hand as if to push it all away.
“Well, not really.” Stevie was trying to be sensitive. “At college, he was a bit eccentric, and he was a workaholic, but lots of creative people are like that.”
Frances gave an empty laugh. “And you encouraged him, Stephanie; taking him food and strong coffee so he could work all night. I wouldn’t indulge him like that.”
She ignored the dig. “But none of that means he was ill, does it?”
“I suppose it depends on your perspective.” Frances caressed Humphrey’s head, not looking at her. “It’s a shade of grey along a scale, isn’t it? Many might regard me as eccentric, digging up old bones for a living. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to work for twelve hours preparing lectures, or cataloguing finds. However, I draw the line at moving from coffee to amphetamines to LSD or other dangerous substances. I do not suffer delusions that my
She recalled long afternoons spent in here with Daniel, talking as he worked. His battered easel still stood in a corner. She shivered with an eerie sense of nostalgia.
Daniel had been gentle and quiet by nature—but once he got going, he would talk endlessly about his ideas, his visions. He rarely asked about her course; hammering and soldering fiddly bits of metal must have seemed a dull business to a fine artist.
Stevie hadn’t minded. She’d never cared to talk about herself. There was no egotism in Daniel’s character. Rather, he’d possessed a sort of wild yet innocent enthusiasm that he couldn’t suppress.
A spasm of loss went through her. Daniel should be here but he wasn’t. Where was he, what had happened to him?
Humphrey came scampering in. Frances was in the doorway with a tray. “Do come and sit down. Close these doors, and I’ll try to get the fire going. We’ll soon warm up.”
Stevie obeyed, realizing that the house was almost colder inside than out. She sat on a sagging couch in front of the fireplace and poured tea into flowery cups while Professor Manifold added logs to the sulking fire. Sparks spiraled up the chimney.
With a faint huff the professor sat down at the far end of the couch, her knees making bony angles in her trousers. Stevie, seeing how underweight she was, how tired, felt her concern deepen. Frances sat straight-backed but brokenhearted, diminished by anxiety.
“So, you say he sent you some artwork?”
“Yes.” Stevie handed Daniel’s scribbled note to her. “This is all he said. That’s why I’m trying to contact him.”
Frances’s hand tightened on the paper, making creases. “Damn. I so hoped you might be able to tell me something. Did you even realize that he hasn’t been well?”
“I didn’t know.” Stevie felt irrationally guilty. She wished she hadn’t let their friendship drift, but at times Daniel had simply been too intense for comfort. That was partly why she’d let him go in the first place. “He had a studio in London, so I thought he was doing okay. What happened?”
“He was overstretching himself in every aspect of his life. That was my opinion.” The comment was waspish. “He wouldn’t listen to me.”
“But weren’t you proud of him? You must have visited his studio, seen his latest work?”
A pause. Damp logs popped and whined on the fire. “No.”
“Why not?”
“The rare times he phoned or came home, all we did was argue. He invited me, but I made a point of not going. And now I feel dreadful about it, of course, but I couldn’t give my approval…”
She trailed off. Stevie said, “When you say he wasn’t well, how do you mean?”
“Oh, you know how he was.” Frances flapped a hand as if to push it all away.
“Well, not really.” Stevie was trying to be sensitive. “At college, he was a bit eccentric, and he was a workaholic, but lots of creative people are like that.”
Frances gave an empty laugh. “And you encouraged him, Stephanie; taking him food and strong coffee so he could work all night. I wouldn’t indulge him like that.”
She ignored the dig. “But none of that means he was ill, does it?”
“I suppose it depends on your perspective.” Frances caressed Humphrey’s head, not looking at her. “It’s a shade of grey along a scale, isn’t it? Many might regard me as eccentric, digging up old bones for a living. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to work for twelve hours preparing lectures, or cataloguing finds. However, I draw the line at moving from coffee to amphetamines to LSD or other dangerous substances. I do not suffer delusions that my
Similar Books
