it was a melancholy sound, as if all the loneliness of the surrounding mountains had been gathered into that one poignant cry, intensifying it beyond expression. She waited in suspense to hear it again. After a long interval, the bird repeated the single, flutelike note. The evening stood suspended between night and day, listening for another call, but none came. “What was that?” she cried softly.
“What was what?” Fenn tested a metal bit with his fingertip.
“That bird that sang out just now.”
“A thrush.” As he tipped back his head for another drink, his eye lit on her as she sat waiting raptly for a sight or sound of that unfamiliar bird. “Sevana,” he said, annoyed, “haven’t you got anything to do besides sit there and watch me?”
Her eyes flew to his, startled and hurt. He returned the look, cool and unflinching. Without another word, she got up and went inside. Fetching an unfinished painting from her room, she settled with it at the kitchen table—removing easily into an inner world as familiar as the real one, where life even at its most distressing could be shut out and go virtually unnoticed. But before long, the dim aspect of the room forced her to seek out her inhospitable sibling. “Fenn, could you show me how to light the lantern?” she requested reluctantly from the doorway.
Fenn merely grunted in response, but in a short time he came in. “Gad, Sevana, that turpentine could send you into a stupor,” he remarked ungratefully, with a superficial glance at the wild oak tree upon which she was laboriously concentrating. “Just like peyote, but easier to come by. Do visions of the gods ever dance before your eyes?”
“I’m sorry,” said Sevana, who was so used to the pungent smell she hardly ever noticed it. She screwed the cap back on the little bottle.
“So you’re the budding artist,” he observed cynically as he unhooked the lantern from its ceiling wire and set it on the table. “Planning to make a career of it, I hear.”
“Yes,” she said, encouraged by his interest. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“I understand Bryce is not overjoyed with your choice,”—the fact of which seemed to please him immoderately.
“He told you that?”
“Yes. He even had the gall to ask me to talk you out of it while you’re here. He wants you to choose a more useful vocation—as if he knew better than you, what you wanted to do.” The sarcasm present whenever he spoke of anything even remotely concerning his father, edged his words.
“Yes, he thinks I should have art for a hobby but not make it my career,” she confirmed. “And I feel bad about it, because he’s willing to pay for my education either way. But I can’t even consider doing anything else. And rather than taking art at a university, I wanted to try something more specialized first—and my teacher said the private studio in Lethbridge is excellent.” In reality, half a dozen schools had been recommended to her, and she had chosen Lethbridge as the one closest to Fenn—but as she felt he would not appreciate the reason, she didn’t enlighten him of it.
Talking to Fenn that way, finding him a more sympathetic ally when it came down between her or her father, made her feel like they were communicating for once, and she would have gladly continued the conversation. But Fenn had already initiated a series of applications involving the lantern—and Sevana, thoroughly alarmed because it looked far more complicated than anything she’d dealt with there so far, hung onto every word as he explained how to prime the pump and light the mantle, knowing he wouldn’t want to show her twice.
Convinced by then of her general incompetence, he made her repeat the process on her own. When she had succeeded with much prompting, he hung the light again and turned to his bedtime rituals of washing up and locking the doors. “Try not to rattle around down here too much while I’m trying to sleep, will you?”
“What was what?” Fenn tested a metal bit with his fingertip.
“That bird that sang out just now.”
“A thrush.” As he tipped back his head for another drink, his eye lit on her as she sat waiting raptly for a sight or sound of that unfamiliar bird. “Sevana,” he said, annoyed, “haven’t you got anything to do besides sit there and watch me?”
Her eyes flew to his, startled and hurt. He returned the look, cool and unflinching. Without another word, she got up and went inside. Fetching an unfinished painting from her room, she settled with it at the kitchen table—removing easily into an inner world as familiar as the real one, where life even at its most distressing could be shut out and go virtually unnoticed. But before long, the dim aspect of the room forced her to seek out her inhospitable sibling. “Fenn, could you show me how to light the lantern?” she requested reluctantly from the doorway.
Fenn merely grunted in response, but in a short time he came in. “Gad, Sevana, that turpentine could send you into a stupor,” he remarked ungratefully, with a superficial glance at the wild oak tree upon which she was laboriously concentrating. “Just like peyote, but easier to come by. Do visions of the gods ever dance before your eyes?”
“I’m sorry,” said Sevana, who was so used to the pungent smell she hardly ever noticed it. She screwed the cap back on the little bottle.
“So you’re the budding artist,” he observed cynically as he unhooked the lantern from its ceiling wire and set it on the table. “Planning to make a career of it, I hear.”
“Yes,” she said, encouraged by his interest. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“I understand Bryce is not overjoyed with your choice,”—the fact of which seemed to please him immoderately.
“He told you that?”
“Yes. He even had the gall to ask me to talk you out of it while you’re here. He wants you to choose a more useful vocation—as if he knew better than you, what you wanted to do.” The sarcasm present whenever he spoke of anything even remotely concerning his father, edged his words.
“Yes, he thinks I should have art for a hobby but not make it my career,” she confirmed. “And I feel bad about it, because he’s willing to pay for my education either way. But I can’t even consider doing anything else. And rather than taking art at a university, I wanted to try something more specialized first—and my teacher said the private studio in Lethbridge is excellent.” In reality, half a dozen schools had been recommended to her, and she had chosen Lethbridge as the one closest to Fenn—but as she felt he would not appreciate the reason, she didn’t enlighten him of it.
Talking to Fenn that way, finding him a more sympathetic ally when it came down between her or her father, made her feel like they were communicating for once, and she would have gladly continued the conversation. But Fenn had already initiated a series of applications involving the lantern—and Sevana, thoroughly alarmed because it looked far more complicated than anything she’d dealt with there so far, hung onto every word as he explained how to prime the pump and light the mantle, knowing he wouldn’t want to show her twice.
Convinced by then of her general incompetence, he made her repeat the process on her own. When she had succeeded with much prompting, he hung the light again and turned to his bedtime rituals of washing up and locking the doors. “Try not to rattle around down here too much while I’m trying to sleep, will you?”
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