Read Online The Blue Bath by Mary Waters-Sayer - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Waters-Sayer
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the large monochromatic canvas that anchored the room. Hearing the door to the room click closed, she turned to find a man standing close behind her, small and tidy in his black polo neck and rimless glasses, arms folded and eyes fixed not on her, but on the artwork in front of her.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I do. What is it?”
“What do you think it is?”
“It’s a Rorschach, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “One of the ten original inkblots. Number seven, in fact. It reminds me that things are as we perceive them to be. That all meaning is subjective.”
He turned to her. “So what do you see?”
She turned back to the large symmetrical shape. Almost immediately, a figure emerged within the gray.
“It’s a woman.”
“Just one?”
“Yes. She is looking at her reflection in a mirror.”
Kat looked at the figures. They seemed at first to be identical. Two articulated halves of the same whole, fused at the base. She took in the slight white spot behind the heart where the ink had not adhered to the paper, noting that this small emptiness was echoed in the other figure. As she studied the image more closely, she began to notice small differences between the figures. Imperfections in the jagged edges and the subtle shadows where the ink had bled beyond the margins of each figure. There was something about the opaque clouds gathered just below the surface that seemed at once ominous and vaguely familiar.
She turned away from it. “I thought they were meant to be kept secret, so as not to compromise the general population.”
He looked at her sideways and smiled, his eyes bright. “Consider yourself compromised. Mrs. Bowen, I presume…”
“Lind,” Kat responded automatically. “But please call me Kat.”
“Kat. I am Charles.” He shook her hand firmly. “Shall we discuss your home?”
As she settled opposite him at the conference table, she tried to focus on him, and not on the view through the glass behind him. Sir Charles Eliasson was one of the most sought-after architects in London. She and Jonathan both loved his work—minimal and eclectic. A native of Sweden, he fused traditional with modern using practicality and beauty as glue. She had missed the first meeting with him. It had been in the diary for months. Before anything had happened. Jonathan had gone alone because she had been in New York.
The glass tabletop prevented her from slipping her feet out of her shoes, as was her habit.
He perched on the edge of his chair across from her and removed his glasses, placing them gently on the table, where they disappeared into the larger glass surface. His facial features immediately receded without their subtle definition.
“Your house presents an interesting challenge. As a Grade II listed building, there is much that we cannot change. But I suspect that is one of the aspects of it that appealed to you. And sometimes the hardest decision is what to keep, so perhaps this is lucky for you.”
As he spoke, Sir Charles slid a pile of thick, crisp white paper across the surface of the table until it came to rest between them. Kat glanced momentarily at the drawing on top, a massive, sprawling floor plan—precisely rendered and swaddled in detailed annotation. Replete with swatches of wood, marble, wallpaper, and paint arranged around the edges, it resembled a magpie’s nest.
“There’s been a mistake. This is not my house,” Kat said, pulling back slowly from the drawing in front of her.
Plunging his hand into the table to retrieve his glasses, Sir Charles leaned closer to the drawings, peering at them. After a moment he looked back up at her. “This is your house.”
She looked down again at the busy black-on-white drawing. Slowly, a familiar image emerged from the thicket of computer-drawn lines on the page. She hadn’t recognized her own house. Embarrassed, she looked up at him, not knowing what to say. He leveled a knowing glance at her and after a moment pushed the materials
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I do. What is it?”
“What do you think it is?”
“It’s a Rorschach, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “One of the ten original inkblots. Number seven, in fact. It reminds me that things are as we perceive them to be. That all meaning is subjective.”
He turned to her. “So what do you see?”
She turned back to the large symmetrical shape. Almost immediately, a figure emerged within the gray.
“It’s a woman.”
“Just one?”
“Yes. She is looking at her reflection in a mirror.”
Kat looked at the figures. They seemed at first to be identical. Two articulated halves of the same whole, fused at the base. She took in the slight white spot behind the heart where the ink had not adhered to the paper, noting that this small emptiness was echoed in the other figure. As she studied the image more closely, she began to notice small differences between the figures. Imperfections in the jagged edges and the subtle shadows where the ink had bled beyond the margins of each figure. There was something about the opaque clouds gathered just below the surface that seemed at once ominous and vaguely familiar.
She turned away from it. “I thought they were meant to be kept secret, so as not to compromise the general population.”
He looked at her sideways and smiled, his eyes bright. “Consider yourself compromised. Mrs. Bowen, I presume…”
“Lind,” Kat responded automatically. “But please call me Kat.”
“Kat. I am Charles.” He shook her hand firmly. “Shall we discuss your home?”
As she settled opposite him at the conference table, she tried to focus on him, and not on the view through the glass behind him. Sir Charles Eliasson was one of the most sought-after architects in London. She and Jonathan both loved his work—minimal and eclectic. A native of Sweden, he fused traditional with modern using practicality and beauty as glue. She had missed the first meeting with him. It had been in the diary for months. Before anything had happened. Jonathan had gone alone because she had been in New York.
The glass tabletop prevented her from slipping her feet out of her shoes, as was her habit.
He perched on the edge of his chair across from her and removed his glasses, placing them gently on the table, where they disappeared into the larger glass surface. His facial features immediately receded without their subtle definition.
“Your house presents an interesting challenge. As a Grade II listed building, there is much that we cannot change. But I suspect that is one of the aspects of it that appealed to you. And sometimes the hardest decision is what to keep, so perhaps this is lucky for you.”
As he spoke, Sir Charles slid a pile of thick, crisp white paper across the surface of the table until it came to rest between them. Kat glanced momentarily at the drawing on top, a massive, sprawling floor plan—precisely rendered and swaddled in detailed annotation. Replete with swatches of wood, marble, wallpaper, and paint arranged around the edges, it resembled a magpie’s nest.
“There’s been a mistake. This is not my house,” Kat said, pulling back slowly from the drawing in front of her.
Plunging his hand into the table to retrieve his glasses, Sir Charles leaned closer to the drawings, peering at them. After a moment he looked back up at her. “This is your house.”
She looked down again at the busy black-on-white drawing. Slowly, a familiar image emerged from the thicket of computer-drawn lines on the page. She hadn’t recognized her own house. Embarrassed, she looked up at him, not knowing what to say. He leveled a knowing glance at her and after a moment pushed the materials
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