accompanied her raised fingers when she touched the image of the small stone Topen held.
“How does Holt know about the stones?” she murmured.
“I’m ready,” said Loran, on re-entering the room.
Leanna spun around.
“Then, our carriage awaits.”
Leanna extended her bent arm and Loran slipped her hand around it. When they arrived at the doorsill, Leanna took one last look at Topen’s painting before she secured the door behind her.
* * *
T he cobblestone streets echoed, in a rhythmic fashion, the hooves of the four horses that pulled the coach containing Leanna and her daughter through the wide main street of Avilbrook. The lane was busy with pedestrians and riders alike—who carefully choreographed their movements as to not collide with each other. An abrupt stop signaled that the adjoining street was too narrow to continue by carriage. The women exited their transport and proceeded through the narrower corridor until they arrived at a small confectionary shop with no sign.
The brick building displayed extravagant delights in its window next to the door. That was all the notice needed. A small bell above the door announced their entrance into a wonderland of sweet decadences. Loran’s and her mother’s eyes drank in the dozens of different confections and candies displayed on tables and within glass cases throughout the room.
Betaury, an older white-haired man, peeked out between the curtains that concealed the back room and saw the women in his shop. He displayed a vigorous smile beneath his flowing beard as he passed through the threshold separating the areas.
“My lady. Miss Loran. It has been too long that you have been deprived of our secretive pleasures.”
“Deprived is exactly the word I would use, Betaury,” said Leanna. “What new creations have you for us to behold?”
Betaury looked around the shop and then unexpectedly clapped his hands together. He waved a finger into the air and signified he would return, and with the spryness of a man half his age, rushed into the back room.
Leanna pointed to one of the three available tables. “Let’s sit there.”
“What do you think he’s doing?” Loran asked.
“I would not be surprised if he returns with numerous temptations for us,” said Leanna. “ Temptations ,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“I noticed the painting of Topen on the mountain.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Loran. “But there are no portraits of Topen anywhere in the castle. Don’t you find that strange?”
“It is by Topen’s request that we do not recount his words or deeds in any permanent fashion.”
“Not even his image?”
“Definitely not his image,” insisted Leanna. “I noticed in your portrait that Topen is holding some kind of rock in his hand. Is there some significance to that stone?”
The apprehension that rose from her stomach told Loran to be cautious here. One does not trifle with her mother in a game of wits—even more so if she held any suspicion.
“It could be it was something he picked off the mountain; maybe Holt felt it helped to bring realism to the painting.”
Loran’s parsed words, that she uttered with such care, might not have been questioned when she was twelve, but she was no longer afforded that luxury. Although Leanna had suspicions, she chose not to pursue them at this time. She afforded herself just one subtle comment to alert Loran that deceit was not a path she should tread between them.
“Yes, it could have happened that way,” she said, glaring into Loran’s eyes.
The stare disturbed Loran, as was its intention. However, she reminded herself that her mother also kept a secret from her, and she knew that one day, secrets would clash on an open field.
Betaury swept back into the room carrying a silver platter with four pairs of his newest creations. Whatever had transpired merely moments ago washed away when he sat the plate in front of them.
“Please, enjoy!” Betaury said. His
“How does Holt know about the stones?” she murmured.
“I’m ready,” said Loran, on re-entering the room.
Leanna spun around.
“Then, our carriage awaits.”
Leanna extended her bent arm and Loran slipped her hand around it. When they arrived at the doorsill, Leanna took one last look at Topen’s painting before she secured the door behind her.
* * *
T he cobblestone streets echoed, in a rhythmic fashion, the hooves of the four horses that pulled the coach containing Leanna and her daughter through the wide main street of Avilbrook. The lane was busy with pedestrians and riders alike—who carefully choreographed their movements as to not collide with each other. An abrupt stop signaled that the adjoining street was too narrow to continue by carriage. The women exited their transport and proceeded through the narrower corridor until they arrived at a small confectionary shop with no sign.
The brick building displayed extravagant delights in its window next to the door. That was all the notice needed. A small bell above the door announced their entrance into a wonderland of sweet decadences. Loran’s and her mother’s eyes drank in the dozens of different confections and candies displayed on tables and within glass cases throughout the room.
Betaury, an older white-haired man, peeked out between the curtains that concealed the back room and saw the women in his shop. He displayed a vigorous smile beneath his flowing beard as he passed through the threshold separating the areas.
“My lady. Miss Loran. It has been too long that you have been deprived of our secretive pleasures.”
“Deprived is exactly the word I would use, Betaury,” said Leanna. “What new creations have you for us to behold?”
Betaury looked around the shop and then unexpectedly clapped his hands together. He waved a finger into the air and signified he would return, and with the spryness of a man half his age, rushed into the back room.
Leanna pointed to one of the three available tables. “Let’s sit there.”
“What do you think he’s doing?” Loran asked.
“I would not be surprised if he returns with numerous temptations for us,” said Leanna. “ Temptations ,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“I noticed the painting of Topen on the mountain.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Loran. “But there are no portraits of Topen anywhere in the castle. Don’t you find that strange?”
“It is by Topen’s request that we do not recount his words or deeds in any permanent fashion.”
“Not even his image?”
“Definitely not his image,” insisted Leanna. “I noticed in your portrait that Topen is holding some kind of rock in his hand. Is there some significance to that stone?”
The apprehension that rose from her stomach told Loran to be cautious here. One does not trifle with her mother in a game of wits—even more so if she held any suspicion.
“It could be it was something he picked off the mountain; maybe Holt felt it helped to bring realism to the painting.”
Loran’s parsed words, that she uttered with such care, might not have been questioned when she was twelve, but she was no longer afforded that luxury. Although Leanna had suspicions, she chose not to pursue them at this time. She afforded herself just one subtle comment to alert Loran that deceit was not a path she should tread between them.
“Yes, it could have happened that way,” she said, glaring into Loran’s eyes.
The stare disturbed Loran, as was its intention. However, she reminded herself that her mother also kept a secret from her, and she knew that one day, secrets would clash on an open field.
Betaury swept back into the room carrying a silver platter with four pairs of his newest creations. Whatever had transpired merely moments ago washed away when he sat the plate in front of them.
“Please, enjoy!” Betaury said. His
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