Read Online The Sword of Straw by Amanda Hemingway - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amanda Hemingway
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sunshine after the horror of the dark.
But the princess turned away, dropping on her knees beside the bed, her face in the quilt, sobbing not with relief but with despair. Nathan struggled to touch her, to comfort her, but he could feel the dream fading, drifting away from him, and his will couldn’t hold it, and he slid helplessly back into sleep.
“D O YOU recognize him?” Bartlemy asked, holding out a sketch that, despite his best efforts, made the average Identikit picture look like something by Rembrandt.
“Should I?” Annie said, clearly baffled by the artwork if not the question.
“I believe he bought a book from you, probably not long ago.”
Annie studied the sketch with a wry expression. “I don’t think…”
“I’m not much of an artist, I know,” Bartlemy conceded. “Even with a little assistance, I’m not going to win any prizes. But I hoped there was enough of a likeness to give you some idea. The book might have been a description of local folklore, a history of satanic practices, even a grimoire. That sort of thing. Or so I suspect.”
“I sold a couple last month to a dealer,” Annie said, “but that was on the Internet. I don’t know what he looks like—we’ve never actually met.”
“This man came in personally.”
“Are you sure?” He nodded. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall anyone…like this. Not lately, anyway. I don’t remember everybody who comes to the shop, but even so, it’s a small place, most of my customers are regulars—collectors, enthusiasts, or just people who can’t live without a book and find it cheaper to buy secondhand. I notice strangers. This man isn’t a regular—at least, I don’t think so.” Her faint grimace betrayed her doubts about Bartlemy’s portraiture. “If he came in recently, I ought to recognize him.”
“Never mind,” Bartlemy said. “It’s probably my drawing that’s at fault. It isn’t important.”
“Isn’t it?” Annie asked shrewdly.
“I don’t know,” Bartlemy admitted. “That burglary attempt was…unusual. I’m not normally troubled by that sort of thing. I’d like to know what was behind it—if anything.”
“And this man?”
“A face in the spellfire. No more. He may not be relevant. He may be involved with something else, something that has little to do with us. Using smoke-magic is like surfing fifty TV channels with no way of knowing which is which. Without reference points, you can’t tell if you’ve got the program you want or not…”
Annie smiled. “That’s a very modern metaphor,” she said, “for such an arcane pursuit.”
“Magic isn’t really arcane,” Bartlemy said. “It’s been around a long time, that’s all. So has drawing—people were doing it on cave walls—but that doesn’t make it arcane. And I’m better at magic than I am at drawing. Not much better, but a little. I prefer cooking to both.”
“Ah, but your cooking is definitely magical.”
“Not magic,” said Bartlemy. “Just practice.”
After he went, Annie found the picture still on her desk. Perhaps he hadn’t considered it worth keeping. She tucked it in a drawer, in case he should want it back, and sat down at the computer in quest of an obscure dictionary of wildflowers for a local botanist. The click of the door latch made her look up, smiling on a reflex—but the smile cooled when she saw Chief Inspector Pobjoy.
She said: “Hello. Can I help you?” in a tone that was strictly polite. She still wasn’t prepared to forget his suspicions of Nathan.
Sensing hostility, his thin features grew a little thinner. “Just passing,” he said. “Since those kids broke in at Thornyhill, I thought I should keep an eye on things.”
Annie allowed herself to thaw a fraction. “You must think we’re prone to trouble,” she said.
“I think…” He checked himself. “There’s a lot I never learned about that business last year.”
“The accomplice,” Annie said promptly. “The woman who
But the princess turned away, dropping on her knees beside the bed, her face in the quilt, sobbing not with relief but with despair. Nathan struggled to touch her, to comfort her, but he could feel the dream fading, drifting away from him, and his will couldn’t hold it, and he slid helplessly back into sleep.
“D O YOU recognize him?” Bartlemy asked, holding out a sketch that, despite his best efforts, made the average Identikit picture look like something by Rembrandt.
“Should I?” Annie said, clearly baffled by the artwork if not the question.
“I believe he bought a book from you, probably not long ago.”
Annie studied the sketch with a wry expression. “I don’t think…”
“I’m not much of an artist, I know,” Bartlemy conceded. “Even with a little assistance, I’m not going to win any prizes. But I hoped there was enough of a likeness to give you some idea. The book might have been a description of local folklore, a history of satanic practices, even a grimoire. That sort of thing. Or so I suspect.”
“I sold a couple last month to a dealer,” Annie said, “but that was on the Internet. I don’t know what he looks like—we’ve never actually met.”
“This man came in personally.”
“Are you sure?” He nodded. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall anyone…like this. Not lately, anyway. I don’t remember everybody who comes to the shop, but even so, it’s a small place, most of my customers are regulars—collectors, enthusiasts, or just people who can’t live without a book and find it cheaper to buy secondhand. I notice strangers. This man isn’t a regular—at least, I don’t think so.” Her faint grimace betrayed her doubts about Bartlemy’s portraiture. “If he came in recently, I ought to recognize him.”
“Never mind,” Bartlemy said. “It’s probably my drawing that’s at fault. It isn’t important.”
“Isn’t it?” Annie asked shrewdly.
“I don’t know,” Bartlemy admitted. “That burglary attempt was…unusual. I’m not normally troubled by that sort of thing. I’d like to know what was behind it—if anything.”
“And this man?”
“A face in the spellfire. No more. He may not be relevant. He may be involved with something else, something that has little to do with us. Using smoke-magic is like surfing fifty TV channels with no way of knowing which is which. Without reference points, you can’t tell if you’ve got the program you want or not…”
Annie smiled. “That’s a very modern metaphor,” she said, “for such an arcane pursuit.”
“Magic isn’t really arcane,” Bartlemy said. “It’s been around a long time, that’s all. So has drawing—people were doing it on cave walls—but that doesn’t make it arcane. And I’m better at magic than I am at drawing. Not much better, but a little. I prefer cooking to both.”
“Ah, but your cooking is definitely magical.”
“Not magic,” said Bartlemy. “Just practice.”
After he went, Annie found the picture still on her desk. Perhaps he hadn’t considered it worth keeping. She tucked it in a drawer, in case he should want it back, and sat down at the computer in quest of an obscure dictionary of wildflowers for a local botanist. The click of the door latch made her look up, smiling on a reflex—but the smile cooled when she saw Chief Inspector Pobjoy.
She said: “Hello. Can I help you?” in a tone that was strictly polite. She still wasn’t prepared to forget his suspicions of Nathan.
Sensing hostility, his thin features grew a little thinner. “Just passing,” he said. “Since those kids broke in at Thornyhill, I thought I should keep an eye on things.”
Annie allowed herself to thaw a fraction. “You must think we’re prone to trouble,” she said.
“I think…” He checked himself. “There’s a lot I never learned about that business last year.”
“The accomplice,” Annie said promptly. “The woman who
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