Read Online The Vanishing Sculptor by Donita K. Paul - Free Book Online
Authors: Donita K. Paul
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hearing a voice that sounds like my father’s, but my father never talked nonsense, and this voice is relaying all sorts of absurd bits of absurdity.”
He lifted one eyebrow and looked sternly at Tipper. “Tipper-too, absurd bits of absurdity’ is redundant.”
She grinned up at him, remembering the silly banter they’d enjoyed when she was small. Wrinkling her nose at him, she responded as she would have fifteen years earlier. “Nonsensical bits of nonsense.”
“That’s my daughter. You haven’t lost your sense of humor. As long as you have a wit to call your own, you will be just fine.”
He turned her hand over in her lap and put the tiny dragon in her palm. Grandur hopped several times, then nestled into her cupped hand. She expected him to be cold and rough skinned, but instead his little body radiated a comforting heat, and smooth, velvety skin covered his feet and stomach.
Her father kept one hand over hers and placed the fingertips of his other on the swollen knot on her forehead.
“Just relax. This will only take a moment.”
Tipper took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The pain eased from the bump. A tingle spread from the top of her head to her toes. She smiled.
The anxiety in her mind dissipated. Her father producing light out of thin air would be explained. The important thing was that he had returned unharmed after fading away. The little dragon was not so unusual, just a dragon in a smaller version than she normally saw. Not that she saw many dragons. Having two in their home and one in the barn was three more than most families possessed. And the Grandur-naming-himself thing…? Father would explain.
The restorative procedure that took away the pain on her forehead expanded to include some core of her being. She felt the contentment that had eluded her for so many years. For one moment, she thought she could reach out and gather into her hand something that held peace and love and joy. She opened her eyes and saw only her father, the green dragon, and her mother’s vacant bed. Her eyes widened. The empty bed pierced her contentment, leaving a disturbing hole.
Her father patted her hand and spoke to her concern. “Concentrate on the glimmer of hope. Focus not on the shadows of dismay.” Peace again flooded her.
When Verrin Schope drew back, Tipper reached up and felt her forehead. No bump. No soreness to the touch. Grandur moved from her hand to her knee and peered at the other two dragons.
Her father cleared his throat. “Do you want us to repair the damage to your backside?”
She giggled and shook her head. “It’s better. I think it will mend on its own.”
Grandur jumped off her lap and flew to Junkit and Zabeth. The three chittered as if communicating. To Tipper it sounded like a conversation in some whistling, chirping language.
“Were Junkit and Zabeth born with names?” she asked.
“Probably. But no one with the ability to understand them captured the name. Subsequently, no one has called them by their birth names. They may have forgotten,” said her father. “I’ll ask.”
He fell silent, and all three dragons turned toward him, stopping their chatter and looking for all the world as if they were paying attention. But her father said nothing.
He smiled. “They did have other names, but they have grown accustomed to the names given to them and would not change now.” He laid one of his long-fingered, fine-boned hands on her shoulder and squeezed. “They assure me that you are the best of mistresses, even though your ability to communicate is somewhat stunted.”
“I’m their mistress?”
“A formality only. A courtesy title. No one is really the master or mistress of a dragon. Only a fool would believe he has anything but the privilege to request cooperation from one of these magnificent beasts.”
Junkit, Zabeth, and Grandur must have understood his comment. They stood straighter and puffed out their tiny chests. Tipper grinned at their antics as
He lifted one eyebrow and looked sternly at Tipper. “Tipper-too, absurd bits of absurdity’ is redundant.”
She grinned up at him, remembering the silly banter they’d enjoyed when she was small. Wrinkling her nose at him, she responded as she would have fifteen years earlier. “Nonsensical bits of nonsense.”
“That’s my daughter. You haven’t lost your sense of humor. As long as you have a wit to call your own, you will be just fine.”
He turned her hand over in her lap and put the tiny dragon in her palm. Grandur hopped several times, then nestled into her cupped hand. She expected him to be cold and rough skinned, but instead his little body radiated a comforting heat, and smooth, velvety skin covered his feet and stomach.
Her father kept one hand over hers and placed the fingertips of his other on the swollen knot on her forehead.
“Just relax. This will only take a moment.”
Tipper took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The pain eased from the bump. A tingle spread from the top of her head to her toes. She smiled.
The anxiety in her mind dissipated. Her father producing light out of thin air would be explained. The important thing was that he had returned unharmed after fading away. The little dragon was not so unusual, just a dragon in a smaller version than she normally saw. Not that she saw many dragons. Having two in their home and one in the barn was three more than most families possessed. And the Grandur-naming-himself thing…? Father would explain.
The restorative procedure that took away the pain on her forehead expanded to include some core of her being. She felt the contentment that had eluded her for so many years. For one moment, she thought she could reach out and gather into her hand something that held peace and love and joy. She opened her eyes and saw only her father, the green dragon, and her mother’s vacant bed. Her eyes widened. The empty bed pierced her contentment, leaving a disturbing hole.
Her father patted her hand and spoke to her concern. “Concentrate on the glimmer of hope. Focus not on the shadows of dismay.” Peace again flooded her.
When Verrin Schope drew back, Tipper reached up and felt her forehead. No bump. No soreness to the touch. Grandur moved from her hand to her knee and peered at the other two dragons.
Her father cleared his throat. “Do you want us to repair the damage to your backside?”
She giggled and shook her head. “It’s better. I think it will mend on its own.”
Grandur jumped off her lap and flew to Junkit and Zabeth. The three chittered as if communicating. To Tipper it sounded like a conversation in some whistling, chirping language.
“Were Junkit and Zabeth born with names?” she asked.
“Probably. But no one with the ability to understand them captured the name. Subsequently, no one has called them by their birth names. They may have forgotten,” said her father. “I’ll ask.”
He fell silent, and all three dragons turned toward him, stopping their chatter and looking for all the world as if they were paying attention. But her father said nothing.
He smiled. “They did have other names, but they have grown accustomed to the names given to them and would not change now.” He laid one of his long-fingered, fine-boned hands on her shoulder and squeezed. “They assure me that you are the best of mistresses, even though your ability to communicate is somewhat stunted.”
“I’m their mistress?”
“A formality only. A courtesy title. No one is really the master or mistress of a dragon. Only a fool would believe he has anything but the privilege to request cooperation from one of these magnificent beasts.”
Junkit, Zabeth, and Grandur must have understood his comment. They stood straighter and puffed out their tiny chests. Tipper grinned at their antics as
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