The Vanishing Sculptor (5 page)

“Rolan, you are ever the good neighbor. Thank you for my excursion to Soebin. I enjoyed the company of your good wife, Zilla.” She patted his brawny arm. “But please excuse me now. I’m tired, and there is a Bealomondore in my house. I must find Verrin Schope and inform him of this intrusion. And then I am going to bed. Tipper, have Gladyme bring me toast and warm milk, please.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Lady Peg strolled out of the room, looking very much like a regal noblewoman who was not one bit tired.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Bealomondore clapped his hands together.

“Does this mean I shall see Verrin Schope tonight? Will he come here to investigate the intrusion when Lady Peg informs him I am here?”

“Not a chance,” said Rolan at the same time Tipper commented, “I doubt it.”

Bealomondore looked from one to the other. “Does anything ever proceed in a natural manner in this household?”

Rolan and Tipper both answered, “Never.”

5
Somewhat Truthful

Tipper stirred her tea, the tiny silver spoon ringing against the delicate porcelain cup.

“You’re nervous, my dear,” said Beccaroon.

“It’s your fault.”

Beccaroon tilted his head, and his eyes widened.

“Yes, you,” said Tipper. She frowned and then imitated his voice. “ ‘I don’t approve of this scheme of yours, Tipper.’” She jabbed a fork into her sausage. Grease splattered on her plate as resentment laced her words. “The voice of conscience coming from a feathered friend. You kept me up most of the night.”

Beccaroon returned to nibbling on a seedcake.

Tipper’s next words froze on her lips as the door to the hall was flung open. Bealomondore came in with a light step and a smile on his face.

“Beautiful morning,” he proclaimed and proceeded to take the chair directly across from his hostess.

His air of expectancy nearly crushed what little appetite Tipper had mustered this morning. She popped the bite of meat into her mouth, trying to deny the man’s effect on her.

Beccaroon glanced out the tall windows. “The weather is, indeed, fine.”

The tumanhofer smiled at the parrot. “Fine, yes, very fine.” His eyes turned back to Tipper. She forced herself not to squirm under his steady gaze. She slowly chewed the morsel in her mouth and refused to look up.

Bealomondore sighed. Disappointment flowed into the room and surrounded them all.

Tipper swallowed, put down her fork, and folded her hands in her lap. “I am sorry, Master Bealomondore. It was impossible to show my father your fine painting.”

“Perhaps today?” He spoke softly.

Tipper shook her head. “I regret that I have deceived you by allowing you to think that I would ever be able to win for you the post of apprentice.”

She lifted her eyes enough to catch the shift in position of her guest. He pulled back, anger replacing the listlessness of remorse.

She hurried on. “My father is not in the position to take on a student at this time.”

“You knew this yesterday?”

She nodded.

“And the day before?”

She nodded again.

Bealomondore stood, his chair scraping harshly across the floor. “I do not understand your motives, nor do I wish to. Good day, Mistress Tipper. I ask Boscamon to bless you and your family. Your needs are greater than mine.”

Tipper’s head jerked up. The artist was halfway to the door. “What do you want me to do with your painting?”

He did not turn. “Keep it. It is not my talent displayed but a copy of another’s.”

The door closed firmly behind him.

“And,” said Beccaroon, “the paint is still too fresh to transport.”

“Father put his oil paintings in a deep wooden frame.” She sniffed. “He packaged them to travel faceup, but in such a way that nothing could smear the picture.” She raised the napkin to wipe away a tear. “I remember sitting on the bench in his studio, smelling the paint, watching him construct the box, wishing I could draw pretty pictures too.”

The door opened again, and Tipper lifted her head, hoping to see the tumanhofer. Another apology might ease her conscience.

Her mother entered the room, gliding to the table with yards of gossamer fabric in shades of yellow and orange floating around her.

“I spoke with Master Bealomondore in the hall. He is leaving us.” She sat in her place and rang a silver bell by her glass. “Such a pity too. Your father wanted to meet with him tonight. He’s actually heard of the young man. Tipper, why didn’t you tell me he is a promising artist?”

Gladyme came into the room with a plate of scrambled eggs, muffins, and sliced fruit.

“Here you are, Lady Peg. I’m sorry there’s no cream for your brew this morning. The cow’s gone off with thieves during the night.”

Lady Peg picked up her fork and nodded as she gazed with delight at her meal. “Oh, this looks delicious, Gladyme. Never mind the cow. She was a most contrary creature without a lick of sense.”

Tipper couldn’t keep her face from twisting into a grimace. They needed the cow. Milk, cheese, cream, butter. What would they do without Helen, the crotchety brown cow? Where had the barn dragon been? She turned her look of dismay to her parrot friend.

Beccaroon leveled a beady eye at the housekeeper. “Thieves?”

“Yes, Sir Beccaroon. Lipphil’s out looking for clues at this very moment. Tracks or an open gate is what he expects to find.”

Beccaroon hopped down from his chair. “Excuse me, ladies. I shall go investigate.”

Lady Peg smiled his way. “Thank you, dear friend. It is so nice to have someone around who takes charge and investigates. Investigating is not Verrin Schope’s strongest pursuit. Research, yes. Creating, yes. Inventing, yes. But investigating domestic irregularities rarely interests him.” She took a bite of melon. “Having the local magistrate at breakfast on the day the cow takes off is most convenient.”

“Yes, Madam.” Beccaroon bowed. “I shall report back when I have something to tell.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” said Lady Peg. She smiled as a thought came to her. “Perhaps you should tell Tipper.”

Beccaroon passed through the door to the veranda. “Certainly, Lady Peg. As you wish.”

Gladyme poured tea into her ladyship’s cup, then removed the parrot’s plate and bowl. She bustled out the door to the kitchen.

“Now tell me, Tipper,” said Lady Peg, “why you are so gloomy. I see the trace of a tear on your cheek. Your father will be in here in a flash if I tell him his darling girl is unhappy.”

“Mother, Papa never comes in a flash. I’ve been unhappy for years.”

“My goodness, I think that must be an exaggeration. Years? I would have noticed, dear one. And your father would have noticed for sure. He is much more perceptive about emotions and problems and impending doom than I am.”

Tipper felt fresh tears push from behind her eyes. She batted her eyelashes quickly to force them back. If only she, too, had a pretend relationship with her father, she would dump all her troubles on him and let them disappear. But Tipper was obliged to live in reality.

“Mother, you didn’t tell Bealomondore that Papa wanted to see him this evening, did you?”

“Tonight, not this evening. Your father will still be working in the evening.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Who?”

“Bealomondore.”

“What?”

“That Papa wants to see him.”

“Now what would be the point in telling him? The man is leaving, so of course he cannot meet with your father. Tipper, honestly, sometimes your logic runs around chasing rabbit tails.”

“Rabbit trails.”

“Your own tail, like a dog. Where are the dragons this morning?”

“Sunning themselves.”

“A good occupation. Keeps them out of trouble. If they aren’t moving, they can’t be into mischief.” Lady Peg dropped her hands to the table, a knife loaded with butter in one and a muffin in the other. “Tipper! Were you crying over Master Bealomondore’s departure? This will not do, you know.”

She didn’t give Tipper a chance to answer but continued while waving the buttery knife. “I don’t know any of the Bealomondores, and though your father seemed acquainted with the family, this young man did not have the courtesy to delay his departure long enough to speak with your father. And if he wants to court you,” she said, gesturing wildly with the knife, “he must speak to Verrin Schope. It is only right.”

A blob of butter sailed from the tip of Lady Peg’s knife and landed on the tablecloth beside Tipper’s plate.

“He didn’t want to court me, Mother.”

“Good. I’m leaving this afternoon to visit my sister. The picture you gave me last night is lovely. Your father liked it too, though he said he didn’t paint it. He did make me a box to transport it in.” She sighed, picked up her napkin, and dabbed the corner of her mouth.

“We couldn’t have Bealomondore hanging around, trying to win your affections without a proper chaperon, and your father certainly isn’t that.”

As she wiped up the dab of butter, Tipper spent a moment wondering how her mother had acquired a box. Had Lipphil made it? Had she found an old one in the studio? She bit back these questions and presented one that might possibly elicit a straight answer. “Mother, how did you know that Bealomondore is a promising artist?”

“You must attend more carefully when you are spoken to, Tipper. Your father told me.”

“He did?” Tipper’s eyes narrowed as she thought. Gladyme and Lipphil would not have mentioned the tumanhofer’s talent. Rolan and Zilla wouldn’t have either. Sometimes her mother baffled her.

Obviously unaware of her daughter’s confusion, Peg sipped her tea. “Yes, your father expressed his good opinion in no uncertain terms. And, of course, Bealomondore did do an excellent rendition of the fountain and the flowers around it. But if you correspond with your suitor, my dear, urge him to develop his own style instead of copying your father’s.”

“He is not my suitor, Mother.”

“The tumanhofer may not suit you, dear one, and I can’t say I blame you. There was that bit of nonsense about the furniture, but you must be open to the idea of someday accepting some man as your bemused.”

“Betrothed.”

“Generally when a man falls head over heels in love, he is befuddled. A more polite way of saying that is bemused. Befuddled implies a simpleton, and I don’t think your father would allow marriage to a simpleton. Not that simpletons can’t be rather nice. But he would rather announce your befuddlement to a man with a bit of brains.”

“Engagement.”

“Oh, I do hope you don’t have a day filled with engagements. I need you to help me get ready to depart.”

Tipper pushed back her chair and rose. “I’ll help you, Mother.”

“That’s nice, Tipper. But let’s postpone that until after we pack. I really don’t have time to dally today. I’m going on a trip.”

6
Dreams?

Tipper sat on a stone bench, let her slippers fall from her sore feet, and wiggled her toes. She sniffed the soothing fragrance of the giant pordimum blooms. Evening always brought out the perfumes in the garden.

Given the lazy atmosphere, she had to fight the urge to stretch out on the bench and close her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever being so tired. She did recall the last time she sat for more than one minute. It had been at breakfast when her mother announced her intention to depart that very day.

Beccaroon perched on the edge of the fountain, eying the gold, ruby, and sapphire fish swimming in the circular pool.

Tipper gazed at him fondly, knowing the swishglimmers were safe. Her friend would never stoop to snatching an ornamental fish for a snack.

Overwhelming fatigue banished the urge to get up and fling her arms around the big bird. She loved him, but he didn’t like displays of affection, and her body ached from running hither and yon for her mother, lifting and carrying and sorting. She was also weary of holding her tongue. It did no good to argue with Mother, just as it did no good to argue with Bec.

She frowned, considering all the fuss they had gone through today because of her mother’s odd disposition. Lady Peg had once been Princess Peg. She’d been banished from the royal city, and Tipper secretly believed the action had been for the good of the country.

Sir Beccaroon, on the other hand, had the personality for leadership. Tipper remembered why she had sought him out. He’d taken many burdens off her shoulders that day.

“Thank you for all your help,” she said.

He turned his head until he almost faced backward. He nodded in her direction. “You’re welcome.”

“And thank you for arranging the use of Lord Pinterbastian’s carriage, horses, and servants to tend to Mother on her journey.”

“You’re welcome again, and no need to go into all the other incidentals I arranged today. You know I enjoy a list of things to do and the satisfaction of getting them done.”

“Did you find out anything about our cow?”

“Helen is back in her stall.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How ever did you manage that?”

“I didn’t really.” He turned to face her. His elegant tail dipped into the water. A throaty growl revealed his displeasure. He raised the feathers, shook a fine spray of droplets back into the small pool, and flew the short distance to her bench.

Tipper leaned against him. “How did we get our cow back?”

“When I went looking for your mother yesterday, I noticed a camp of unfamiliar people. This morning I sent several rangers to keep watch over them. Your dragon Trisoda was already there, chittering and scolding from a safe distance at the top of a tree. The men found the tiny beast’s clamor quite amusing until the rangers showed up. The louts were arrested, and Trisoda coaxed Helen home.”

“I should tell him thank you.”

“Trisoda?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’d understand you?”

“Sometimes I think the domesticated dragons do understand us.”

Beccaroon chortled.

Tipper sat up and scowled at her friend. “Really, Bec. Sometimes I think they would speak if they could—that words are formed in their minds but there’s no way for them to vocalize.” She clasped her hands in her lap to keep from shaking a finger at her friend. “Zabeth, in particular, has a very expressive face, and she often reacts to what I say.”