A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  She shouldn’t open it. It was safer in the crate; she’d just have to crate it again for the move.

  “Oh, Lucius!” Annoying tears splashed and she choked on a sob. Finding a hammer and screwdriver under the kitchen sink, she worked on opening the crate, wanting to see it.

  It took forever with the inadequate tools, but at last the worthless painting leaned against the wall in its valuable frame, the golden and twisted larks spelling out her decision: I hid my love.

  Blurry and headachy still, she entered the bathroom for tissue and painkillers, tears dripping into the sink as she bent over the vanity. Hands clenched the edges until the physical pain of that action sliced through the emotional torment, and she raised a hand to see that she had actually cut herself on the cheap, unfinished pressboard.

  Sniffing, she carefully washed the cut and slapped a bandage on it. Pulling herself together, she hauled in a deep, gasping breath and straightened her shoulders. She had done the best thing by Lucius. No point in crying over doing the right thing.

  Still, she stumbled under the weight of her choices as she re-entered the main room, bumping the painting’s frame. Leaning precariously as it rested on a bit of the disassembled crate, it toppled face first with a resounding crash, the protest of splintering wood adding its own sound effect to the disaster. Callie gasped, horrified over what she had done, and bent to lift the painting to check for damage to the canvas.

  The painting was fine. The gilded frame however, its wood old and dry, came apart, and a stream of curses flowed from her lips. Removing the remnants from the canvas, she blew a bit of dust from the edge and stroked fingers around the perimeter, ensuring that no bits remained that might scratch the painting. A corner of the canvas lifted and curled inward, separating from the backing frame that stretched it.

  “Oh, god,” she breathed, biting her lip. And then she stared.

  ***

  Lucius tossed an almost affectionate glance at the ravens and their disgusting lunch as he settled behind his desk. Once, he had hated the painting and all it represented—the family, the responsibility, the trammelling of his dreams.

  Now, picking up the reins of power at Falcontor as Gramps stepped down, with the family selling off the bulk of Neville’s loot and that ridiculous estate, with some of those idle cousins actually finding useful tasks—like jobs—to occupy their time, the ravens meant something else, so much so he brought them with him from FalTech.

  They meant Callie. They meant his time with her, his adventure with her, the taming of the family with her. Listening to her, learning about her, loving her.

  He missed her. He hated her half the time, almost, for turning down the future he offered. No good explanation, just bittersweet calm with a hint of surprise. That she loved him, there was not much doubt in the Ransome circle. He wasn’t quite so sure about that, but one thing was certain. She was frightened of the risks in an insurmountable way. So there was nothing to do about it.

  Now, largely thanks to her—okay, entirely to her—his life was in order. It wasn’t what he had envisioned, what he wanted just before he met her and gave her the HRF project, but it was good. Holding onto controlling interest in LCR, he passed the reins to his executive team. He now had Falcontor to run, challenges enough, and the time to meet them.

  He heaved a breath and gathered his thoughts, shoving the memory of Callie to the side as Dana knocked lightly and entered, taking a chair in front of his desk. “Ready, boss?” she asked.

  “Let’s do it.” And they spent the next hour going over what needed to be done. Some of it dealt with moving FalTech to Falcontor Tower—the first of the subs to move, as it was the largest—and since details of the move were being handled by the incomparable Callie Dahl (though he and Dana referred to her merely as ‘FalTech’s GM’), he got somewhat distracted thinking of how often he might see her once the move was complete.

  You’ll see her in the lobby, coming in early. Bump into her in the elevator . . .

  But he’d have to deal with that, somehow. Eventually, as with all things, he’d get used to it.

  The phone rang, and Dana picked up the extension on the table next to her. Raising her eyebrows, she placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “Someone here to see you. Urgently.”

  He grunted, eying the agenda before him. “Urgently, huh? Who?”

  “Callie Dahl.”

  The pen in his fingers fell to the desk blotter with a thud. He wasn’t prepared to hear that name.

  “I’ll have Joan tell her you’re too busy today,” she said. “Book an appointment for next week?”

  She had already started doing so when he managed to speak. “No. I’ll see her. Tell Joan to have her wait until we’re done, hm?”

  With a shrug and a nod, Dana obeyed, conveying the information. Replacing the receiver, she smiled encouragingly at him. “You okay, Lucius?”

  “Yes.” He sucked in a breath, finding his lungs starved for oxygen. “I wasn’t expecting her.”

  “I didn’t realise . . .” her voice trailed off.

  “Realise what?” he asked absently, still trying to organise his thoughts.

  “That you were in love with her. I thought it was a fling. And I suppose I worried about you, after the James and Anita fiasco. So I wasn’t always nice to her.”

  “I doubt she noticed. She is very . . . blinkered, when it comes to herself.” He looked to the ravens again. “We’re done here. Send her in exactly two minutes after you get out there, okay?”

  “Sure.” She stood up, eying him slyly. “Did you tell her you love her?”

  “Enough personal stuff from my assistant for one day.”

  “Did you?” she insisted.

  “No. ”

  “You should tell her,” she retorted as she headed for the door.

  Ignoring that, “Two minutes, Dana,” he said with cold calm as the door closed behind her.

  In no way could he show Callie how much she had hurt him. It wasn’t her fault, and he had more than enough pride left to want it left intact. How to treat her . . . throttling her was probably demonstrative of something other than the casual affection a sophisticated man would have for a former lover who now should bore him. Kneeling at her feet and begging for her attention was likely inappropriate, too. He couldn’t be cold to her, for she deserved better, and he didn’t want to risk hurting her either. Though that asinine crack about the maid service wasn’t his best moment.

  His forehead hit the desk with a thud.

  Hell. Whatever happened, hopefully it would be over soon.

  ***

  The outer office door opened and Dana emerged, speaking to the executive secretary in a low voice; Callie offered a slight smile of greeting. To her astonishment, Dana smiled widely in return.

  The woman approached her, holding out both hands. “Callie, good to see you.”

  Callie rose with her companion, allowing Dana to grasp her free hand. “Good to see you, too.”

  Looking to the man with her, “And this is . . .?”

  She introduced them as Dana escorted them into her office.

  “Lucius is just finishing a call,” Dana said. “Do you need help with that?” she asked the man lugging the thickly wrapped painting.

  “I’m good,” he replied protectively.

  “I’m glad you came to Falcontor with Lucius,” she said quickly before Dana could give voice to the curiosity reflected in her expression. “I know he admires you greatly. Always said he couldn’t get through the day without your help.”

  Dana smiled, glancing at her watch and indicating the adjoining door. “He’s expecting only you, but I suppose it’s all right. You can go in now.”

  “Thanks.” Steeling herself to see again the man she would have, and practically had, sacrificed everything for, Callie led the way.

  Lucius stood behind his desk, smiling at her as he walked around. “Callie Dahl. To what do I owe the honour?” He sounded genuinely pleased to see her.

  �
��Lucius.” No quaver, thank goodness, so she said his name again. “Lucius, thank you for seeing us. This is Josh Harrison, from Harrison & Co. I’ve mentioned him before.”

  He was all accommodating charm as he invited them to sit, not shaking hands with Josh as Josh was clutching the painting. But it didn’t seem to matter, as he kept his glittery blue eyes on her.

  “How is everything, Cal? Mom told me the family descended on you en masse last week.”

  “They did. They brought me the larks as a gift.” She sank into a deep chair in the lounge area and Lucius took a seat on one of the sofas, at the end nearest her.

  “You look great,” he grinned. “How are things at FalTech? Rachel and Ken still—?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Making idiots of themselves?”

  “Good, good. Yes, they are.” Oh, how she missed the heat of desire that used to be in those eyes! Now he was just . . . warm. Friendly. “Look, I’m here about the larks.”

  His smile grew indulgent. “Cal, you can’t return them. It. Whatever. It’s yours. The entire family voted that you should have one of the Birds since you had decoded them, and I chose that one when they asked which I thought you’d prefer. I was sure it was your favourite.”

  “It was. Is. But about the larks—”

  “Dad said you mentioned moving soon. Have you found your perfect box in the sky?”

  “Yes. About the larks—”

  “Congratulations! I knew Jane would come through for you.”

  “Yes, she was great. About the—”

  “Have you made an offer—?”

  “Would you please shut the hell up and listen to me?” she snapped.

  As the words hit the air and died into silence, Josh indicated the ravens, “Is this another one?”

  “Yes,” Callie muttered. “Josh, sit down and never mind that right now. One thing at a time.”

  Lucius stared at her, amused and put out all at once.

  “Sorry,” she hastily said.

  “I’d accept your apology, but I’m not allowed to speak,” he retorted.

  “Just listen. I broke the larks. Not the larks, really, but the frame. And I found something.”

  “What? Dust?” He chuckled. “A love poem to Mina?”

  “Sort of.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “The HRF.”

  The muscles in Lucius’ face tightened, his smile fading, and she gleaned something resembling pain in the tension. “I thought we were done. With that,” he added as a quiet afterthought.

  “So did I.” She quelled the urge to touch him, assure him it was not going to start again, but finish, really finish, for good. “I found a painting underneath.”

  “You already checked that out,” he said coldly.

  “Not underneath the paint. Underneath the canvas. A second canvas. Show him, Josh.”

  Josh unwrapped the painting, and propped it up on the matching sofa across from Lucius. Startling blues and greens and golds of a garden scene faced the room, dazzlingly bright.

  “That’s . . . that looks like a . . .” Lucius’ whisper was stunned. His eyes went to the signature.

  “Yep,” Josh said cheerfully. “It’s a Monet. Unknown. Maybe 1870s, possibly done while in London during the Franco-Prussian war. He wasn’t there long, a few months, and then to the Netherlands, but . . .” Josh shrugged. “It’s definitely early, but not as early as the 1860s. You can see the English school influences; Turner and the like, but the style is not like the others he did London. Colours are wrong, for one. In perfect condition, having been protected by the other canvas since—what did you figure, Cal? Nineteen-eleven or -twelve? Anyway, it looks like he painted it yesterday. It’s fantastic.”

  She tore her eyes from the painting. “Lucius?” she prompted.

  He stood, his gaze fixed on the Monet. “You’re sure, Harrison?” he asked tightly.

  “Sure it’s an original Monet? Yes. Absolutely sure of the date? No. It’s value—hard to say. Millions, easily.” He shrugged. “Lots of them. Once authenticated and provenance is confirmed. I recommend Delaney & Co. for your authenticator. Right here in Toronto.”

  The column of Lucius throat flexed as he swallowed.

  “Neville loved Mina so much, Lucius,” Callie ventured. “I’m guessing he bought the painting for her, and hid it underneath that twisted bit of poetry, unable to part with it after she died, unable to look at it.” She cleared her throat when he didn’t respond. “Just a theory, of course, but—”

  He raised the flat of his hand in her direction, silencing her, still not looking at her. “Damned HRF,” he muttered thickly. To Josh, “There may be more.”

  Josh flicked a smiling glance not entirely void of avarice at Callie, and jerked his chin at the Pike. “The crows?”

  “Ravens,” she and Lucius corrected in unison, and between them flared a hot stab of memory of where they had begun and the realisation that the circle had closed in this moment, where it was really, finally, ending.

  “Shall we?” Josh the Oblivious suggested. “Cal, you brought your camera, right? We’ll film it, like we did the Monet. Brilliant idea, that.”

  She set up the camera on a mini-tripod on Lucius’ desk and indicated filming had started; the men took down the painting, laying it on the conference table. She handed Josh the case of tools she had carried for him. Still draped over her shoulder was the plastic carrying tube she had also brought along, intent on returning all Ransome property. Setting the tube on the sofa next to the Monet, she joined Lucius where he stood, frowning deeply, his astonished focus flickering between what the larks had revealed and the dismantling of the ravens’ frame.

  “The larks,” she said quietly, gesturing to the tube. “I can’t keep them. They belong together, those paintings. Like Neville and Mina, you know? And the story of them. And the semaphore messages. All of it.”

  He stared blankly at her for a moment. And in a strange voice, he asked, “So, did you actually buy a place or just look?”

  She understood the struggle for the mundane in this charged atmosphere. “I bought. South Riverdale.”

  Eyebrows shot up. “What made you move ahead with it? Feeling safer these days since Leon stopped asking for money?” A hint of thunder crossed his features. “He hasn’t been bothering you again, has he?”

  Her lashes fell briefly as she reined in the urge to simultaneously splutter her horrified thanks and smack him upside the head for that interference. “No, he’s not asked for anything. But that wasn’t why I decided to buy. I—well, the time felt right. Like you said once, that sometimes it’s worth it. And I figured, what’s the worst that can happen?” She laughed shakily. “It’s freaking me out, thinking of all the ‘worsts!’ But I’m doing it.”

  If anything, he appeared even more astounded than when shown the Monet, but now his attention was solely on her.

  “I think it had something to do with looking up my grandparents, too,” she said. “That was scarier. After that, buying a home was easy. Well, easier. But you were right. They are pretty jazzed to reconnect. And now I have a regular spot to have a home-cooked Sunday dinner.”

  “Incredible.” Luminescent again, his eyes held hers. His hand brushed hers. “Doll—”

  “Lucius, can I get a hand?” Josh asked just then.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered her very bossily, so absolutely recovering his old self it made her aware something subtle in him had been missing.

  She slipped out of the office a few minutes later; unnoticed, she assumed.

  But Lucius did notice; he just smiled and made plans.

  ***

  Not three days had passed before Dana phoned her with orders to appear that Saturday morning at Gordon Ransome’s home, promptly at nine a.m., for a very important Ransome Family meeting. She tried to decline, but Dana wasn’t having it, scolding her for keeping the Ransomes from sharing the excitement with the person they felt solely responsible. Hospitalisation or death were the only acceptable excuses for noncompli
ance. Callie contemplated both outs.

  But Saturday came, and she went, prepared to finally apologise for how harshly she had spoken to them all. They needed the scolding, but it had not been her place to deliver it. She arrived braced for the worst, greeting Bradley diffidently when he opened the front door to her.

  The man beamed at her; she was still processing his overt welcome when the shout went up that she had arrived, and the family welcomed her with open arms, quickly dragging her into a large reception room to view the HRF—or rather, now, just the RF.

  Aside from the larks’ Monet and a brief glimpse of the ravens’ secret, she hadn’t seen any of the other paintings, nor was even certain more had been found. She wasn’t prepared for the sheer impact of the revealed treasure.

  The family quieted as Gordon came to her, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm to walk her around the room to view the collection for the first time.

  The twenty-six paintings were set on easels, each of the Birds—remounted on new stretcher frames—beside their respective secret. Renoir, Van Gogh, Sisley, Seurat, Degas, Blue- and Rose-Period Picassos. Some less-valuable works, such as two Grimshaws, and far less valuable, such as an East—but monetary value was so unimportant. The collection, and the semi-tragic story behind it, had a value that couldn’t begin to be estimated—ironically adding, therefore, to the cash value of the collection as a whole.

  “Well done, sparky,” Gordon said softly, and kissed her cheek.

  “It was just an accident,” she protested.

  “But if we had found the hidden paintings without knowing the story of the Birds, it wouldn’t have meant as much. We owe you that at the very least.” He pressed her hand tightly. “And so much more, young lady. I owe you so much more.”

  “Are you enjoying retirement?” she smiled, thinking how rested and relaxed he seemed; how much happier with the family around him.

  “It’s different,” he grinned. “Now, when Lucius arrives, we’ll tell you all our plans over brunch.”

  She hadn’t seen Lucius since leaving his Falcontor office, moments after the ravens revealed their fin de siècle Renoir. “Oh. Oh, I can’t stay. I—”