The Crimson Shard

by Teresa Flavin

  Taking care not to wake anyone, the traveler crept back into the house, shielding his candle.

  In the scullery, he rinsed the last traces of blood from his hands and dried them on a cloth. He felt for the leather sheath sewn into his tunic and slid out a flat shard of red flint, smoothed and sharpened to a point at one end and carved into an animal’s head at the other.

  He examined it closely. The crimson hue grew darker at its point. Every time the stone shard cut into flesh, the tip’s red color became darker.

  He picked up a piece of lye soap and a rough cloth and began to wipe clean the shard. As he worked, the face of the dead alchemist, Peregrin, edged into his mind. He scrubbed harder and cursed his associate for being so reckless with the lethal substances in his laboratory. If Peregrin had taken more care, he would still be alive and producing the miraculous elixir.

  The traveler seethed, knowing he could no longer make unlimited use of the elixir’s astonishing powers; with so little left, there would not be many more crossings into other centuries. He must make the most of the few opportunities he had left to obtain the information he needed to track down Fausto Corvo.

  When he was satisfied that the dark stain had faded, he returned the shard to the hiding place in his waistcoat and, stealthy as a cat, climbed upstairs to his study. He ran his eyes over the bookshelves, then glanced at the door in the far wall, its frame crowned with two carved faces.

  Content that nothing had been disturbed in his sanctuary, he settled himself at his desk, dipped a pen in black ink, and, on the first page of a notebook bound in red morocco leather, scrawled two names:

  SUNNIVA FORREST BLAISE DORAN

  They were only children, and twenty-first-century ones at that, but they had the knowledge he needed. And destiny had just brought them to London.

  Whatever it takes, he thought, patting the shard through his waistcoat. Whatever it takes.

  Sunni raised her face to catch the sun and wished she were lying on the grass in Hyde Park instead of hanging around in Phoenix Square while her friend Blaise tried to decipher a map scrawled on a paper napkin.

  A distant siren wailed, and something clicked in Sunni’s head.

  “It’s so quiet here,” she said. “Like someone closed a window on the rest of the world.”

  “Mmm,” Blaise mumbled, turning the napkin upside down. “Okay, I’ve got it now. It’s that house over there with the blue plaque on it.”

  “So, you still want to see this place?” Sunni sighed as Blaise stuffed the napkin in his pocket.

  “No, I’ve made us come all this way for nothing.” He had that look of bright intent that he always got when his mind was set on something. “What’s the matter — don’t you want to see it?”

  “I don’t know. Just because some weird beardy bloke in a café says it’s a cool place doesn’t mean it is.”

  “It sounds cool to me,” Blaise said. “I thought you’d want to check it out, too.”

  “It’s just that it’s bound to be full of sheeplike tourists, just like all the other museums in London,” she said.

  “That’s what we are — tourists. And by the way, I am not sheeplike.”

  “No, you’re more doglike, with a bone that you just won’t give up,” Sunni said. “I’m fed up with museums, Blaise. We’ve seen tons since we arrived. If I have to look at another china shepherdess or Roman mosaic, I will curl up and die.” She stopped walking. “Let’s hang out in a park for a change. We’ve only got a few hours till we meet your dad — and it’s our last day in London!”

  “If you don’t want to come in, go sit in that park over there,” he said, nodding at the fenced-in scrap of grass and elm trees in the middle of the square. “I’ll meet you afterward.”

  A jolt of irritation coursed through Sunni. “No, I’ll come along,” she said. “Unless you want to go by yourself.”

  “Of course I want you to come! Why are you making such a big deal about this?”

  “I’m not making a big deal.”

  “Yes, you are.” Blaise gave a gentle tug on her ponytail. “Hey. You look like a celebrity with those sunglasses on. Trying to hide from all your fans?”

  “Yeah, right. Can we get this over with? Which house is it?”

  “This one.” Blaise stopped in front of number 36. “And look, no lines of sheep trying to get in.”

  “Except us. Baa!” Sunni bleated like a sheep, and Blaise laughed.

  “Look,” he said. “We’ll go wherever you want after this. I just want to check it out.”

  He stepped up to the red door, which had columns on each side and an arch above it. In the middle of the door was a bronze head with a ring-shaped doorknocker in its mouth.

  “Now we’ll see if the guy in the café sent us on a wild-goose chase or not.” Blaise rapped the doorknocker.

  “Yeah,” said Sunni. “I wouldn’t put it past —”

  She stopped in mid-sentence as an outlandish figure pulled the heavy door partway open. The man wore breeches and a red silk vest, topped with a long dark overcoat. His extravagant cravat was as white as his powdered wig.

  “Good afternoon,” said the man in a light but resonant voice with a slight foreign accent. He had languid, heavy-lidded eyes and a nose that had been broken at least once. But the uneven angles of his face did not diminish his handsomeness — they made him all the more striking.

  “Is this Starling House?” asked Blaise.

  “Yes. Have you an appointment?”

  Blaise’s shoulders slumped. “Appointment? No, we didn’t know we needed one.”

  “One usually makes an appointment to see the house.” The man consulted a leather-bound book on a side table. “But today it is not a problem. We will find the time for you.”

  “Okay . . . thanks.”

  The man swept the door fully open and ushered them into the hall.

  They both stopped short, gaping. It was as if someone had peeled away the walls and ceilings to reveal an unspoiled landscape that had existed there before houses were ever built — a 360-degree panorama of rolling hills, trees, and pastures below a canopy of light blue sky.

  “This is all painted, Blaise,” Sunni said, inspecting the wall. “You can hardly tell it’s not real.”

  The man looked at them with polite amusement, as if he had heard comments like this a hundred times before. “Yes. It takes a few moments to remember you are in a house, not in the countryside.”

  Even the staircase continued the illusion, decorated with painted sky, clouds, and flocks of birds all the way up the stairwell.

  “Whoa!” said Blaise, teetering backward. He crouched down and touched a brightly colored spot on the floor. “I almost stepped on that, whatever it is. Wait, it’s a ladybug. Not a real one, a painted one.”

  Sunni knelt down beside him. “Look, there’s another one over here.”

  “Who made all this?” Blaise found a painted spiderweb almost hidden in a corner.

  “I will explain in a moment,” said the man.

  “Are you an actor?”

  “An actor? No. This house was built in 1753, so we wear period costume to enrich the visitor’s experience.”

  “Cool,” said Blaise.

  “My name is Throgmorton. I conduct tours here.” The man slid an enameled watch from his vest and studied it. “We shall begin in a moment. Please wait here.”

  Throgmorton closed his watchcase and disappeared down a staircase. He returned with two pairs of oversize felt slippers and handed them each a set.

  “Put these on, please,” he said. “Over your footwear.”

  Tittering under their breath, Sunni and Blaise slipped them over their sandals, the felt tickling their bare toes. Sunni was about to do a quick moonwalk whe
n she caught Blaise staring at something behind her. The blissful look in his eyes alarmed her somehow, and she whirled around to see what he was looking at.

  A girl stood motionless near the top of the stairs. It was as if she were floating in the blue expanse, held up by a few clouds.

  She was dressed in a billowing silver gown, and her pale blond hair was pulled up into an elaborate arrangement of knots and twists. Without a word, she gathered up her skirts and glided down the stairs, like a goddess descending from the heavens to join the mere mortals on earth.

  The girl was smiling at him. At him! And she was gorgeous.

  Throgmorton was saying something, but Blaise was lost in her jade-and-ocean eyes.

  The girl giggled.

  “Blaise!” Sunni was trying to catch his attention. “Will you get a grip?”

  “What? I’m listening.”

  She glared at him. “At last.”

  “Are you ready?” Throgmorton repeated.

  “Sorry,” said Sunni. “We are ready. Really.”

  “Then we shall begin. My daughter, Livia, and I will show you the house. No cameras or recording devices, please. Please do not touch the walls, and do not eat or drink while you are here.”

  “Am I allowed to draw?” Blaise tapped his sketchbook, casting a sidelong glance at Livia to see if she was impressed.

  A flicker of interest lit Throgmorton’s impassive face, and his daughter smiled her approval of this idea. “You may draw, yes, if it does not take too long. And we will be interested to see what you make.”

  Blaise stuck his pencil behind one ear and opened his sketchbook to a fresh page.

  “We’ll never get to the park now,” Sunni muttered.

  Throgmorton bowed deeply. “Welcome to our tour of Starling House. This was the home and workshop of the artist Jeremiah Starling. He was born in 1723 and died in 1791, an eccentric who did not always fit into the art establishment of his time. But today we recognize him as the genius he was. This house was his canvas. Every room is filled with surprises and little visual jokes, like the ladybugs on the floor.”

  He herded them into the front room on the ground floor. “The dining room.”

  A huge tiled fireplace and mantelpiece overlooked an oval table and wooden chairs. In alcoves on either side of the fireplace were sideboards laden with crockery and candlesticks. Tall cake stands of sweets and confectionery rose up into the alcoves like fruit trees ready for harvest. Portraits of gentlemen and ladies gazed from the walls. A birdcage in one corner contained a brightly plumed parrot, and in another corner a cat was curled up behind a chair draped with a Turkish carpet.

  “As you can see,” said Throgmorton, with a knowing look, as if he were playing a familiar game, “this room contains only a table and chairs.”

  Sunni peered at the alcoves and realized that not only were they painted, but so were all the fruits, plates, and candlesticks.

  “It’s an illusion. This wall is completely flat,” she said. “There’s no recess here at all. It just looks like one.”

  “And the portraits were done straight onto the wall. The frames, too,” said Blaise, his pencil flying across his sketchbook. “And that birdcage.”

  “This is what the French called trompe l’oeil,” said Throgmorton. “It means ‘fool the eye.’ Starling went out of his way to trick and entertain the viewer with his paintings.”

  “Trump loy,” repeated Blaise, his best attempt at a French accent still sounding American. “I’ve heard of that before. . . .”

  “Aw, Blaise, come look at the cat,” said Sunni, kneeling down to see the painted tabby close up.

  But Blaise did not move. Livia was standing close behind him, her gown brushing against his leg.

  “Your hand is so quick,” she said. She had a melodious accent that was hard to place.

  “Th-thank you,” he stammered. It was wonderful and yet awful, having her watch him draw. He dreaded making a mistake or smudging something.

  “Where are you from?” asked the girl.

  “A town called Braeside in Scotland. Well, Sunni’s from there — I’m not, I just live there.” Blaise was sure he was babbling, but he couldn’t stop. “I’m American. My dad is, too. He’s a professor and he had to go to a conference in London, so we came with him for the weekend — well, three days, actually, because we got Friday off from school —”

  “Do you wear that same dress on every tour, Livia?” Sunni interrupted, still studying the cat. “You must be roasting hot in it.”

  “I have many dresses.” Livia did not take her eyes off Blaise. “And I always feel fresh.”

  “Really? Is it true people didn’t wash much in the olden days?”

  Blaise stopped drawing. “We’re not in the olden days, Sunni.”

  “I was just wondering, that’s all.” Sunni shrugged.

  “Continue drawing, please,” Livia said. “It’s almost finished!”

  Blaise made a few more marks on the sketch and held it out at arm’s length. Livia clapped her hands.

  “Bravo!” said Throgmorton. “You are very composed under scrutiny. That is an admirable quality in a young man. Let us see how you do in the next room.”

  Sunni came over to look at Blaise’s sketch.

  “Let’s see it,” she said, her hand out, but Livia had already begun guiding Blaise toward the hall, murmuring, “I love artists.”

  “I’m not an artist yet. But I want to be one,” Blaise said.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Blaise.”

  “Like the blaze of fire,” said Livia. “You have a very powerful name.”

  Powerful! Blaise walked a bit taller.

  “Watch out you don’t combust.” Sunni folded her sunglasses with a sharp snap and shoved them into her bag. “His name is spelled B-L-A-I-S-E, and it’s got nothing to do with fire.”

  Livia stopped short, and Sunni tripped against her.

  “I am sorry,” said Livia, turning to her with wide eyes. “I did not notice you there.”

  “No problem.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Sunni.”

  “Ah, like the weather.” Livia tilted her head in a most winsome way.

  “No, it’s Sunniva, actually, after a Norwegian saint.”

  Livia let out another “Ah,” and turned back to Blaise. “You will adore this,” she said, steering him toward a back room.

  Sunni slid after them in her felt slippers, stone-faced.

  Throgmorton was already in the room, holding a worn book in his hand. Sunlight filtered in from the solitary window onto walls lined from ceiling to floor with shelves, each tightly packed with books.

  “The library,” said Throgmorton, closing his book. “Would you care to count the number of books in this room?”

  Sunni met his eye. “One,” she said. “It’s in your hand.”

  “Correct,” he said with a smile. “You begin to understand. All the books are painted onto the walls, except for this one.”

  “Didn’t Jeremiah Starling own any books?” asked Sunni. “Or any plates to eat from? Or real candlesticks?”

  “Yes, but most of them are gone now.” Throgmorton flicked a dead fly from papers strewn on a desk. They did not rustle or shift, painted as they were on the wooden surface. “Sold or passed on.”

  He raised his eyebrows at his daughter and beckoned toward Blaise, who was at work on a new sketch.

  “Blaise,” breathed Livia, “may my father look at your sketchbook, please?” Before he had time to object, she drew it away from him.

  “Uh, sure.” Blaise held his pencil in midair for a moment.

  Throgmorton leafed through the sketchbook, his lips pursed. Livia hung on his arm, pointing out things she liked. A smile blossomed on Throgmorton’s face, growing as he moved on to the next page, and the next. He stopped at one drawing and tensed with concentration, but just as Blaise was wondering what had caught his attention, their guide gestured to him.
/>   “You make beautiful drawings,” said Throgmorton, handing the sketchbook back. “And your hand is swift. I am very impressed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you take this sketchbook with you wherever you go?”

  “Yes. I draw pretty much everywhere.”

  “Everywhere,” Throgmorton repeated. “And everything.”

  “And from memory,” said Blaise, watching Livia stroke a platinum curl into place. “When I have to.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Sunni frowning. What’s her problem now?

  “To the second floor, please,” said Throgmorton. He led Blaise through the hall and up the staircase, high into the painted sky, followed by Livia, who hoisted her gown to climb and revealed delicate slippers with suede soles. Sunni was last.

  Upstairs, the grand sitting room was decorated from floor to ceiling with ornate pillars, marble busts tucked away in arched recesses, and grinning cherubs, all painted to look three-dimensional. The floor was a complex grid of colored geometric tiles. There were a few good-quality chairs and a table set with a real china teapot and cups.

  Livia glided over to the fireplace and gazed up at a cherub. “This is my favorite room.”

  “I don’t like it as much as the others,” said Sunni.

  Livia’s smile did not slip. “Why not?”

  “It’s cold. As if no one is ever allowed in because they might leave a speck of dirt somewhere.”

  “I do not see anything wrong in having a beautiful, clean room,” said Livia with a tinkling laugh. “You prefer a dirty one?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant —”

  Livia suddenly approached Blaise and tapped him playfully on the elbow. “I caught you! Father, look, Blaise is drawing me!”

  “Well, you were standing still. . . .” Blaise blushed to the roots of his floppy dark hair, but it was just as much with pleasure as embarrassment.

  Sunni’s lip curled as she watched Livia dance away with the sketchbook again and thrust it under her father’s nose.

  Throgmorton glanced at the sketch and said, “No one could do justice to my lovely Livia. But it is a good start. Shall we continue the tour?”

  “I’ll put the sketchbook away if I’m going too slow,” said Blaise.