The Crimson Shard

by Teresa Flavin

  “No!” Livia hugged it to her chest. “I want Blaise to finish my portrait.”

  “Now, now,” her father said. “We will see whether he has time. He may be obliged to hurry off somewhere else.”

  “You’re not hurrying off, are you, Blaise?” Livia asked. “Do you have time to finish my portrait?”

  “Sure. We’re not in a hurry.”

  “We need to get to Tottenham Court Road,” Sunni said. “Your dad said he’d be finished early today.”

  “But not yet,” said Blaise. “We’ve got tons of time.”

  Throgmorton’s face brightened, as if an idea had just come to him. “In that case, perhaps you would be interested in . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “Perhaps not.”

  “What, Father?” Livia held Blaise’s sketchbook close. “What were you going to say?”

  “Well, my dear, I was thinking of a visit to the Academy,” said Throgmorton.

  “Yes, yes, Blaise must see it! He wants to be an artist, and he will love the Academy.”

  Sunni jumped in to ask, “What is it?” but Livia ignored her.

  “Father,” Livia said, “I think Blaise should stay to see the Academy and finish my portrait.”

  “Should he?” Smiling, Throgmorton eased the sketchbook away from his daughter. “Then, of course, Blaise will stay.”

  “If you wish to see the Academy, that is,” Throgmorton said to Blaise, almost as an afterthought, handing back the sketchbook.

  “Uh, what’s the Academy?” Blaise finally found his voice.

  “An art school — but only for the best, the most talented pupils. The Academy teaches young people the secrets of the Old Masters. It is so exclusive, students are admitted by personal recommendation only.”

  “Really?”

  Sunni could see a familiar alertness come over Blaise, like a hunter sensing he was near an elusive treasure.

  “The Academy is not for everyone,” said Throgmorton. “It is only for those willing to work hard and learn from the Master.”

  “I’d love to go to a school like that,” Blaise said.

  “You are the sort of young man who would make an ideal student,” Throgmorton said. “The Master will be delighted to meet you.”

  “Right,” said Blaise, his eyes wide.

  “And we can discuss your drawings in depth,” Throgmorton said. “I have a number of thoughts about them, as will he.”

  “That would be so amazing.” Blaise beamed.

  Sunni waved her hand. “Hello? I’m here, too, you know, Blaise.”

  “Aw, sorry, Sunni,” he said quickly. “Sunni wants to be an artist, too. She’s excellent at drawing.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Throgmorton. “You have a sketchbook you can show us?”

  Sunni shook her head. “I didn’t bring it today.”

  “That is a pity.” Throgmorton shrugged and turned away.

  At that moment, Sunni wasn’t sure what made her more angry: this tour guide and his daughter treating her like she was smaller than Jeremiah Starling’s ladybugs or seeing Blaise’s soppy grin whenever Livia hurled herself at him in her flashy gown. Watching the way his eyes now followed Livia, with all her shining hair and slender grace, Sunni couldn’t blame him. But deep down inside, her feelings were buzzing around and around like an outraged wasp caught under a glass.

  As they left the grand sitting room, Sunni wanted to pull her slippers off and throw them. But she took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Throgmorton. Art means more to me than anything. I love to draw.”

  “But I think you only love to draw sometimes.” Throgmorton smiled. “When there is nothing more interesting to do.”

  “I know I don’t draw all the time, like Blaise does,” said Sunni, trying to keep her voice even. “He’s special that way. But it doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.”

  “True,” Throgmorton said. “But why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I’d like to see the Academy, too.”

  Throgmorton glanced at Sunni and then at Blaise.

  “Of course,” he said after a moment. “You are welcome to.”

  He hurriedly guided them through the small sitting room and two bedrooms on the third floor. Blaise put away his sketchbook to save time and hunted for all the painted illusions in each room, like the combs on a dressing table and the rack of long-stemmed pipes on a mantelpiece.

  They climbed up the last flight of stairs to the top of the house, winding around toward a small landing below a ceiling painted with blue sky and clouds. There were only two rooms on this floor. One was a small bedroom for servants, plainly decorated and of little interest.

  Throgmorton swept them into the other, larger room. “The Cabinet of Curiosities,” he announced. “Jeremiah Starling’s workshop.”

  Starling had made this room into an airy space with windows spilling light onto the wooden floors, neatly organized worktables, and chairs. There was another paneled door, similar to the one they’d come through, that looked as if it connected to the servants’ bedroom next door. But when Sunni got closer to it, she smiled to herself. Jeremiah Starling had managed to fool her again — the door was another trompe l’oeil painted onto the wall.

  The shelves and showcases that lined the workshop’s walls were filled with open drawers of artifacts and relics, leather albums and inlaid boxes. There were conch shells and cowries, pieces of amber, feathers and tiny skeletons. Stuffed birds stood on top of the cupboards, their glass eyes gazing into the distance.

  On every bit of available wall space hung small framed paintings of landscapes, animals, and people at their everyday business.

  Otherwise, the ceiling and walls were covered with neatly pinned animal specimens. Starfish, crabs, snakeskins, small sharks, dried scorpions, and lizards formed an orderly pattern over their heads. In the center, suspended upside down from the ceiling, was a large stuffed crocodile.

  But none were real. They were all painted, every last one.

  The only sunlight came from two small windows — the other four were illusions, delivering a bright sky that never changed, whatever the weather.

  “Look how Jeremiah Starling painted those dragonfly wings, Sunni,” Blaise said, examining a case of insects. “How long do you think it took him to do all those little facets?”

  “Hours and hours,” said Sunni. “I wonder which blue he used to get that blue-green.”

  “Cobalt maybe? Did they use cobalt back then? We’ll have to ask Mr. Bell when we get back to Braeside,” Blaise said, mentioning their favorite art teacher. “Boy, he’d love this house. . . .”

  “Blaise.” Livia seated herself on a chair and struck a demure attitude. “Work a bit more on my portrait.”

  All Sunni could think was how much Livia looked like a sickly sweet china figurine from some stuffy museum collection.

  Blaise whirled around. “That’s a great pose. How long can you hold it?”

  “As long as you wish.” Livia’s eyes flicked toward Sunni, who made a point of studying other painted specimens nearby while taking deep breaths to calm herself down.

  Suddenly her phone let off a loud burst of drums and guitars. Sunni dragged it out of her bag and answered in a low voice. It was her stepmom, Rhona, worrying about something and wanting to know exactly when Sunni would be back in Braeside the next day.

  Throgmorton loomed next to her. “Please take your device outdoors. This is a quiet house.” He guided her to the landing. “My apologies. I should have made that clear before.”

  “I have to go all the way outside?”

  “Yes, please.” Throgmorton rested both hands on the banister and waited there till she was downstairs.

  “Who were you talking to?” Rhona’s voice buzzed in her ear.

  “A tour guide in a museum. I have to go outside to talk on the phone.”

  “I’ve never heard that rule before — what museum are you in?”

  Sunni muttered, “You wouldn’t know it. And it doesn’
t matter anyway because we’re leaving soon. If I can tear Blaise away, that is.”

  “How is he?”

  “Fine.”

  “Is Mr. Doran with you?”

  “No, we’re meeting him in a while.” Sunni kicked off the felt slippers, opened the big main door, and wedged one in it so she could get back inside. She felt better as soon as the summer air touched her skin.

  “I don’t like you wandering around London alone,” said Rhona in a peevish voice.

  “I’m not alone, and I’m absolutely fine. Honestly, Rhona, I am fifteen now, you know.” She glanced up at the top floor of Starling House and sighed. “Mr. Doran trusts us, unlike you.”

  “That’s uncalled for, Sunni. You know very well why I’m concerned. After what happened in February . . .”

  “I know, I know. Sorry.” Sunni walked back and forth in front of the house, half noticing the blue plaque on the wall commemorating its famous resident, Jeremiah Starling.

  “Look, I need to go. How’s Dad?”

  “He’s great and sends you hugs.”

  “Okay, me too. And Dean?”

  “Right where I can see him, playing his Skeeterbrain game.”

  “Typical.”

  “I’ll tell him you said hello.”

  “Yeah, okay. Bye, Rhona.”

  Then Sunni called Blaise’s dad and left a message. “Hi, Mr. Doran, it’s Sunni. We got caught up at some old museum that Blaise wanted to see. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  She turned off her phone, reentered Starling House, and shoved her feet back into the felt slippers.

  Sunni padded upstairs and peeked around the door frame of the Cabinet of Curiosities. She was irritated to see Blaise still drawing Livia in his sketchbook. Neither of them noticed her there.

  Suddenly Throgmorton moved into view and said, “Blaise, we must go now.”

  “Go where?”

  “To see the Academy.”

  A pang of mistrust made Sunni hang back to hear more.

  Blaise paused. “But Sunni’s still outside.”

  “You are very considerate but, sadly, we cannot wait for her.”

  Sunni was tempted to burst in and tell him what she thought of that, but something still kept her back.

  “I’d feel pretty weird going without Sunni,” said Blaise, his brow furrowed. “Besides, she’ll be back any minute —”

  “No, Blaise,” Throgmorton interrupted gently. “We can see the Academy now, at this moment, but not later. Visitors are invited in only at certain times.”

  “I can’t leave Sunni.”

  “You do not have to. The Academy is under this very roof. Through that door.”

  Puzzled, Blaise swung himself around to look at the corner Throgmorton was pointing to. “But that’s a painted-on door. Isn’t it?”

  Livia laughed and shook her head.

  Sunni’s heart began thumping. Blaise was right; it was painted to look exactly like a brown-wood paneled door with a brass handle, just like the real door they had entered. What was going on?

  “It is a real door,” smiled Throgmorton. “Come. I cannot wait to show you the Academy.” He led Livia toward the corner, out of Sunni’s view.

  “But —”

  “Only a short visit, Blaise. You will return here before your friend does.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  Sunni shook herself into action and entered the Cabinet of Curiosities as Livia’s tinkling voice chided, “Why do you look so worried, Blaise?”

  His face lit up with that besotted grin. “I’m not worried, Livia. Everything’s okay now.” He threw Sunni a cool glance as he deposited his sketchbook in his messenger bag. “Finally. What took you so long?”

  “Hold on,” Sunni spluttered. “I had to go all the way outside, you know.”

  But Blaise had already turned and walked toward Throgmorton and Livia, who gestured for him to leave his slippers behind.

  Somehow while Blaise had turned to talk to Sunni, the painted door had opened. Blaise was following Livia through it, past Throgmorton’s outstretched arm. Sunni shed her slippers and hurried after them, still not quite believing they were walking through what she had thought was only paint on a wall.

  Throgmorton’s arm twitched as she approached, but his face was expressionless. Sunni couldn’t help feeling the tour guide saw her as Blaise’s tiresome sidekick, tolerated but unwelcome.

  She paused before the door, still suspicious of its solid timber and the brass handle. She peered through, half expecting to find a walk-in cupboard or a hidden stairway, but she could see nothing beyond except golden flames flickering in darkness.

  A razor-sharp twinge of misgiving made Sunni hesitate, even though Blaise had already gone through, but Throgmorton’s hands clamped onto her shoulders and propelled her over the threshold.

  The momentary darkness gave way to scores of small glowing lights. Blaise stepped into a candlelit room filled with people and furniture.

  “Where are we?” he asked Livia. “How can a whole other room be here? There were only two rooms on the top floor.”

  “No, this room is also on the top floor of Jeremiah Starling’s house.” Livia’s face was half in shadow, but her smile gleamed. “It is a special room.”

  Blaise looked puzzled. “So are we somehow between the Cabinet of Curiosities and the servants’ bedroom?”

  “In a way,” she answered. “The door leads to another part of the house. It is the only way to enter it.”

  Blaise peered at their surroundings. The worktables, timber floors, and windows were similar to the ones in the Cabinet of Curiosities, and there was an open door in the opposite corner. But this room was a jumble of furniture, objects, and artwork, crowded with six teenage boys working on tables and at easels. They wore loose shirts and breeches, their lank hair tied back.

  Daylight filtered in through the rippled glass of two windows and a crude skylight, but even so, there was an array of lanterns on every ledge and surface. The candle tallow’s acrid smell made a heady mix with beeswax, stale air, and a pungent substance boiling in a crockery casserole on the hearth.

  There were a couple of shabby shelves stacked with paint jars and jugs of brushes and tools, with small animal skulls, chunks of rock crystal and conch shells scattered between them. The candlelight caught the glass eyes of real stuffed birds and reptiles looking down on them from the top shelf. On the wall above the specimens, a decorative border of proverbs was painted in spidery letters: He that will eat the fruit must climb the tree. Willful waste makes woeful want. The Devil finds work for idle hands to do.

  The boys had stopped in the midst of their work, as if stunned by the sight of visitors. Their eyes moved over the newcomers, eventually coming to a stop on Sunni’s summer dress, which revealed her bare shoulders and calves. She crossed her arms over her chest and hid behind Blaise.

  Throgmorton stepped forward. “I bid you welcome to the Academy of Wonders. These are six of the finest pupils in the land, being expertly trained in the noble arts of drawing and painting.” He turned toward the boys. “Gentlemen, have your manners flown out of the window? Please greet our visitors.”

  The seated pupils scrambled to their feet. They bobbed their heads and collectively murmured something unintelligible.

  “Return to your work now, gentlemen,” said Throgmorton, clapping a hand on one boy’s shoulder and murmuring, “Well done, Toby,” as he examined his drawing.

  “This is the art academy?” Blaise asked. It looked more like a living historical reconstruction for visitors; there was no electricity source that he could see, no plastic containers or felt-tip pens, nothing that said twenty-first century — and nothing that fulfilled his idea of an exclusive art school.

  “Yes. As I told you before, the pupils are taught to paint and draw in the style of the great masters.”

  “And to dress like them, too, by the look of things,” Sunni muttered.

  “This has to be a setup. I bet
they’re just pretending for the tourists,” Blaise whispered to her, disappointed, but not wanting any of the boys to be offended. He said to Throgmorton, “This is an amazing place. It seems really authentic. Can we look around?”

  “Yes, of course. Please observe the boys’ skills and craftsmanship at your leisure.” Throgmorton gestured to Livia, who held her skirts away from the charcoal dust and wet paint smears as she made her way to his side, surveying the room with a placid smile.

  “And we’re still in Starling House?” Blaise asked uncertainly.

  Livia chided him with a teasing air. “I told you — we are!”

  “Okay.” Blaise moved toward the easel closest to him, where a boy of about his age was working, illuminated by a cluster of candles in a fixture on the wall. He was painting a horse. It was an exact copy of another painting in a gold frame propped up nearby.

  Sunni shadowed Blaise. “I still don’t get it,” she whispered. “This room shouldn’t exist. You can’t just stick a room in between two others!”

  “I know. I don’t see how it’s possible,” Blaise answered in a low voice, becoming transfixed by the boy’s confident hand. He’s really painting that horse.

  “And that door — how did it just materialize out of paint?”

  At Sunni’s words, the boy glanced up at them with a small crease of worry between his eyebrows.

  “No idea.” Blaise glanced back at the door they had just come through, which was now completely closed. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen a painting come to life, but he was mystified at seeing another one here.

  “It was a real door, for a few minutes anyway,” whispered Sunni. “But now it’s a painting again.”

  “I don’t get it either.” Amazed by the boy’s painting abilities, Blaise said in a loud voice, “That is an awesome copy. I can’t draw horses to save my life.”

  The boy smiled but kept his eyes on his work.

  “You shall learn to, Blaise,” called Livia, the dancing candlelight giving her hair and silk dress a golden sheen. “And you shall paint my portrait as well.”

  “It stinks in here,” Sunni said, interrupting Blaise’s brief vision of Livia in a big fancy picture frame.