The Crimson Shard

by Teresa Flavin

  “Oil paints,” said Blaise. “They smell.”

  He squeezed in between some tables, where two younger boys were copying landscape drawings. “Hello. I’m Blaise. How old are you? Twelve, thirteen? I couldn’t draw like that when I was your age.”

  The boys shrugged and smiled shyly.

  “Thirteen,” said one. His quill pen fell into his lap and a black ink patch bloomed on his breeches.

  “Sorry —” Blaise started.

  The boy just shook his head, picked up the quill, and started up where he had left off. Blaise noticed that his baggy breeches were covered with stains and rips. Must be his work clothes. He glanced behind him. Sunni was standing near a window, peering down at the street, an incredulous look spreading over her face.

  Throgmorton addressed the eldest-looking boy. “Toby, where is the Master?”

  “He is gone to the colorman’s shop for paints, sir,” the boy answered.

  “I see. When did he leave?”

  “Some time ago, sir.” Toby didn’t meet his eye. “The Master said he wouldn’t be long, because Jacob needs vermilion to finish.”

  Throgmorton strode over to a boy with wavy blond hair, who was sketching out a new drawing. Next to him was a nearly completed copy of a landscape painting.

  “Ah, Jacob, admirable work.” Throgmorton peered at the copy and then at the splotches of pigment on Jacob’s wooden palette. “Wait a moment. Here is a pearl of vermilion hiding amongst the other reds! Surely that is enough to finish this painting.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get on and finish it, Jacob.” He pointed up at a proverb painted on the wall that said Procrastination is the thief of time, his shadow looming large behind him. All the boys shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  Jacob dropped his charcoal stick and, with a quaking hand, picked up a fine paintbrush.

  Sunni murmured into Blaise’s ear, “You’ve got to see something. Come to the window. Now.”

  Heavy footsteps could suddenly be heard coming upstairs. The climber hummed as he went, then let out a belch.

  Blaise gave Sunni a searching look and turned toward the windows, but just as they were about to move, Throgmorton said, “At last. The Master has returned.”

  The sound of the Master’s panting reached their ears before he came into view. When at last he careened through the door, nearly tripping over the hem of Livia’s dress, he was propelled by a gigantic sneeze.

  “My word, Starling,” said Throgmorton acidly, “you make a splendid entrance.”

  The man gave a perfunctory bow to Livia, pulling a three-cornered hat from his head. He deposited a leather satchel on the floor with a thud.

  “And your esteemed daughter, sir, makes a charming obstacle,” he replied, though nothing about the look he gave Livia suggested he found her charming.

  Livia’s smile held, but her nostrils flared as if something offensive had wafted by. “Good day, Mr. Starling,” she said.

  Blaise’s bewilderment grew. Starling? If this was an actor impersonating Jeremiah Starling, the organizers of the workshop reconstruction had scraped the bottom of the barrel. The man had sneezed something horrible over his cravat. Dark flecks dotted his chin as well, and, most disgustingly, one clung to the tip of his nose.

  “Good day, madam. Another parcel from your dressmaker awaits you downstairs. Or was it from the cobbler?” The man shrugged. “You receive so many parcels.”

  “Sir,” said Livia without looking at him, “you seem to have ejected your tobacco. . . .”

  Starling gave two almighty snorts and fished a dirty handkerchief from his pocket. After a quick dust over his chin and nose, he batted stray shreds of tobacco off his cravat and smiled.

  “Father,” said Livia. “May I go downstairs and see to my parcels?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “And I shall order tea for us.” She beamed over her shoulder at Blaise and hurried away.

  “We have guests, Starling,” said Throgmorton. “Two young art lovers, Miss Sunniva and Master Blaise.”

  Starling raised his eyebrows at the sight of them and, like the boys, seemed taken aback by Sunni’s dress.

  “And this,” Throgmorton went on, “is the Academy’s tutor, Jeremiah Starling, master draftsman and painter.”

  Sunni’s and Blaise’s mouths hung open at this information.

  Jeremiah bowed low and shot a barbed glance at the guide. “Visitors of a most singular variety. How extremely unexpected.”

  “There was no time to inform you,” Throgmorton replied.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Blaise managed to speak. “I thought this was visiting time. You said we had to come now.”

  “That is correct. But remember, Blaise, you arrived without an appointment, and we were not expecting anyone else today.” Throgmorton extinguished a dying candle with his thumb and forefinger. “We very seldom invite visitors for, as I told you, the Academy is exclusive.”

  “Wait,” Sunni said. “You’re an actor, right? Impersonating Jeremiah Starling?”

  It was Jeremiah’s turn to gape. “I am no actor, miss, nor impersonator!”

  “B-but Jeremiah Starling is . . .” Sunni stammered. “Well, he’s dead.”

  “Egad. I may be many things, but dead is not one of them.” Jeremiah glared at Throgmorton. “You should inform your guests more accurately, sir.”

  “Mr. Starling is as alive as I am,” Throgmorton said. “As you can see.”

  This has to be some sort of performance for us, Blaise thought. Jeremiah can’t be alive. He died in 1791. Throgmorton said so.

  “You appear to be disappointed. Perhaps you would have preferred to meet my corpse.” With a snort, Jeremiah shoved a stool aside. “See to my satchel, Toby. The bladders are fit to burst.”

  Toby unbuckled the satchel and carefully pulled out two full pigs’ bladders. On a corner table, he punctured one and moved it over a selection of glass vials and small bags, squeezing a dollop of thick bloodred liquid into each.

  “Have no concern,” said Jeremiah, observing Sunni and Blaise’s shocked expressions with amusement. “’Tis but vermilion pigment, freshly mixed for me at the colorman’s shop. The other bladder will piss blue paint. Toby is decanting the colors into jars and small bladders tied up with string.”

  Throgmorton looked displeased. “I believed you mixed your own colors, Starling, to ensure their quality.”

  “I have little time for that, sir,” said Jeremiah. “The boys and I are kept mightily busy with our work and need much paint. Besides, the colorman does an admirable job — as fine as I would do myself, if not better.”

  “I will confer with you about the purchase of pigments later, sir.” Throgmorton turned to Blaise. “Please show Mr. Starling your drawings. I am sure he will have much to say about them.”

  Still half watching Toby empty the second bladder, Blaise found his sketch of Livia.

  Jeremiah nodded at it curtly. “A passable likeness of your esteemed daughter, sir.”

  Jeremiah Starling, a dead guy, was insisting he was alive, carrying around pigs’ bladders of paint, and commenting on his sketchbook. And Throgmorton had brought them to a room so well hidden that Blaise had lost his bearings. Plus, a bunch of teenage boys were acting as if they’d never seen a girl’s legs before.

  Throgmorton pulled the sketchbook away from Jeremiah and leafed to a page toward the front. “What is your opinion of this?”

  When Blaise saw which drawing the guide was interested in, another worry tightened his chest. It was a sketch he had done last winter, when he, Sunni, and her stepbrother, Dean, had been transported into an enchanted Renaissance painting made by artist-magician Fausto Corvo. Blaise had made scores of drawings of the fantastical worlds inside the painting. But because he had sworn to protect its secrets, he had avoided sharing the sketches with anyone but Sunni, Dean, and their art teacher, Mr. Bell, the only adult who knew what they had been through.

  “Those aren’t very good
,” said Blaise, and reached for the sketchbook. But Throgmorton was quicker and held it back.

  Jeremiah wrested the sketchbook away from him. “On the contrary, they are impressive.”

  “Blaise.” Sunni was at his side and he could hear a warning in her voice. She was always scolding him for carrying the sketches around. If she had her way, that particular sketchbook would be under lock and key. A little voice inside him wondered whether she was right after all, but he nudged his elbow against hers for reassurance. By the look on her face, he realized the sketchbook wasn’t the only thing upsetting her.

  “I have seen this drawing before,” said Jeremiah. “Or one very like it.”

  “I copied it,” said Blaise.

  Jeremiah let out a grunt of approval. “And the name of the artist who made the original?”

  Blaise could barely say the name out loud. Even that somehow felt like a betrayal. “Fausto Corvo.”

  “That is it! Corvo.” Jeremiah slapped his knee. “From Venice, was he not? Now, Venice, there’s a city. Magnificent, I am told. I cannot place the accent in your speech, Blaise. Are you from the West Country perchance? Bristol?”

  “America,” said Blaise.

  A hoarse whisper circulated around the room.

  “The Colonies.” Jeremiah leaned forward. “Egad, you are a well-traveled young man.”

  “Quite,” said Throgmorton, tapping the sketchbook with his forefinger. “Now, Blaise, tell us about these other sketches.”

  Alarm spread through him again. Throgmorton seemed very eager to know about the drawings he had done of Arcadia, the land inside Corvo’s magical painting.

  “Those?” Blaise wracked his brain for an explanation that wasn’t an out-and-out lie. “Just doodles.”

  “Doodles?” Jeremiah laughed. “What, pray tell, is a doodle?”

  Blaise wondered how long he would have to keep up this game. It was getting annoying — and worrying.

  “A little sketch of nothing important. Shapes . . . faces . . . funny animals. Your hand just sort of draws what it likes.” He caught several of the boys half grinning at one another, as if they knew just what he meant.

  “Ah. Such as . . .” Jeremiah thrust a quill pen into some brown ink and lazily drew a dog prancing on its hind legs, wearing a plumed hat. “This?”

  “Um, yes. And no. That’s way too good for a doodle.”

  Throgmorton scooped up the book and held out another page of sketches. “Of all things, your hand chose to draw a chariot and these strange beasts?”

  Blaise answered warily, “Yes.” There was no way he would tell them he’d seen those things painted on a palace wall in Arcadia.

  “Do you know what any of them are?”

  “That’s Apollo in his chariot. And that’s a phoenix and a python. . . .” Sunni broke in, her voice tremulous. “We learned about Greek and Roman mythology at school.”

  “Ah!” Jeremiah turned to her. “By your speech, miss, I would reckon you to be from the north —” he began, but was cut off by Throgmorton.

  “I think, sir, that it is now time for a lesson. Miss Sunniva and Master Blaise shall join in.”

  Yet again, a rush of whispers buzzed among the boys.

  “Gentlemen?” Throgmorton whirled around and looked at them one by one. “Have you some opinion you would like to share with us?”

  “No, sir,” said Toby.

  “The boys have no opinions, Mr. Throgmorton, except upon the best use of quills, paintbrushes, and pigments,” said Jeremiah, with a sharp sniff. “Robert, Samuel, shift those tables and make room.” He fished two threadbare shirts off a peg and handed them to Sunni and Blaise. “It pains me that I have nothing better to offer you, miss, but we are unused to ladies in the workshop, as you see.”

  Sunni pulled one greasy sleeve over her bare arm and tried not to grimace. The shirt had not touched soap in a long time, if ever.

  Starling hung up his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Toby, your assistance with the pot, if you please.”

  The pair crouched down to the hearth and hoisted the bubbling casserole onto some bricks scattered on the floor nearby. Throgmorton dusted off an empty seat and sat down to watch.

  “I shall show you how we prepare the glue”— Jeremiah used a wad of rags to protect his hand and pulled the lid off —“straining out the bones and skin.”

  A pungent steam cloud enveloped Jeremiah and Toby, who recoiled for a moment from its heat. The smell rolled through the workshop like an ill wind.

  “Bones and skin of what?” asked Blaise in a small voice.

  “In this particular mixture, rabbits,” said Jeremiah, wiping his brow. “Though oft-times goat parts come cheapest. Necks, feet, and skins.”

  “What’s it for?” Blaise grimaced at a chunk of gristle that had landed by his feet when the lid rose.

  “To mix with gypsum and chalk for the making of gesso.” Jeremiah stirred through the foul casserole and fished out a tiny bone. He threw it into a graveyard pot already half full of bones and cartilage. “We must coat the surface of our paintings with it before we begin work.”

  He held out a long-handled wire strainer with hard dried bits of something gray stuck to it. “Which of you shall start?”

  Sunni yanked Blaise back a few steps toward the windows. Her face was white and covered with a sweaty sheen. “Can I talk to my friend for a minute, please?”

  “As you wish,” said Throgmorton, watching her closely.

  Starling shrugged and handed the strainer to Toby.

  Sunni turned her back to the others so they could not make out what she said. “This is out of control. I think that man really is Jeremiah Starling.”

  “He can’t be,” whispered Blaise. “Throgmorton told us he died. . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. But look outside,” she murmured. “And don’t be obvious!”

  Blaise strained to see out of the window from the corner of his eye, but he was too far away. “What? I can’t see anything.”

  “Everything is wrong. We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

  “Miss Sunniva,” called Throgmorton. “You are missing Master Starling’s demonstration.”

  “I’m sorry. We have to leave.” She took off the work shirt and dropped it onto a stool. “Blaise’s father is waiting for us, and we’re late already.”

  Sunni made her way to the painted door. She studied the wall, hoping that the solid panels and metal door handle might reappear, but they did not.

  “Mr. Throgmorton,” she began, anxiety pulsing through her.

  “Miss Sunniva,” he answered, “not that way. Please come with me. And you, Blaise.” He took a step toward the open door in the opposite corner of the room.

  Sunni hesitated. “Why are we leaving through that door? We came in through this painted one.”

  “Please come along.”

  “Where does he want to take us?” she whispered to Blaise.

  “I dunno. Do we go?”

  “Don’t think we have a choice.” Sunni turned away from the painted door but stood still.

  Throgmorton raised his arm like an outspread wing, sending the candles flickering. “Come.”

  The boys kept their heads down. Toby and Jeremiah stirred the glue pot intently, until the painter lifted his head. “I advise you to go with Mr. Throgmorton.”

  “Stay close together,” said Sunni as she and Blaise threaded their way through the tables and easels.

  Reluctantly, they followed Throgmorton down the stairs.

  “What did you mean that everything’s wrong here?” whispered Blaise.

  “Out the window,” Sunni whispered back. “Nothing’s right.” She might have believed that the workshop was a recreation for tourists, but not the world outside. She’d seen London’s old rooftops beyond the rippled glass windowpanes and had had a clear view of Saint Paul’s Cathedral dome. It was by far the tallest building, with no sign of any high-rise offices, construction cranes, or air traffic above it. The passersby in
the street below were dressed in period clothes like Throgmorton and Livia.

  “What do you mean, nothing’s right?”

  “No skyscrapers, no cars,” said Sunni huskily. “Everyone out there’s wearing old clothes and wigs.”

  On the second floor, Throgmorton opened a door for them, smiling. “Please.”

  Inside, Livia rose from a dark-green wingback armchair. “You are very welcome.”

  She guided Blaise by the arm to a matching chair opposite hers, but let her father offer Sunni the hard-looking sofa. They were in a formal sitting room that had no trace of trompe l’oeil trickery. A chandelier lit the room with a blaze of beeswax candles. The busts on the mantelpiece were real, and the small table by Livia had an array of playing cards spread across it in a game of solitaire.

  “Mary is bringing tea for us,” said Livia.

  A servant girl struggled in with a large silver tray holding teacups and a pot. She gawked at Sunni and Blaise as she laid it down on a table beside Livia and scurried out after a nod from Throgmorton.

  Livia’s hands fluttered over the tray, pouring and stirring. She extended a china cup toward Sunni but did not get up from her chair. “You must be very thirsty.”

  “No, thank you.” Sunni sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa.

  Blaise shook his head at the offer of tea. “Where are we?”

  “Jeremiah Starling’s house.” Livia’s laugh chimed out.

  “Where are all the trompe l’oeil murals?” Blaise asked tersely. “I don’t see them anywhere.”

  “He has not painted them yet,” said Throgmorton.

  Sunni jumped in. “What do you mean, he hasn’t painted them yet?”

  “You met Starling. He’s a young man, and this is his old childhood home. One day he will build a new house on this land. He’ll fill it with murals and it will be known as Starling House.” Throgmorton pointed at a few framed landscape and portrait paintings on the parlor walls. “Those are the sorts of paintings he has been making during the past few years.”

  “This can’t be real. He can’t be Jeremiah Starling,” said Blaise.

  “I have told you the truth.” Throgmorton showed a flicker of displeasure. “He is Starling.”