by Anne C Miles
Bastien Crowe. Young, hip, but sure of himself. He didn’t act self-important—not what Sara expected at all. He sidled up to the podium and stood in front of it.
“This year a feature film is being shot in the hills of Kentucky. We start in six weeks. I have family here and came out during the location scout to visit. For those who have not seen my work…” He paused, his blue eyes crinkling before he turned to the screen.
Images of amazing creatures, soaring sculptures, large-scale models, and fantastic vehicles for the latest ten blockbuster film releases faded in and out behind him. “Those are some pieces built at my shop.
“We’ll be filming here for several months, first for a small television pilot, then for my film. The film is urban fantasy, and we’ll need a lot of help. But we have one spot—one special place for one extraordinary person—on the design team.”
He looked at Sara. Her breath caught in her throat as he continued.
“This job will let you explore your craft in a paid position with my shop for, at minimum, one year. Your job interview includes one piece and a design presentation. If you secure the position, your internship will end with a job offer. Your deadline is in a few weeks, with the winners announced on Valentine’s Day. Questions?”
Chantal raised her hand. “Who will conduct the interviews?”
“I will,” he replied briefly, nodding to the next student.
“Are there any size requirements?” a boy on the other side of the room asked.
“Bigger is better,” said Bastien, grinning. He was known for the scale in his work outside of the film industry. “But there are no requirements. One piece. Show me your best.”
Questions continued. Slides must be presented. It had to be shot with proper lighting. Staging for the piece could be creative. As the questions died down, Sara raised her hand, her small arm slipping up as if clutching at something. Sara turned pink as Bastien focused on her.
“What are you looking for?”
He might not answer, but she wanted to know. It couldn’t hurt to ask. Bastien rocked back on his heels and broke into another easy grin.
“Originality doesn’t really say much, does it?” He stepped away from the podium. “I think an example might help. It’s better to show, not tell.”
He cycled through the slides. “This is Max.” A ninety-foot-tall gargoyle rose from the middle of a deserted landscape. Mountains and a sheer cliff face rose in the distance behind him. Now a tourist attraction in Australia, he reigned over the landscape.
Max’s features reminded her of DaVinci’s grotesques. He was playful and stern, majestic and alive all at the same time, faintly comic. He was ugly. He was part gargoyle, part mountain, a force of nature that blended perfectly with his surroundings.
“Max was a dream of mine. Look at him closely.” He zoomed in to show the detail. Max’s skin had texture. He wasn’t smooth like polished stone. More like leather or hide. The room was completely silent, focused.
“He took two years and a team of people to finish. It was very important to me that Max be permanent,” Bastien said. “If you understand why I made him, you are a good candidate for our new hire.”
The lights rose again.
“That doesn’t mean that you have to build a ninety-foot sculpture in a foreign country. But I need to see what matters to you. And the piece itself needs to tell me why.”
“So we need to be geniuses,” Sara said.
Bastien laughed along with the other students, then answered with surprising intensity. “No, but you do need to meet your heart’s inner fire and master it.”
Sara blinked. Crap. Meet your heart’s inner fire and master it? How did Max show Bastien’s heart? Really? This was the big thing she was supposed to understand? Max disturbed her; she didn’t quite know why. She’d seen pictures of him before. Maybe seeing him so large, with his creator, had unsettled her. It burned like an itch in her brain.
Polly rose, thanking Bastien. She dismissed the students to sketch ideas.
Chantal jostled Sara as she clambered to her feet. “Don’t bother, sweetie. I’ve got this,” she said. Her tone held a veiled threat. She’d heard it before.
Sara’s most saccharine tone oozed out, automatically, a normally nonexistent Southern drawl rising to the surface. “Bless your heart.”
She held Chantal’s gaze for a moment. Chantal looked at her watch, covering the anger in her eyes. She clucked and scooped up her bag. “Meeting my boyfriend,” she said and flounced away.
Miranda stopped in front of Sara, her eyes bright, amused. “That one is sure of herself.”
“Something like that.”
“Hey, you got a sec? I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
Miranda pulled a neon pink piece of paper from her bag and pressed it into Sara’s hands. “I’m trying to start a group to work with Somalian refugee kids. There’s a huge community of them in government housing not far from here. I thought an art program might help them integrate, learn English, you know? Give them a leg up. You interested?”
Sara took the flyer, a plastic smile fixed to her face as she looked over the details, bordered by clipart butterflies and bees. Good grief. I can’t help kids. I’m a total mess. She feigned interest and clamped down on the butterflies in her stomach. Nervous. A movie misquote flew out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“Have you ever been stung by a dead bee?” Sara murmured, tracing one of the fat bees on the paper with her finger.
Miranda blinked and tilted her head. “Have you?”
Sara grinned. Miranda Vine knew Bogey and Bacall? “You’re all right,” Sara said.
Maybe there is more to Miranda than do-gooding and perfect grades?
Sara folded the paper carefully and slid it into her pocket. “I might be interested. You know, let me see how this week goes, and I’ll get back to you. I’m a little worried about my course load. I don’t want to overcommit.”
Miranda nodded. “Gotcha. Think about it. I think you’d be great and really make an impact.”
“Sure, thanks.” Her? Make an impact? Uh. No… She’d beg off because of her chemistry labs later.
Turning to pick up her bag, Sara met Polly Worden’s soft smile.
“Sara, a moment? We have your semester advisory still to finish.”
Sara nodded. The advisory was routine, but time with Polly was precious.
“Great, I’ll see you in ten minutes in my office.”
Nine minutes later, Sara was in Polly’s warm office. The same light from the nave flowed here, glimmers touching five metal sculptures that lined the large room. Lovely plants of all sizes perched on bookshelves, surrounding an informal seating group on one side and a glass desk. A carved stone water-wall stood in the corner, filling the room with a musical gurgle. A pillar candle burned at its base.
...a great cloud with fire flashing forth continually and a bright light around it, and in its midst something like glowing...
Sara puzzled out the words carved as a border on the water-wall. They seemed out of place. A quote about fire on a water feature. It didn’t make sense, even with the candle.
She shrugged and took a seat in front of the desk, relaxing as she listened to the water.
Polly strode in two minutes later, dropping her bag under her desk. She plucked a file from a neat stack, slid on her glasses, and studied it, then removed her glasses and looked at Sara. She didn’t speak.
Sara waited. She’d done this before. It was sort of like playing chicken. If she spoke first, the rest of the conference would not go well.
“What are you working on, Sara?”
Sara slipped large photo prints and sketches from her portfolio. “This is my latest design.” The sketches depicted a large abstract form. It writhed and twisted, like a tornado in stone. It reminded her of a stalagtite born in a womb-like cave set free to dance. Glorious. Alive. Whirling. Dangerous. Detailed inset sketches revealed
a polished surface broken by areas with a mottled texture reminiscent of bone. Pieces of metal skewered the form, as if it had been pinned down but had ripped itself free. Raw power pulsed from the mass. “It represents the earth and nature being affected by the work of man.” She pointed to the metal rods and coils. “These shapes for a halo and fencing for the… I think of him as an earth elemental?”
Polly frowned at the photos. “They’re good. It’s good,” she said. Her voice throbbed with unstated criticism. She paused and pursed her lips, pointing. “Glass?”
Sara nodded. She folded her hands to halt their trembling. “For parts like the hair. You think I should change it?”
It’s not good enough.
I’m not good enough.
Polly gave her a level look and plucked another file from the stack in front of her.
“Sara, this is good, better than good, even. But it doesn’t show me you. And for this year’s practicum? I need to see you. Your grades from here forward will need to be exceptional if you want to graduate. We’ve made allowances because of your family circumstances, but your work has not been satisfactory. You know it. Were you listening to Bastien?
“I need to see your heart. The piece you are planning, while it fulfills your requirements...it’s only adequate. Impersonal. For you to shine? You need more. You need to push yourself. And I believe—no, I know—you have more in you.”
She slid the file across her desk at Sara. Within was a black-and-white sketch of a woman. Her form snaked, thin, elegant and beautiful. But her face was screaming. Frozen in pain of such abject agony, it was hard to look away. It wasn’t like the Scream by Edvard Munch, not in the slightest. Munch’s Scream was all organic shape and suggestion, the humanity leached from his figure, the power of his piece fueled by color. In contrast, the lack of bright color in this sketch made it more powerful. The details of the screaming woman’s face and body were distorted by pain, but there was an immense power in her, and it underscored the horror of her circumstance. The details left no doubt of her personality, her clear personhood.
The throes of her pain struck Sara like a blow.
The piece was fantastic. It was Chantal’s. Her name was in the top right corner. Sara looked at it for a long moment, unable to breathe. A single tear escaped her. She took a ragged breath, forcing herself. Another.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid me. I can’t. I’m not good enough. Oh my God, I suck.
“Are you okay?” Great. Just what she needed, to break down in front of Polly. The professor reclaimed the file folder, sliding it smoothly back to her stack.
Sara blinked rapidly. She forced a smile and unclenched her fist.
“I-I’m fine,” she lied. Her voice was calm, at least. Sara reached for her bag and stood. “I understand. I’ll rework my idea. I have to go now.” She backed toward the door.
“All right.” Polly waved Sara away. “Check in with me soon.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LORD TABOR DEMITRI, clad in a formal blue velvet surcoat trimmed and embroidered with silver thread, stood in his entrance hall receiving guests. He bowed over Lady Aracine’s gloved hand. His cadence was clipped. His tone was nasal, in the most recent fashion of Bestuan dandies. “Milady, methinks you are a picture of unmatched elegance. And your dress!” He straightened and stepped back to take it all in. “Simply perfect.”
Lady Aracine, an older woman, blushed and tittered behind her feathered fan. Her green silk gown, trimmed with seed pearls and lace, glowed in the ocean of candlelight. “You’re too kind, Lord Demitri. I had it made special for this evening, of course. Your Spring Fête is the height of the season.”
“My compliments to your dressmaker, madam.” Tabor bowed again and clicked his heels together. Next to him, Lady Bronwyn Demitri, Tabor’s younger sister, curtsied. Her heart-shaped face nodded, eyes sparkling, as she murmured appropriate compliments. Tabor played the noble fop to the hilt, always remarking on jewels and lavish attire with perfect empty-headed aplomb.
When the throng of guests had filed past, they filled the large ballroom beyond where a full chamber orchestra played. Hundreds of candles shimmered from candelabras while couples whirled across the polished parquet floors. Even the Watchers mounted at the central hearth were unusually beautiful, a gryphon poised to take flight sat next to a winged horse.
Tabor searched the large room. A crowd of giggling ladies surrounded Bronwyn. He smiled indulgently. His sister shone like a gem among them, radiant. He spotted Trystan, arched an eyebrow, and nodded. As the ensemble played a pavane, couples lined up to dance the intricate steps. Trystan dodged a particularly buxom partner, excusing himself, and wandered over to Tabor.
“My dear Lord Tabor, you certainly know how to entertain.” Trystan greeted him with a shallow bow.
Tabor smiled and returned his bow. This was the first time he had seen the bard in a moon. It was past time to show him what owning a starbound lute meant. It was well past time to bring him into the Spinners. “Well met, sir.” He sniffed delicately into a lace-edged handkerchief and gestured to the musicians. “Have you found our players perform to your standard?”
“Indeed! They’re all Bindery trained. I made their acquaintance at court last they played there but knew some of them from my classes. Prince Hector was very keen to have me directing when I finish my Journey,” said Trystan.
A servant approached with champagne flutes. Trystan and Tabor both plucked one from the tray, turning to survey the crowd. Tabor asked, “Will you complete your Journey soon? You have just returned from Siarad? I daresay you look as though you tumbled from a cart.” He tutted and brushed at Trystan’s shoulder, as if dislodging a piece of straw.
Trystan nodded, flushing. He ran his hands through his cropped blond hair and shifted his belt around his richly embroidered tunic. “I’m nearly finished with my composition. Cyntae willing, I’ll be performing it this month.”
Tabor nodded. “I really must get you to my tailor,” he said, waving his lace-trimmed sleeves. “You’ll need to be presentable when you finally gain your gold ring. Everyone knows I have the best tailor, my ribands and silks are envied by all. We’ll go tomorrow and see what new things he has in from the north. He’s been bragging there will be some that mimic spun gold.” Tabor paused significantly. “I’ll have my man take us straightaway in the morning. So tonight you will sleep here. Bronwyn will be thrilled.”
“Thank you, milord.” Trystan bowed again. Tabor observed him closely to see if the lad caught his meaning. Gold. The word was a signal. It meant his lute was ready. Spinner business at hand. Little did Trystan really know what would be required of him. After tonight, he would understand. The ball was but a ruse.
“Enjoy the ball.” Tabor dismissed him as he drained his champagne glass and handed it to a passing servant. He drifted off into the crowd, only pausing once to air-kiss a gaudily jeweled overweight matron.
Trystan wandered out of the ballroom, looking for a quiet place to wait. Tabor would send for him soon. He’d been to the manor several times in the months since he first met the baron, but the halls branched, and the many rooms still confused him. It was worse than the cavern halls of Mos Tevis. Watchers decorated the mantels of every room he entered, all of them elaborate and detailed. Finally, he found the library. He stepped inside, closing the oaken doors to shut out the revelry. A fire crackled cheerily. Above the mantel, the Watchers perched, inert. Trystan read some titles. The collection was massive, worth a king’s ransom.
The Secrets of the Sea sat next to a copy of Impossible Creatures from the Fells and Fenns. A Treatise on Resonance was shelved with other esoteric philosophy. There were even books in other languages. He found a book of ancient maps and settled down to pore over it. The maps were rough, hand drawn on the lined vellum. They sketched the world before the Breaking, cities and towns now fallen to dust.
The roads were still there, though some were in ruins or had fallen into disuse. The Lohewelde was shaped very differently, a
nd the Sundered City was whole. Citraehne, it had been called then. All the Aeries were clearly marked along with ten or twelve Burrows. Trystan was counting them and trying to relate them to the modern shape of the land when the library door burst open, and Tabor’s sister fell in, laughing. A tall girl with elaborate brunette braids and a lavish purple gown followed close behind her.
Both girls approached Trystan with more decorum, curtsying formally, their eyes lowered. “Trystan dan Tenkor,” Bronwyn murmured demurely. “Might I introduce you to my closest friend? She is known as Lady Gwyneth dePaul.”
Trystan rose quickly and bowed over Gwyneth’s gloved hand, only looking at her closely as he straightened. He gasped. “Stars above.”
Tabor’s eyes glittered back at him underneath artfully arranged brown tresses. His mustaches were gone, his chin close shaven, and his face painted so unless one looked very closely indeed, Tabor appeared to be a woman. He winked at Trystan and tittered, raising a glittering fan.
“Bronwyn has told me so much about you, milord.” Tabor spoke in a voice that was rich and undeniably feminine. His eyes flicked to the Watchers and back, his meaning clear. Dissemble.
Bronwyn nodded. “I’m afraid Gwyneth’s escort for the evening has had too much wine. I would insist that she stay here, but her only living aunt is very aged and will worry. Would you be a dear and escort her, ensure she gets to their estate safely?”
“Of course, milady.” Trystan was at once the courteous prince. He glanced at the Watchers. Their heads now turned in his direction. Gallantly, he offered Tabor his arm. “But I must insist the beauty in distress pay me with a dance.”