Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  Behind her, she heard the door shift and creak. She looked over her shoulder to see it only partially open.

  “Please, come in,” a voice said. “The heavens are about to open.”

  No sooner than the words were spoken that a quiet rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and a fat drop of rain plopped onto the top of her head. It was the strangest thing. The voice, faintly accented and impeccably well-mannered, was as crisp and clear as if the words were spoken directly in Emily’s ear. The words had carried, somehow, over the muffling winds, but from the dark crack of the door she could not see who that voice might belong to. She didn’t know if Volkov lived alone, if he had servants in his employ, nothing, but she suspected that the voice was his. After she had hurried down the drive and into the dark shadows of the hall, she discovered that there was no one there at all.

  The entrance hall was the same as she remembered it, though much darker thanks to the storm outside. There was only one thing that was different: candles were strewn everywhere, placed in the bronze sconces that were mounted along the walls, relics from the house’s past. Rivulets of crimson and white wax were steadily dripping down the shafts, the flickering flames causing shadows to dance on the walls. She knew that Fairbanks Manor was equipped with electricity, but the lights hung above her, unused. There was already a thin layer of dust clinging to the bulbs. Outside, Emily heard the rain begin to fall, the only sound that penetrated the oppressive silence.

  “Hello?” she called out, meekly. There was a peculiar, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, the same twisting nervousness she got whenever she found herself alone in a place much, much bigger than herself. She called out again, louder this time.

  By the great staircase at the end of the hall, which split half-way up to lead to the different wings of the house, she saw a warm shaft of light emanating from another cracked door. It was the only sign of life she had seen other than the disembodied voice that, for all she knew, she may have imagined in the first place.

  “Come in,” someone said. It was the voice again, that same measured voice, but this time it clearly came from inside the room by the staircase. “Follow the lights.”

  Emily walked to the end of the hall, bothered by how loud her footfalls were. She heard the thunder again and judged that it was coming closer by the loudness of it. It would be right above them soon. As she approached the door, she noticed that the ornate mirrors that adorned the walls had been covered with a heavy black cloth. She pulled back a corner and quickly inspected herself, only partially able to see in the poor light. Her hair was relatively undisturbed by the wind, thankfully, and her eyes shone eerily in the light of the candle. For a moment, she barely even recognised herself. She let the cloth fall back into its original place, concealing the reflective glass once more.

  She opened the door and found herself looking into the library. It had always been her favourite room in the house, though she hadn’t been allowed to go there alone for years. When she was younger, Victoria had got it into her head that Emily was too reckless and silly to be left alone with books as old as the ones the Fairbanks owned and would not even grant her the freedom to leave the dinner table to explore other parts of the house. When she was older, in her teens, Hugo had allowed her to go there alone when the dinner-time conversation turned to subjects she only barely understood and certainly had no interest in, and even let her take the books from their shelves. He only ever asked that she return every book to its rightful place, and she had been so thrilled that she had never failed to do as he asked. She could have spent hours in there at a time, and sometimes did, thankful that there was someone that trusted her enough to treat her like an adult.

  Richard Volkov was sitting at the huge oak table that acted as the room’s centrepiece, surrounded by papers piled up in stacks of various heights. It was the table at which she too had sat, taking in everything she could on art history and devouring novels about worthy men and inspirational women while her mother and father drank whiskey and discussed business in the drawing room with Hugo. The large, onyx fireplace was lit, bathing the room in a vaguely eerie golden light. He did not look up from his papers at the sound of the door and made no effort to rise from his seat. Instead, he beckoned her to come further with the twitch of two slim, extended fingers.

  “Close the door, please,” he said. “I prefer to keep the draughts out.”

  She complied, finding it strange that he only barely acknowledged her presence in the room. She was struck again by his face, his features seemingly enhanced by the light of the fire behind him, and approached the table, her portfolio still bundled under her arm. Volkov laced his fingers together and rested his chin upon the bridge of his hands. He looked at her with a cool, even gaze. His eyes flickered in shadows.

  “I do not know you,” he said matter-of-factly. Emily shook her head, her throat dry.

  “Then why, pray,” he said. “Have you come to my house on a day as wretched as this?”

  There was something about the way he spoke that Emily found unusual, but she couldn’t say what exactly. From his accent, she guessed that he was from Eastern Europe originally, thought it was so faint it might have been a remnant from his mother and father’s mother tongue. She didn’t even know if English was his second or first language; he spoke so well that it was difficult to judge.

  “My name is Emily Van Buren, Mr Volkov,” she said. “You have met my mother and father. They were present when you signed the deed for this house.”

  “Ah yes,” Volkov said, “The mayor’s lovely daughter.”

  There were a thousand platitudes and niceties she could have bored him with: Lovely to meet you. How are you? Are you enjoying the house? But instead Emily took the package out from under her arm, clutching it with both hands, and hoped that he at least appreciated forthrightness. She had prepared what she was going to say over and over on her journey up the hill, but now that he was physically in front of her she found her memory disintegrating.

  “Mr Volkov…” she began, only to be cut off by the raising of his hand.

  “Emily,” he said, like he was setting her name to music. “Do you know what your name denotes?”

  Emily shook her head, confused. “I’d never given much consideration”

  Volkov stood up, the force of his movement sending the chair back a surprising distance. He walked around the table slowly, arms behind his back. He wore a simple black shirt, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves, and black trousers. His hair was tied tightly at the base of his neck, as it had been in the photograph, and it curved gently at the base of his spine. He didn’t take his eyes off Emily.

  “It means hard working,” he said evenly. “Industrious.”

  Emily had no idea why he was talking about this now, but she thought it best to play along. Suddenly, her earlier theory on his being an eccentric seemed a lot more valid.

  “I see,” she said.

  Volkov stopped in front of Emily. She noticed for the first time that he was much, much taller than her, so much so that her head was level only with his chest. She moved back a step hesitantly, hoping to create some space between them. If Volkov noticed, he didn’t comment.

  “Are you like your name, Miss Van Buren?” he went on. “Are you hardworking and industrious?”

  She felt like he was playing with her the way a cat plays with its dinner. She straightened up her back and pushed the parcel into the space between them. The move was awkward, like a child presenting a crayon drawing to a parent, and she regretted it instantly.

  “I am a painter, Mr Volkov,” she said. Her voice shook as she tried to force more confidence into it than she really felt. “I came to see if you’d be interested in any of my work.”

  With a smooth motion, Volkov took the package from Emily’s trembling hands. He did it so fast, she was almost convinced she had imagined it.

  Looking at her from under his brow, Volkov indicated for her to sit. Without speaking, he removed the wrappin
g and set about separating the canvases it concealed. He inspected each one silently, his face a blank mask that gave away nothing. Emily removed her coat while his gaze was turned and perched gracelessly on the edge of the chair with her legs firmly pressed together, watching him nervously. She felt conscious of her clothes, wondering if she had either tried too hard or not hard enough. She had managed to produce a billowing white shirt from the back of her wardrobe along with a respectable knee length skirt, which she wore with woollen tights and her trusted pair of thick, leather lace-up boots. On an impulse, she had adorned her neck with the red scarf that she had worn for Hugo’s funeral. The silence in the room was almost suffocating; when Volkov spoke again it was like the sudden bursting of a balloon. She had to try not to jump.

  “What makes you think I am interested in art, Miss Van Buren?” He was still looking at the canvases fixedly, not at her.

  Emily shrugged. “Call it intuition.”

  “Your work is strong,” Volkov said, placing the final canvas down on the table. “You put much of yourself into your creations.”

  Emily felt the blood rush to her face at the unexpected praise.

  “Though of course, you do not see me as a critic, but a potential customer, is that correct?”

  Emily nodded again, beginning to feel like an idiot. Volkov reached for the centre of the table, upon which lay a crystal decanter and a single, long necked drinking glass. The glass was surprisingly plain. He picked up the decanter in one hand and poured the glass full to the brim; the liquid was thick, the colour of burgundy. He placed it in front of Emily, fingers lingering against the glass for a second. The exposed wrist from beneath his crisp, black shirt was dark with thick, wiry hair.

  “Perhaps a little wine will loosen your tongue,” he said.

  Emily swallowed nervously. “But it’s only mid-afternoon.”

  “It would be an insult to refuse,” he said, his voice suddenly taking a darker edge. “It is good wine; you will enjoy it.”

  Emily was beginning to feel anxious. Here was a man she didn’t know insisting that she drink something that could be anything but wine, but something about the way he spoke compelled her to obediently take a small, tentative sip. When the ruby liquid hit her tongue, her mouth was alive with the taste of red berries and nutmeg and a hundred other flavours all at once. It tasted of shared memories and conversations, invoking feelings to unfurl and grow. Warmth spread through her body like a healing elixir; she felt her muscles relax as the wine trickled down her throat and into her stomach. It was good, better than good, probably the best she had ever had and would ever have again. She took another drink, deeper this time, Volkov watching her intently. Emily had to take care not to drain the entire glass from nerves.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Are you not having any?”

  Volkov made a noise in the back of his throat, like laughing without opening his mouth. “I keep this for… visitors.” He said, carefully. “I do not drink.”

  “But you said it was good wine,” Emily protested. The words were coming more easily now; her skin was prickling with sudden confidence and excitement; the wine, no doubt. “How do you know if you’ve never tried it?”

  Volkov looked away then, staring off into the middle distance for a moment. “I did not always live the life of sobriety, Miss Van Buren.”

  Even if Emily knew almost nothing about him, she knew at least with complete confidence that he was a deeply serious man in all things. It was an instinctive thing, seeing the way he listened to every word spoken with grave intensity and the persisting melancholy in his burnt-gold eyes, but she knew that she was right.

  “You can just call me Emily,” Emily replied softly, “If you like.”

  Volkov looked back at her abruptly, as if her words had pulled him from something she was not a part of. He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment, silently, and allowed a very small smile to play on his lips. He took up the pile of paintings again and began to look over them a second time. It was strange how every move seemed so deliberate and calculated, more like a wind-up doll than a man. When he came to the last picture, the charcoal drawing, he spoke again.

  “Am I to assume that you were acquainted with the former owner of this house?”

  Emily’s mouth went dry. She took another sip of wine.

  “This is Hugo Fairbanks, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Emily replied. “He was…he was a family friend.”

  Volkov nodded and looked over the drawing again with more focus than he had with the others. “You have captured his likeness well.”

  “Thank you,” Emily smiled at the compliment. “I wanted to commemorate him in my own way.”

  “Ah yes, immortalisation. The closest that man may come to Godhood, to immortality.”

  “How did you know him? He didn’t get out of Caldmar much.”

  “We corresponded,” Volkov replied. “Your Hugo appreciated the forgotten art of the hand-written missive.”

  Emily felt a small throb of sadness inside her. “He sent me a letter when I was at university.”

  She neglected to mention that she had never replied; she had been too busy attending lectures and making friends, too busy with her new life to bother with her old one.

  “Is that why he left you the house?”

  As soon as she had said it she knew that it had been a mistake. Volkov put the picture down, flattening it beneath his palms.

  “Who is your favourite artist, Miss Emily?” He asked, as if she had not spoken.

  “Magritte,” Emily said, firmly, not even having to think about it. “My favourite lectures were on Surrealism. John Martin is a close second. I love the way he paints things greater than people.”

  “I am aware of Martin’s work. I myself admire his sense of… perspective, shall we say.” Volkov inspected the piece in his hands again, eyes focused. “But you do not paint like Magritte, certainly not like a Surrealist.”

  Emily laughed gently. She felt oddly afraid of being too loud, the way she would be in a library or a church, and when she spoke again it was in hushed, almost reverent tones. “No, I don’t. I said he was my favourite, but he’s not my inspiration. I’d never want to paint like him. I’m not good enough. I’d feel like a sham.”

  “Who, then,” said Volkov, “inspires you?”

  Emily sipped on her wine, adoring the rich, fruitiness of it. It was going to her head too fast, and she knew that it was going to her head too fast, but it was so delicious she couldn’t stop herself.

  “No one,” she said. “I paint like myself. I paint for myself.”

  She set the glass down and pushed it away so it was just a little out of her reach. She was trying to exert some control over herself, to keep her head clear, but the mix of heady warmth and alcohol was slowly stupefying her.

  “As I said, your work is strong, but I must confess that I have little need of anything new,” Volkov continued, casting his eyes carefully over a night landscape she had created in swathes of purples and blues. “I have collected much in my time, works by names much, much bigger than yourself, I’m sure you understand.”

  Emily looked down at her hands. Her head felt muggy from the wine and her skin was prickling, the trapped heat in the room mounting as the fire burned on. She loosened the knot around her neck and unwound the scarf, feeling glad of the air on her neck. The dirtied bandage around her hand was hotter than her skin, the cut beneath it scalding. She clenched it shut, feeling the throb of her pulse in her palm.

  “Of course, I understand,” she said, only barely disguising her disappointment. “I didn’t realise that you collected art for wealth.”

  Volkov laughed, loud and full this time. It was a sound that she found unsettling, an almost unnatural barking noise, not the sound any human ever made at least. He looked at her then, eyes sliding down to the bare skin of her throat, now exposed.

  “You presume much, Miss Van Buren,” he said. “I have enough money and have no need for more. Did you not
notice that, when you were walking through my hall, I have had all of the paintings removed?”

  Emily thought back to the mirrors obscured by curtains, how the hallway was so dark she could only just see in front of her face. She shook her head.

  “I keep all of my paintings up in the attic,” Volkov said. “I do not display them.”

  Emily was baffled by this admission. To her, art was something that lived to be seen, something that existed only when a pair of eyes was there to take it in. To keep art locked away in some dark, musty attic the way Dorian did with his portrait was almost criminal. Her face evidently gave away the truth of her feelings.

  “You think me a beast,” he said coolly, “to hide the light of the human species under a bushel the way I do.”

  “I just don’t understand,” Emily said softly. She reached out and pulled her paintings back towards her, taking them up in her arms and holding them close to her chest, wishing she had never let him lay eyes on them in the first place. “If it’s not for money, or to look at, why even have it?”

  “I have a fascination with those that create.” Volkov said, walking around the table and towards the fire. He picked up a small stack of papers and, quite unexpectedly, tossed them into the flames. They roared up, burning bright in celebration, grateful to be fed. The light cast severe shadows across his face that settled into his eyes and cheekbones, making him appear frightful, almost threatening. “Writers, painters, the ones that make music, I believe that when a man creates, he puts a little piece of himself into that creation, and it is the closest he will ever be with immortality. In truth, it is a finer thing than immortality.”