The Vanishing Sculptor Read online

  “Here you are, Lady Peg. I’m sorry there’s no cream for your brew this morning. The cow’s gone off with thieves during the night.”

  Lady Peg picked up her fork and nodded as she gazed with delight at her meal. “Oh, this looks delicious, Gladyme. Never mind the cow. She was a most contrary creature without a lick of sense.”

  Tipper couldn’t keep her face from twisting into a grimace. They needed the cow. Milk, cheese, cream, butter. What would they do without Helen, the crotchety brown cow? Where had the barn dragon been? She turned her look of dismay to her parrot friend.

  Beccaroon leveled a beady eye at the housekeeper. “Thieves?”

  “Yes, Sir Beccaroon. Lipphil’s out looking for clues at this very moment. Tracks or an open gate is what he expects to find.”

  Beccaroon hopped down from his chair. “Excuse me, ladies. I shall go investigate.”

  Lady Peg smiled his way. “Thank you, dear friend. It is so nice to have someone around who takes charge and investigates. Investigating is not Verrin Schope’s strongest pursuit. Research, yes. Creating, yes. Inventing, yes. But investigating domestic irregularities rarely interests him.” She took a bite of melon. “Having the local magistrate at breakfast on the day the cow takes off is most convenient.”

  “Yes, Madam.” Beccaroon bowed. “I shall report back when I have something to tell.”

  “Oh, that isn’t necessary,” said Lady Peg. She smiled as a thought came to her. “Perhaps you should tell Tipper.”

  Beccaroon passed through the door to the veranda. “Certainly, Lady Peg. As you wish.”

  Gladyme poured tea into her ladyship’s cup, then removed the parrot’s plate and bowl. She bustled out the door to the kitchen.

  “Now tell me, Tipper,” said Lady Peg, “why you are so gloomy. I see the trace of a tear on your cheek. Your father will be in here in a flash if I tell him his darling girl is unhappy.”

  “Mother, Papa never comes in a flash. I’ve been unhappy for years.”

  “My goodness, I think that must be an exaggeration. Years? I would have noticed, dear one. And your father would have noticed for sure. He is much more perceptive about emotions and problems and impending doom than I am.”

  Tipper felt fresh tears push from behind her eyes. She batted her eyelashes quickly to force them back. If only she, too, had a pretend relationship with her father, she would dump all her troubles on him and let them disappear. But Tipper was obliged to live in reality.

  “Mother, you didn’t tell Bealomondore that Papa wanted to see him this evening, did you?”

  “Tonight, not this evening. Your father will still be working in the evening.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Who?”

  “Bealomondore.”

  “What?”

  “That Papa wants to see him.”

  “Now what would be the point in telling him? The man is leaving, so of course he cannot meet with your father. Tipper, honestly, sometimes your logic runs around chasing rabbit tails.”

  “Rabbit trails.”

  “Your own tail, like a dog. Where are the dragons this morning?”

  “Sunning themselves.”

  “A good occupation. Keeps them out of trouble. If they aren’t moving, they can’t be into mischief.” Lady Peg dropped her hands to the table, a knife loaded with butter in one and a muffin in the other. “Tipper! Were you crying over Master Bealomondore’s departure? This will not do, you know.”

  She didn’t give Tipper a chance to answer but continued while waving the buttery knife. “I don’t know any of the Bealomondores, and though your father seemed acquainted with the family, this young man did not have the courtesy to delay his departure long enough to speak with your father. And if he wants to court you,” she said, gesturing wildly with the knife, “he must speak to Verrin Schope. It is only right.”

  A blob of butter sailed from the tip of Lady Peg’s knife and landed on the tablecloth beside Tipper’s plate.

  “He didn’t want to court me, Mother.”

  “Good. I’m leaving this afternoon to visit my sister. The picture you gave me last night is lovely. Your father liked it too, though he said he didn’t paint it. He did make me a box to transport it in.” She sighed, picked up her napkin, and dabbed the corner of her mouth.

  “We couldn’t have Bealomondore hanging around, trying to win your affections without a proper chaperon, and your father certainly isn’t that.”

  As she wiped up the dab of butter, Tipper spent a moment wondering how her mother had acquired a box. Had Lipphil made it? Had she found an old one in the studio? She bit back these questions and presented one that might possibly elicit a straight answer. “Mother, how did you know that Bealomondore is a promising artist?”

  “You must attend more carefully when you are spoken to, Tipper. Your father told me.”

  “He did?” Tipper’s eyes narrowed as she thought. Gladyme and Lipphil would not have mentioned the tumanhofer’s talent. Rolan and Zilla wouldn’t have either. Sometimes her mother baffled her.

  Obviously unaware of her daughter’s confusion, Peg sipped her tea. “Yes, your father expressed his good opinion in no uncertain terms. And, of course, Bealomondore did do an excellent rendition of the fountain and the flowers around it. But if you correspond with your suitor, my dear, urge him to develop his own style instead of copying your father’s.”

  “He is not my suitor, Mother.”

  “The tumanhofer may not suit you, dear one, and I can’t say I blame you. There was that bit of nonsense about the furniture, but you must be open to the idea of someday accepting some man as your bemused.”

  “Betrothed.”

  “Generally when a man falls head over heels in love, he is befuddled. A more polite way of saying that is bemused. Befuddled implies a simpleton, and I don’t think your father would allow marriage to a simpleton. Not that simpletons can’t be rather nice. But he would rather announce your befuddlement to a man with a bit of brains.”

  “Engagement.”

  “Oh, I do hope you don’t have a day filled with engagements. I need you to help me get ready to depart.”

  Tipper pushed back her chair and rose. “I’ll help you, Mother.”

  “That’s nice, Tipper. But let’s postpone that until after we pack. I really don’t have time to dally today. I’m going on a trip.”

  6

  Dreams?

  Tipper sat on a stone bench, let her slippers fall from her sore feet, and wiggled her toes. She sniffed the soothing fragrance of the giant pordimum blooms. Evening always brought out the perfumes in the garden.

  Given the lazy atmosphere, she had to fight the urge to stretch out on the bench and close her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever being so tired. She did recall the last time she sat for more than one minute. It had been at breakfast when her mother announced her intention to depart that very day.

  Beccaroon perched on the edge of the fountain, eying the gold, ruby, and sapphire fish swimming in the circular pool.

  Tipper gazed at him fondly, knowing the swishglimmers were safe. Her friend would never stoop to snatching an ornamental fish for a snack.

  Overwhelming fatigue banished the urge to get up and fling her arms around the big bird. She loved him, but he didn’t like displays of affection, and her body ached from running hither and yon for her mother, lifting and carrying and sorting. She was also weary of holding her tongue. It did no good to argue with Mother, just as it did no good to argue with Bec.

  She frowned, considering all the fuss they had gone through today because of her mother’s odd disposition. Lady Peg had once been Princess Peg. She’d been banished from the royal city, and Tipper secretly believed the action had been for the good of the country.

  Sir Beccaroon, on the other hand, had the personality for leadership. Tipper remembered why she had sought him out. He’d taken many burdens off her shoulders that day.

  “Thank you for all your help,” she said.


  He turned his head until he almost faced backward. He nodded in her direction. “You’re welcome.”

  “And thank you for arranging the use of Lord Pinterbastian’s carriage, horses, and servants to tend to Mother on her journey.”

  “You’re welcome again, and no need to go into all the other incidentals I arranged today. You know I enjoy a list of things to do and the satisfaction of getting them done.”

  “Did you find out anything about our cow?”

  “Helen is back in her stall.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “How ever did you manage that?”

  “I didn’t really.” He turned to face her. His elegant tail dipped into the water. A throaty growl revealed his displeasure. He raised the feathers, shook a fine spray of droplets back into the small pool, and flew the short distance to her bench.

  Tipper leaned against him. “How did we get our cow back?”

  “When I went looking for your mother yesterday, I noticed a camp of unfamiliar people. This morning I sent several rangers to keep watch over them. Your dragon Trisoda was already there, chittering and scolding from a safe distance at the top of a tree. The men found the tiny beast’s clamor quite amusing until the rangers showed up. The louts were arrested, and Trisoda coaxed Helen home.”

  “I should tell him thank you.”

  “Trisoda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he’d understand you?”

  “Sometimes I think the domesticated dragons do understand us.”

  Beccaroon chortled.

  Tipper sat up and scowled at her friend. “Really, Bec. Sometimes I think they would speak if they could—that words are formed in their minds but there’s no way for them to vocalize.” She clasped her hands in her lap to keep from shaking a finger at her friend. “Zabeth, in particular, has a very expressive face, and she often reacts to what I say.”

  Beccaroon clicked his beak. “Your heart is too tender, Tipper. You give a beast attributes that belong only to thinking creatures.”

  She bristled. “Dragons have personality, a sense of humor, character, and can be cunning. Why do you say they don’t think?”

  “Awk! A young girl’s romantic notion. Next you’ll be telling me that hens gossip.”

  The emerlindian lass lifted her pointed chin. “Perhaps they do.”

  “If they do, that would make them a less palatable choice for your next meal.”

  Tipper stood. “Oh, really! I have never eaten a dragon, nor will I. Chickens and dragons are entirely different.”

  “One’s a pet, and the other is food.”

  “I’m not even sure you can say a dragon is a pet. They seem entirely too independent to be ranked with a dog or cat.”

  “You’re tired and fanciful.” Beccaroon pointed to the manor. “Go eat the sandwich Gladyme is making for you and go to bed.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I will check my territory for intruders before I turn in.”

  “I’ll leave your bedroom window open.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “You don’t know how relieved I am that you’ll be here until Mother returns.”

  Beccaroon ruffled his feathers until his neck bulged twice as large as normal. He squinted one eye, looking very indignant. “Perhaps in that time I can teach you to treat my person with more respect.”

  “You won’t indulge me a few kisses?”

  “Awk!” He spread his wings to fly away, but Tipper stopped him.

  “Look at this, Bec. Isn’t this odd?”

  He came to her side and examined the row of rocks providing an edging to a flower bed.

  “What?” He peered where she pointed.

  “The rocks are the wrong color.”

  “A trick of the light.”

  “No, these should be almost white, and they are not. You can see how dark they are, can’t you? Almost black.”

  “Perhaps, but I can’t remember how light they were before. Check them in the morning, Tipper. I can’t believe this portends something other than that someone carelessly spilled something on them. Good night, now.”

  He turned and flew away, over the lush forest and out of sight.

  Tipper picked up one of the rocks and noted how very light it was. The surface didn’t feel sticky. She dropped it back where it belonged and left the mystery unsolved. Her brain could not handle anomalies tonight.

  She visited the kitchen but could eat only half of her meal.

  When she rose to go to bed, the housekeeper shook her head. “You’ll have bad dreams on an empty stomach.”

  “I’m sorry, Gladyme. I’m too tired to appreciate your fine food.”

  “Off to bed then.” Gladyme made shooing motions with her hands. “I’ll have a hearty breakfast ready for you in the morning.”

  Tipper smiled her thanks and left the cozy kitchen. She made a detour to open the window in the chamber where Beccaroon would roost when he returned, then went to her bedroom.

  While she brushed out her long hair and rebraided it for the night, she gazed at the family portrait on her vanity. She was the ghost-white baby in her mother’s lap. All emerlindians came into the world exquisitely fair, and as they aged, their skin reflected the benefits of maturing. Wisdom, experience, and knowledge all revealed themselves on the outside of an emerlindian in a glorious brown complexion.

  Although twenty years had passed, Tipper’s mother looked exactly the same as she did in the portrait—wide-eyed, full of wonder, with just a hint of authority in the tilt of her chin. No matter how inane her commands might be, her mother was accustomed to complete compliance.

  Of course, Verrin Schope had painted the portrait. When he finished the likeness of mother and daughter, he painted himself as if he stood behind them the whole time.

  “Just as it is now, Papa.” She picked up the picture and tapped her father’s image on the chest. “You were not really there as you are not really here. Why do we keep up the pretense for the general public?”

  She knew the answer to her question. It was for her mother’s peace of mind that they pretended Verrin Schope still manned the helm of their family ship.

  She frowned at the picture. “What are you doing that you cannot tend to your wife, daughter, and home?”

  She did not know the answer to that one.

  Tipper blew out her candles and crawled in between clean, cool sheets.

  The creak of hinges brought Tipper out of a pleasant sleep. She listened, but the silence of the room allowed her to sink beneath consciousness once more.

  Again she roused. Breathing. Not her own. She lay very still, concentrating. Nothing.

  I’m dreaming that bad dream Gladyme warned against.

  She opened her eyes. Darkness draped the furniture, the curtains, the walls.

  Nothings here.

  A rustle disturbed the quiet. Tipper moved her eyes toward the direction of the sound. In the round mirror above her vanity, two eyes peered into the room.

  She stared. The eyes blinked. She swallowed.

  A mouth below the eyes opened, grinning.

  “Are you awake, Tipper?”

  “No.”

  “Come, now. I don’t have much time.”

  The eyes and mouth shifted, moving out of the mirror frame. The bed behind her sank as if someone sat on the edge. She realized the image had been a reflection. The person, a very real person, patted her on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze, then a shake.

  “Tipper-too, get up!”

  Only one person called her Tipper-too, and that person had not been around for a very long time.

  “Papa?”

  “Well, it better not be any other man in your room in the middle of the night.”

  She sat up and twisted around to face him. He wore black from his neck down. A robe of some kind. His complexion had darkened considerably. She reached for him, tentatively touching his arm. In a swift lunge, he enveloped her in a strong embrace.

  “My girl, you’re a y
oung woman now. Beautiful, just as your mother said.”

  Tears streamed down Tipper’s face, and she sniffed loudly. “Have you come home for good?”

  He leaned back and looked her in the eyes. “I’ve been living a very complicated life, but I do believe I have solved the mystery that will end my constant journeying.”

  He wiped tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “I have only a minute or two before I fade again. Tell me, where is your mother?”

  “She went to see Aunt Soo.”

  “Dribbling drummerbugs, that puts a twist in my string for sure.”

  “Papa?”

  “Yes?”

  “My arms are sinking into you.”

  “Rather, going through me, Tipper. Not to worry. I shall try to return tomorrow night.”

  The space before her was empty. “Papa?”

  Tipper jumped out of bed and ran down the hall on bare feet. She stopped at Beccaroon’s bedroom and pounded on the door.

  “Aaawwk! Come in!”

  She wrenched the handle down and rushed into the room. “Papa was here. In my room. I spoke to him. He’s gone.”

  Beccaroon shook his head. “Dreaming.”

  “I was not!”

  The bird tilted his head, and moonlight glinted in his wide eyes. “Were the lights on?”

  “No.”

  “What were you thinking about before you went to bed?”

  Tipper remembered the portrait, Gladyme’s comment about having dreams, and her strong desire to ask her father questions. She didn’t answer Beccaroon.

  The bird nipped her arm.

  “Ouch!”

  “Did you remember to pinch yourself to see if you were awake?”

  Tipper rubbed her arm. “No, but I felt Papa’s arms around me. He hugged me.”

  “And you hugged him back?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Beccaroon cocked his head. “But?”

  Tipper’s chin sank to her chest. “My arms went through him, and he disappeared.”

  The bird remained silent.

  “He did say he’d try to come back tomorrow night.”

  Beccaroon stretched his wings and let them settle to his sides. “We’ll sit up together and wait for him.”

  “You believe me.”