The Vanishing Sculptor (6 page)

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 young 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.”

“I want to believe you.”

“Was I dreaming?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

7
In Disarray

Beccaroon perched on the back of a chaise longue and surveyed the view from the nearby window. Moonlight bathed the veranda, muting the pinkish tinge so that the marble took on a bluish-gray color. He sighed over the sharp contrasts showing in the dark vegetation of the rain forest beyond. He’d much rather sleep in the canopy. At least Tipper had opened the window so the night fragrances danced in with the slight breeze.

His girl gave an indelicate snort and shifted position where she lay on the chaise. She had intended to stay awake and await the arrival of her father.

To occupy the time, Tipper had sung for him. She played a harpenstead, holding it across her lap and strumming chords or plucking the strings. Her soft, clear voice filled the lonely room with cheer. Beccaroon knew she had no idea how her music calmed those who heard her. Or if she sang a rousing tune, her audience responded with vigor. With proper training, her talent would outshine the greatest singers on any metropolitan stage.

Her tunes became mellower. Her voice deepened with emotion. At last, she put her instrument down and chose conversation. After three hours of small talk and yawning, she’d finally succumbed to natural fatigue.

The moonlight touched her as well. Her pale blue dress fairly glowed with the lavish luminosity from the sky. Her fair skin and hair glistened as if kissed by a shimmer of starlight.

Beccaroon sighed. Tipper’s gift of voice and musical ability astounded him. The best warblers in his forest did not surpass her. He doubted she comprehended the extent of her talent. She should have been given the opportunity to excel, not left under the guidance of an old bird in a tropical jungle.

Circumstances could not be changed. Bringing up the sweet child without the aid of a fully witted parent in residence had been a trial, but Verrin Schope had charged the big bird to stand in his stead should something happen to him. Three days later, the artist had disappeared.

The parrot clicked his black tongue against his beak, then preened, cleaning his chest feathers. He stopped midmotion and tilted his head toward the door. Voices in the hall approached Tipper’s bedroom.

Beccaroon stretched his wings. The two minor dragons in the room roused from their slumber. Junkit shook his head as if to force himself awake. Zabeth came to her feet and arched her back like a cat before settling and staring at the door.

The handle rattled and clicked as the latch released. Three indistinct figures walked through and paused in the semidarkness. The two dragons hissed. Junkit batted his wings, threatening attack.

“You said she was expecting us?” A rumbling voice came from the shortest and roundest of the three.

A lean figure in voluminous robes twitched his hand in the air. “Lights, lights, a bit of starlight and moon glow.” The air in the room suddenly held bits of shining material giving off miniscule beams. One orb the size of a fist floated over the empty bed. It looked exactly like a small full moon, right down to the gray shadows along the face.

In the light, Beccaroon recognized the third person as his missing friend. He opened his beak to speak, then clamped it shut. Had Verrin Schope returned in the company of friend or foe?

“Oh dear, tut, tut,” said the old o’rant who produced the twinkling lights and miniature moon. He shook a finger at Junkit and Zabeth. “Behave and greet friendly visitors with some vestige of courtesy.”

The dragons chittered and relaxed as if reassured by the gruff command.

Beccaroon watched with narrowed eyes. Perhaps these were friendly visitors, perhaps not.

The tall man gestured, and lunar moths escaped from his sleeve. The flimsy bits of pale gray fluttered about the room before following the moonbeams out the open window. The man seemed not to notice the insects and addressed the chittering dragons. “Much better. You have good manners, and I deeply regret that you are summarily ignored by most people. But of course, I am not most people. What is it, Librettowit?”

He bent to listen to the shorter man’s interruption. “Harrumph!” He turned and bowed to the dragons. “My sincere apologies for startling you.” He gestured toward Tipper. “There’s the girl and a bird. This is the guardian, I take it. Pleased to meet you, Sir Beccaroon.”

The parrot inclined his head but managed to pin Verrin Schope with a glare. His voice scratched the night air. “Welcome home, Verrin Schope. It’s been a long time.”

The emerlindian spoke softly. “Unavoidable.”

Beccaroon waited for more information, but his friend remained silent.

As if the old o’rant could read Bec’s thoughts, he jumped into the lull in conversation. “Yes, exactly, explanations!” he said. “Tut, tut, oh dear. We’ve disturbed the natives.”

Verrin Schope strode across the room and knelt beside his daughter. He gently touched her shoulder. “Tipper, wake up.”

She stirred and sat up, directly into her father’s arms. He held her for a moment with his eyes closed, breathing deeply as if the scent of her replenished his soul. Beccaroon blinked his eyes and wondered at the love between them after the extended separation.

After a long, quiet moment, Verrin Schope stood, taking his daughter by the hand and pulling her to his side. He beamed at the assembled company.

“Gentlemen, this is Tipper, my daughter.” He gestured to the guests. “These esteemed scholars have aided me in returning to you. Wizard Fenworth and his librarian, Librettowit.”

Tipper curtsied.

Verrin Schope inclined his head toward the grand parrot. “And as you have guessed, this is Sir Beccaroon, a cherished friend of the family.”

Librettowit and Wizard Fenworth bent at the waist, acknowledging the introduction.

Beccaroon bowed. “My pleasure.”

“Papa, the lights.” Tipper’s face reflected the wonder of the miniature night sky suspended in her room.

“Fenworth is a renowned wizard in his country, Amara.”

Tipper gasped. Her mouth dropped open, and she closed it with a snap. “That’s on the other side of the world. How—?”