like forces driving in the glassy curls of wild sea water. There were greens and greys and silvers like needles of rushing air in dark depths. Dorothy turned to speak to Tom, and found that he had disappeared, and the presence at her shoulder was Philip.
“These are for Fludd,” said Philip. “In memory of. Some of them are his shapes.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy.
“The ones over here are my own.”
The second group was glazed gold, or silver, or lustre shot with both. The pots were covered with a lattice of climbing and creeping half-human creatures, not the little demons of the Gloucester Candlestick, not the tiny satyrs of the Gien majolica, but busy figures—some bright blue with frog-fingers, some black, some creamy-white, with white manes tossing—unlike anything Dorothy had seen.
“Pots are still,” said Philip.
“Nothing keeps still on your pots.”
“I make things keep still. That don’t, naturally, keep still. Sea water. Things in the earth. You need to hold the pots to see how it works.”
He reached over and picked up a round golden jar, covered with silver and soot-black imps.
“Here. Hold that.”
“I’m afraid to drop it.”
“Nonsense. You’ve got good hands. Remember?”
Dorothy stood with the pot in her hands, which held the cool light weight of the shell. The moment it was between her fingers, she felt it three-dimensional. It was a completely different thing if you measured it with your skin instead of your eyes. Its weight—and the empty air inside it—were part of it. Dorothy closed her eyes, to see how that changed the shape. Someone said “Excuse me, sir, madam, you must put that back, it is not allowed to touch the exhibits.” A small man was pulling at Philip’s sleeve.
“I can touch them if I like,” said Philip. “They’re mine. I made them.”
He had blond hair plastered to a red-hot head. He said “You have to understand, everyone wants to pick them up, the pots ask for it, and if you start…”
Philip laughed. “Put it back, Dorothy. He’s made his point.” He said to the attendant “This lady is studying to be a surgeon. She’s got steady hands.”
“Yes, sir. Even so—”
Dorothy returned to the pot to its stand.
Charles/Karl said to Elsie “We could go out and eat dinner.”
“And how would I get back?”
“Back to where?”
“Me and Philip are in a hotel in Kensington.”
“I can take you back.”
“I can’t. You can see that. I have to have dinner with Philip, and the—the other people.”
Charles/Karl said “I could cadge an invitation. Then we could—”
“All this is no good, and you know it.”
But he cadged his invitation, and managed to sit next to her, and they both felt hot, and too much alive, and desperate.
Julian was in love with Griselda. He had not known for very long that this was the case. He liked keeping it quiet, a secret even from the beloved, unlike the simmering male gossip and endless speculation at King’s. He was keeping it quiet, too, because he detected no signs that his love was reciprocated. Griselda enjoyed his company, because he knew a lot, and understood her if she said things that would puzzle most people. But she was
“These are turbulent pots. Seething pots. Storms in teacups and vases. Creatures running through everything like maggots in cheese. Stately vessels with storms raging on them.”
“You get things right. You are very clever.”
“I wish I could make things, instead of being clever about other people’s things. I remember finding Philip when he was a filthy ragamuffin hiding in a tomb in a basement. I only wanted to stop him trespassing.”
Griselda laughed.
“And now they’ve bought that big bowl with a flood on it, and that tall jug with the creatures climbing, for the Museum.”
“That’s a good story.”
“Rags to riches.”
“Well, to works of art, anyway—”
Dorothy went back to Todefright for the weekend. She got up early, and found Tom eating bread and butter.
“Let’s go out for a walk,” she said. “It’s a bright day.”
Tom nodded. “If you like.”
“We could go to the Tree House.”
