'Wouldn't miss it for the life of me,' he said, and watched her delightful small arse shake as she walked up the sandy road leading to the manor. When she disappeared through the trees, he turned his attention back to the view. The ridges had lost their glow now that the sun was rising. He'd best pack away.
The ravens watched as he returned his lens to its case. Bloody birds had no fear. He thought about waving them on, sending them scattering over the valley. Oh, bother that. The day was looking up, with fair and tender Lilith on the agenda.
He was about to head back for the manor and breakfast when he saw the web again. Still spread out in those fine and sinister patterns, shipshape. Lilith had walked right through it. And still it hung there, whole and perfect, waiting to snatch things from the air.
This place was going to drive him daft if he wasn't careful.
CHAPTER 17
Mason hewed the flesh of the oak, excited by the tannic smell of the wood. He worked with his hatchet, scraping it around as if skinning an animal. The log was braced with a couple of old chestnut boards, a pain in the rump to work around, but art was never easy. With the wires adding support, the oak waited for his touch like a masochistic and naked lover in a torture chamber.
The reddish strips of peeled bark were piled around his feet, and he stumbled in them as he felt along the wood's smooth surface. Here would be the arms, one knee here, a strong spread of shoulder there. This knot could become the ball of one loose fist.
He hadn't lied to Miss Mamie. The statue would be worth the trouble. Nothing great was ever created without a little risk. Suffer for art, that was the ticket to the top. Sacrifice everything and everyone, especially yourself.
Mason drove the hatchet sideways, into the area that would be the neck. He drew back and struck again and again, the outline of the form burned into his mind, his hands sure of their work. He chopped until his right shoulder and biceps ached, removing the sections of dead wood that blocked the emergence of the true shape. The flames at the end of the candles bobbed as the air stirred with his blows and breath.
When he could no longer lift his arm, Mason stood back and pushed away the wood scraps with his shoe. He moved across the studio space and studied the log from different angles. The height of the shoulders, the angle of the elbow, the distance between the feet, all had to be perfectly measured. As he was taking a step back to get another view, he knocked over the oil painting that he'd leaned against the cupboard.
He knelt and picked it up. Again he was struck by its singular beauty. How would he feel if his own work never left the basement, if it stayed forever in the shadows, never to be appreciated and admired? His work would be better than this, but the painter had talent. The soft brushstrokes and colors, the off-white of the manor, the splendor of the night forest, the turbulent storm clouds as fresh as wet reality.
He looked closer, at the top of the house. The smudge along the widow's walk was brighter now and had spread several inches across the canvas. Mason peered into the mist and blinked. There were angles and shapes in the smudge. He brought the lantern from the table and tilted it toward the painting.
Mason traced a finger over one of the shapes. The shape was a deeper gray white than the smudge, suggesting a human shape. More forms hovered beyond it, behind the thick pale line that portrayed the rail of the widow's walk. People?
People would be out of place in the painting. The house was the subject, so dominating an image in itself that to besmirch it with humanity would be a cruel insult. Had somebody else made the same observation as Mason, and tried to blot out those shapes on the roof? Or did the artist realize the mistake upon completion, and sought to correct it before the oils had dried?
Miss Mamie would know, or maybe Lilith, who'd shown an interest in the painting. Perhaps he'd be allowed to take it to his room and hang it beside that portrait of Korban. A master and his domain.
He leaned the painting back against the cupboard. His own work was more important. That was the artist's first tenet. Creative duty first, everything else second.
Besides, Mama was watching.
His wood called to him in the language of the unborn. He answered, with chisel and claw, tooth and hatchet, sharp blade and hungry soul.
Adam found Miss Mamie after breakfast. She sat in a wicker chair in the study with her hands folded in her lap. She was dressed in forest green today, her decol-lette gown showing the pale expanse of her upper bosom. She had foregone her pearl necklace in favor of a black silk choker.
She lifted her hands, revealing some small pieces of wood spread across a cloth. She had a knife in one hand, bits of wood clinging to the blade. As Adam watched, she sliced a length of thick vine and began wrapping it around what looked like the torso of a doll. The doll's head looked like a knob of dark, shriveled fruit, the features stretched and distorted from the act of drying.
The Abramovs were at the far end of the study, away from the fireplace and the sunlight that poured through the high windows. They were playing a minuet in andante that was reminiscent of Mozart. Their cello and violin trilled in counterpoint, then shifted into a descending harmony. The rich notes vibrated against Adam's skin.
He sat on the sofa across from Miss Mamie and bowed his head in respectful silence. He watched the musicians' fingers glide over the strings. The duo increased their tempo, then went into the recapitulation, toying with the melody before finally sustaining the tonic and fifth notes as a finale. Adam joined Miss Mamie in applause.
'Bravo,' she said. 'How extraordinarily lovely. Ephram Korban would be pleased.'
As the Abramovs started a new piece, Adam leaned over to Miss Mamie. 'How are you today?'
'Just fine, Mr. Andrews. How do you like my little hobby? An old Appalachian craft, passed down by Ephram himself. They say when you whittle a poppet, you're building a house for a lost soul.'
'Looks tough on the hands.'
'But they make lovely gifts. What do you think of this one?'
She held up the gnarled figurine, the twisted limbs of vine making the poor thing look crippled. It was hideous, the eyes crude, one larger than the other.
'That's wonderful. I don't think Daniel Boone could have done any better.'
'Are you enjoying your stay so far?'
'Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. I've decided to cut my visit short. I have, um, pressing business to take care of.'
Miss Mamie's brow darkened and she pursed her lips. She dropped the little wooden figure and it clattered off the hearth, the shriveled head rolling away. 'Oh, dear, what a great fall,' she said, so softly that Adam barely heard her.
Adam held up a hand. 'I'm not looking for my money back. My roommate Paul will be staying on.'
Miss Mamie looked out the window. A cloud must have passed over the sun, because the room grew darker. The Abramov melody shifted into a minor key and began twisting in agitato.
'Nobody can leave,' she said.
'I know the van doesn't come back up for another couple of weeks. I was wondering if you could possibly make other arrangements.'
'You don't understand. Nobody can leave. Especially you.'
Mrs. Abramov's face clenched as she increased the tempo of her chaotic melody. There was little of the beauty that the couple had been squeezing out of the instruments only minutes before. Now the notes were more like tortured wails than music.
Adam looked out the window. 'Can't one of the handymen take me down on horseback? I saw two of the guests out riding the other day.'
'It's not time yet,' Miss Mamie said, finally looking away from the window. Her eyes glittered with what Adam took to be anger. 'The party is tonight. A lovely affair, up on the widow's walk under the full moon. It's something of a hallowed tradition at Korban Manor.'
'I can pay extra for the trouble. I know what a bother this is.'
