Porcelain Princess Read Online Free PDF Page B

which nothing further had
happened.
    ‘ I’m
thinking, I’m thinking…’
    ‘ The
Meaning of Life, Jacob; you said you were going to write down The
Meaning of Life.’
    ‘ Yes,
yes, I did , didn’t I?’
    And so, feeling
a fool, mumbling to himself over and over ‘The Meaning of Life
is…’, Jacob prepared to write down the first thing that cane into
his head.
    But the
beautifully graceful quill produced no beautifully graceful
letters.
    And the
perfectly linen-white sheet remained perfectly
linen-white.
    Out in the
fields, however, Jacob’s ground was left only half tilled. His
horse, with nothing better to do, was pondering The Meaning of
Life.
    Suddenly, the
answer that had eluded so many important and learned men struck
him.
    ‘ Wow,
I’ll have to make sure I never forget that !’ the
horse resolutely told himself, slowly turning everything over in
his mind. For he had neither pen nor paper, or even fingers to
write it down with.
    And he smiled
with contentment.
     
     
    *

Chapter
7
     
    Despite the
constant rocking of the wagon on the badly rutted road, Carey was
busily blending and mixing the paints she would need to replace the
posters that had either been damaged or lost to the wind in the
last town. The white of eggs, oil, crushed flowers, even seeds and
beetles; they all went into her pots.
    Open before her,
but placed at a distance where it was safe from any splashes, was
the Illuminator’s The Porcelain Child . Carey wanted
to match his colours, yet, as always, she was finding this
impossible, no matter which combination of ingredients she
experimented with.
    He could
perfectly capture the myriad of greens you could find in a blade of
glass, the yellows of every minute scale on a butterfly’s wings,
the reds of a fiery sunset, the blues of an inquisitive baby’s
iris.
    How did he
achieve such detail?
    How long did it
take him to paint just one of his pictures?
    If anyone ever
doubted that the Illuminator’s tales were based on reality rather
than mere fairy tales, they soon changed their minds on seeing his
pictures. No one, they would agree, would waste time creating such
beautifully accurate illustrations for anything as fleetingly
unimportant as a simple fairy story.
    If anything,
Carey took this belief even further; everything in his pictures
served a purpose, everything was done for a reason. And if
something within those illustrations seemed unusual or puzzled you,
then a careful study of the details, in combination with your own
logic and reason, would provide you with an answer.
    The Porcelain
Child had its own particular puzzle, one that caused Durndrin
no end of frustration whenever he played the father; for the father
was never really portrayed in the illustrations. He only ever
appeared as a shadow, an unclear reflection in an eye or a glazed
jug, or seen from behind or so low down that we only ever saw his
legs and boots.
    ‘ How
can I adequately play a fully rounded character, when we
know so little of him?’ Durndrin would complain after every show,
lamenting his own ‘unprofessional, unsatisfactory
performance.’
    ‘ But
as you’ve said yourself Durndrin, you’ve put more “meat on his
bones” than any other theatre could come up with,’ one of the
others would say in an attempt to reassure him, using one of his
own favourite phrases.
    As she stared at The Porcelain Child ’s illustrations, Carey could understand
Durndrin’s frustration.
    The man’s wife
was, as you’d expect from the Illuminator, portrayed with a skill
that made her leap from the page. You instantly knew the colour and
style of her hair, the shape of her face, her nose, the kindness of
her eyes. You knew the way she dressed, the graceful way she went
about her tasks, the patience and intimacy she displayed when
working on the most intricate parts of her creation. Her carefully
observed expressions alone allowed you to instinctively sense her
complete nature, her probable reaction to almost