The Eye of the Beholder Read Online Free PDF

I said, my eyes roaming over the delicately carved animals that looked as though they might leap out of the wood. I ran a fingertip over the pert squirrel peering out at me from the trunk of the tree that formed the chair's back.
    "Do you truly think so?" Papa asked, his voice sounding somewhat anxious.
    I turned to him with a smile. "I truly do. I cannot believe how talented you are."
    "I can hardly believe it myself." The sound of Papa's rumbling laugh made me smile even more broadly. For a very long time, it was a sound I had all too rarely heard.
    "But I thought your only order was for the bed. Who will be the fortunate recipient of this chair?"
    Papa smiled rather mysteriously and tapped the side of his nose. "Ah, but you shall have to be patient and wait for that explanation."
    I knew better than to try to cajole the information out of him; Papa's ability to keep a secret was legendary. Instead, I moved over to his workbench, pausing for a moment to admire the sketch he had made for the chair. I was correct; the finished product was far more breathtaking than the sketch, lovely as that had been. I flipped the sheet over and examined the one beneath.
    "What do you think?" Papa came up behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders as he peered down.
    He had sketched five prospective motifs for the bed, and I examined each carefully. "Not this one," I said, pointing. "It seems better suited to a dining table."
    Papa took up a pencil and drew an x over the design I had rejected. "I believe I may be partial to that one. What say you?" He pointed to one of the other designs and I studied it intently, trying to picture how it would look when my father brought it to life.
    "I do like it, but I think perhaps this lily should be replaced with a rose." I indicated a rather showy lily at the crest of the headboard. Looking up, I could see Papa stroking his chin as he considered my words.
    "Like so?" He took the sheet from my hand and, with a few quick strokes of the pencil, he altered the design as I had suggested.
    "Yes! Just so! Every bride in town will covet it."
    Papa dropped a kiss on the top of my head before leaning over and scrawling a few notes around the sketch. Though his work often seemed magical to me, I knew it was also the product of a great deal of time spent measuring and calculating proportions. His years as a merchant had given him a head for numbers, and I suspected it was the combination of artistry and mathematics that made his pieces so extraordinary.
    "Do you have the wood?"
    "The woodcutter will deliver it three days hence." Papa's voice was distracted, and he scrawled a few numbers next to his notes.
    "I shall leave you to it, then." I was unable to suppress a smile at his vague good-bye. He never failed to be enthralled by one of his projects, and it made me happy to see him so pleasantly engaged.
    For once, Thomasina and Rowena were at home. They sat by the fire, chatting idly, both of them bent over their embroidery hoops. My sisters spent hours stitching endless sheets and cushions that they then folded carefully and placed inside the exquisite chests Papa had carved for their trousseaux. Papa had carved a chest for me as well, but mine was filled with journals, scraps of parchment, and quill fragments.
    "Have you been minding the pot?" I asked, lifting the lid and stirring the slightly scorched contents.
    "The pot! I knew there was something I was supposed to remember. Thomasina, did I not tell you to remind me?" Rowena scolded languidly. She did not bother to lift her eyes from her handiwork.
    "You did, dearest, but you know I am hopeless at remembering such details," Thomasina sighed.
    "I imagine you would be more concerned about such details if this burned and you were forced to go with an empty belly," I accused, waving the spoon at them irritably.
    "Have a care, you clumsy oaf!" Rowena cried, as a bit of broth dripped from the end of the spoon, narrowly missing her hoop.
    "At any rate, you confuse