The Vanishing Sculptor Read Online Free PDF Page A

circumstances. A circus performer who tossed balls into the air had never appealed to Beccaroon. Surely if someone had the power to control the universe, he would be more caring. As the magistrate, Beccaroon took his duties seriously.
    He leaned toward there being a deity. Obviously, order came from somewhere beyond the scope of the temporal races. Although great minds could detect design in nature that had to be intelligently created, no one explained the phenomena to his satisfaction.
    Nevertheless, in the end, balance was maintained. He pictured truth as a chunk of ice in a pond. One could push it beneath the water, but it would bob to the surface. He had instructed Tipper on the reality of choices. Action created reaction. There would be a reckoning for Tipper’s deception. Experience would teach her the validity of his observations.
    He strutted down the hall, following his girl, and muttered, “I hope the lesson doesn’t hurt too much.”
    Tipper’s thin leather soles beat a rapid rhythm on the wooden servants stair. She’d chosen the quickest route to the parlor, where she had last seen Bealomondore sipping a glass of wine and reading a book from her father’s library.
    Outside the door, she took a moment to slow her breathing and run through the lines she would use to put off the tumanhofer. After squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she swept into the room.
    “My mother is about to arrive.”
    Bealomondore jumped to his feet. “I will be allowed an audience?”
    “No, not tonight. I’ve explained. I will use the best of my diplomacy to present your case in a favorable light. Popping up out of nowhere and surprising her is the worst tack you can take. Please, avoid her at all costs. In the morning, at breakfast, I will tell you what I have accomplished.”
    The artist scowled, and Tipper held her breath, wondering if he would accept her terms. Finally he let out a sigh that seemed to deflate his shoulders.
    “All right.” He scooped up the book he had been reading. “Mind if I take this to my room? I doubt I will sleep tonight waiting for the verdict.”
    “Of course, Master Bealomondore, take the book. And if you would like, I will have Gladyme check on you before she goes to bed. Perhaps you would like her to bring you a light refreshment later?”
    The tumanhofer bowed. “You are too kind.”
    Tipper hesitated. Was that a snide remark? No matter. She would have the artist out of the way.
    She curtsied. “I fear we are not an easy family to get to know. My father is very much immersed in his work. My mother is of a nervous nature and doesn’t like to have her routine disturbed. And I have not studied the social graces. I beg you to forgive us our inhospitable ways.”
    Bealomondore frowned again, but there was a touch of compassion in his gaze. “I fear that your family suffers at the hand of your habits.”
    Tipper felt her back stiffen and her chin come up. This tumanhofer had no business passing judgment on how they lived. “We are mostly content,” she countered.
    “Perhaps you have nothing to compare your present circumstances with, but surely your parents are aware that to squander a life is foolishness.”
    A rustle preceded the words pronounced behind Tipper. “Squander? Foolish?”
    Horrified, Tipper whipped around to find her mother standing in the doorway.
    “Do you already know of my purchase, Tipper?” Lady Peg looked over her shoulder. “Here they come now.”
    Grunting accompanied the arrival of something heavy. Rolan appeared in the doorway with a familiar grandfather clock angled on his back and shoulder. He held a rope to keep it from sliding.
    Lady Peg gestured toward the far wall. “Right there, Rolan. Thank you so much. I’ve always wanted such a clock for that space, and this is just the thing. I do admit it was a bit dear. But perfect, don’t you think, Tipper?” She gestured toward Bealomondore. “Give Rolan a hand, won’t you? Help him ease it down to