The Vanishing Sculptor Read Online Free PDF Page B

She frowned and then imitated his voice. “ ‘I don’t approve of this scheme of yours, Tipper.’” She jabbed a fork into her sausage. Grease splattered on her plate as resentment laced her words. “The voice of conscience coming from a feathered friend. You kept me up most of the night.”
    Beccaroon returned to nibbling on a seedcake.
    Tipper’s next words froze on her lips as the door to the hall was flung open. Bealomondore came in with a light step and a smile on his face.
    “Beautiful morning,” he proclaimed and proceeded to take the chair directly across from his hostess.
    His air of expectancy nearly crushed what little appetite Tipper had mustered this morning. She popped the bite of meat into her mouth, trying to deny the man’s effect on her.
    Beccaroon glanced out the tall windows. “The weather is, indeed, fine.”
    The tumanhofer smiled at the parrot. “Fine, yes, very fine.” His eyes turned back to Tipper. She forced herself not to squirm under his steady gaze. She slowly chewed the morsel in her mouth and refused to look up.
    Bealomondore sighed. Disappointment flowed into the room and surrounded them all.
    Tipper swallowed, put down her fork, and folded her hands in her lap. “I am sorry, Master Bealomondore. It was impossible to show my father your fine painting.”
    “Perhaps today?” He spoke softly.
    Tipper shook her head. “I regret that I have deceived you by allowing you to think that I would ever be able to win for you the post of apprentice.”
    She lifted her eyes enough to catch the shift in position of her guest. He pulled back, anger replacing the listlessness of remorse.
    She hurried on. “My father is not in the position to take on a student at this time.”
    “You knew this yesterday?”
    She nodded.
    “And the day before?”
    She nodded again.
    Bealomondore stood, his chair scraping harshly across the floor. “I do not understand your motives, nor do I wish to. Good day, Mistress Tipper. I ask Boscamon to bless you and your family. Your needs are greater than mine.”
    Tipper’s head jerked up. The artist was halfway to the door. “What do you want me to do with your painting?”
    He did not turn. “Keep it. It is not my talent displayed but a copy of another’s.”
    The door closed firmly behind him.
    “And,” said Beccaroon, “the paint is still too fresh to transport.”
    “Father put his oil paintings in a deep wooden frame.” She sniffed. “He packaged them to travel faceup, but in such a way that nothing could smear the picture.” She raised the napkin to wipe away a tear. “I remember sitting on the bench in his studio, smelling the paint, watching him construct the box, wishing I could draw pretty pictures too.”
    The door opened again, and Tipper lifted her head, hoping to see the tumanhofer. Another apology might ease her conscience.
    Her mother entered the room, gliding to the table with yards of gossamer fabric in shades of yellow and orange floating around her.
    “I spoke with Master Bealomondore in the hall. He is leaving us.” She sat in her place and rang a silver bell by her glass. “Such a pity too. Your father wanted to meet with him tonight. He’s actually heard of the young man. Tipper, why didn’t you tell me he is a promising artist?”
    Gladyme came into the room with a plate of scrambled eggs, muffins, and sliced fruit.
    “Here you are, Lady Peg. I’m sorry there’s no cream for your brew this morning. The cow’s gone off with thieves during the night.”
    Lady Peg picked up her fork and nodded as she gazed with delight at her meal. “Oh, this looks delicious, Gladyme. Never mind the cow. She was a most contrary creature without a lick of sense.”
    Tipper couldn’t keep her face from twisting into a grimace. They needed the cow. Milk, cheese, cream, butter. What would they do without Helen, the crotchety brown cow? Where had the barn dragon been? She turned her look of dismay to her parrot friend.
    Beccaroon leveled a