Free The Secrets of Mia Danvers by Robyn DeHart

“Well, as much as a girl of fifteen can be an artist. I loved art and I was quite talented, with both pencil drawings and watercolor painting. But obviously paper will not work for me any longer. Now I have to feel it.” She moved her hand over the clay. “See here, here is where I’ll put her eyes, then her nose, her cheeks, mouth. It took me several days to get her hair, these curls, just so.” She set the bust down and stood. Again she wiped her hands, this time more thoroughly, removing any residue of clay. For her it made no difference, but she knew that for others it mattered if it appeared that she was paying attention, looking at them.
    “You’ve done this before?” he asked, something akin to wonder edged his voice. “Sculpted other busts?”
    “Indeed. Many times. I have been sculpting for nearly four years now. Though I have only begun recently to sell some pieces. Most of my completed pieces are available for sale in a small shop in Piccadilly.”
    “Her hair is rather nice,” he said. “Looks quite lifelike, well, if you account for the grayness of her.” He moved closer. She caught his scent on the chilly breeze. Outside of the earthy sandalwood of his shaving lotion, there was something uniquely him. It wasn’t hair tonic the way some men favored, nor was it alcohol or cigars, but rather something clean and woodsy. Perhaps his soap, simple, yet powerfully effective as it shot awareness through every fiber of her being and made her take note that he was pure male and they were standing here very much alone. Rachel had gone into town earlier that morning to pick up a few supplies.
    Mia felt herself smiling, whether to try to reassure herself or him, she wasn’t certain. “That is good to know. It was difficult when I decided to give her curls.”
    “Who is it?” he asked.
    “Diana, or Artemis, if you prefer. At least that is who it is supposed to be though I don’t guess any of us truly knows what she looked like, and I suppose since she is nothing more than a myth it doesn’t really matter. So my vision might as well be the right one.” Still she longed to get the image just so, precisely the way people imagined her.
    “She is the goddess of virgins, is she not?” he asked.
    “I believe there are those who give her that duty as well, though to most she is the goddess of the hunt and wild animals,” she said, rattling off what the patron had told her. She was an eccentric older woman who was utterly entranced with mythological goddesses.
    He was quiet for several moments, so she finally came out and asked, “Lord Carrington, why are you here?”
    “There was another killing,” he said abruptly.
    Mia’s blood turned to ice. Though the weather was not as cold today as it had been in previous days, a chill chased up and down her extremities, making her wool dress feel like nothing more than a flimsy night rail. One moment they’d been discussing the benign and now another poor girl was dead. Mia’s hands fisted and she realized how badly they’d been shaking, though not from the cold. She was instantly quite thankful she’d already set down her sculpture and tools so that she did not break anything. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Another? Here, at Danbridge?”
    “No, not here, but not far from here. At another estate. I want you,” he coughed, stepped closer, “I want you to speak with someone from the police.”
    A cold breeze ruffled by, stirring her wool skirts and chilling her legs. She reached for the cloak she’d earlier discarded upon her chair when she’d been sculpting. But before her fingers touched the fabric, Alex had it wrapped around her shoulders, his hand brushing against her own. For a moment the world stopped moving around her, the earth fell silent and she could only feel the warmth of his gloved fingers against her own uncovered ones. They lingered there for far longer than was appropriate before he must have come to his senses and stepped away