Free Walking in Darkness by Charlotte Lamb

this? Did you do it?’ he asked, bending to look at the circles.
    ‘Yes, I’m doing it as a Christmas present for Sophie. I photocopied old photos she has of her family, going back a hundred years.’
    ‘The copies are very faint,’ he observed, peering at the face of an old man with a long grey beard. You could only just see his features, whereas another man, in a rather crumpled white shirt, open at the neck, could be seen quite clearly.
    ‘They are copies of copies of copies – Sophie had modern copies of old family photos. The originals are in the Czech Republic, in her family home. Before she went to London, Sophie borrowed them and had a photographer make copies. When I started my wheel I photocopied them, then I kept copying the copies, to make them even fainter if the person was dead.’ Lilli stood beside him and put her long, slightly grubby finger on another circle. ‘For instance, this is her sister, Anya, a little girl who died before Sophie was born.’
    The childish face was wraithlike, fading, only just visible. ‘It’s extraordinary,’ Steve said, oddly very moved as he stared at the child. His mother had lost a child, a little girl, before he was born, he knew, although she never talked about it.
    His parents had called her Marcie; she had been premature and had only survived a few days, was buried in the little churchyard half a mile from their home. His mother visited the grave now and then, and tended the tiny garden she had planted above it. It was that which had told Steve how much the dead child had meant to her.
    ‘You know, I’m sure my mother would be thrilled with something like this,’ he said slowly. ‘Do you accept commissions? If I brought some photocopies of my family photos, would you do one like this for me?’
    Lilli put her head on one side and considered him thoughtfully. ‘I’d have to think about that. I need to know a lot about my subjects. What’s your background? Where do your people come from?’
    He laughed. ‘Why do you need to know that?’
    ‘People are like trees, they have deep roots; they are fed by their roots, and if they’re uprooted to a new place they often die, if not in the body then in the soul.’
    ‘Unless they’re very strong, in themselves, like the people who came to the States from all over the world and found a new home here,’ said Steve soberly, and Lilli nodded.
    ‘Sure. Where they came from was so bad they would have died rather than go back. Sure. What about your people? How long they been in the States?’
    ‘My family are New Englanders on both sides, from way back in the eighteenth century. English on both sides. On my father’s side the first American was a sailor who jumped a ship bringing rum from the West Indies; on my mother’s side we come from a parson with Puritan leanings who emigrated to find freedom of conscience.’
    She studied him with those dark pools of eyes, frowning a little in concentration, then after a moment said slowly, ‘Yes, I see both of them in your face; the courage and recklessness of your sea-going ancestor and the fanaticism and stubbornness of the Puritan parson. Interesting combination. Yes, I would like to do a study of you.’
    ‘A study of me?’ he muttered, taken aback. ‘But I thought it was my family you would be studying?’
    ‘Before I can create one of my wheels I have to know the person I’m making the wheel for, because in each of us a little of our ancestors lives, and the sum total of the wheel will be you. I shall use only pictures of your family that seem to me to explain you.’ She eyed him with faint mockery. ‘Do you still want one?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said, but with faint hesitation, because he wasn’t sure he wanted her probing and prying, asking questions, making guesses. On the other hand, he liked to please his mother and knew she would be fascinated by one of those wheels.
    Staring at Sophie’s wheel, he asked, ‘Tell me, does the art nouveau border have a