Free Skyscape by Michael Cadnum

married Curtis. Ten thousand women and roughly triple the number of men actually contemplated suicide.”
    â€œYou don’t have to be kind to me,” she said.
    â€œWe adore you, Margaret.”
    â€œHe’s not here,” she said. “Honestly.”
    â€œOf course not. He’s out in the woods, somewhere, I imagine up in Muir Woods. Or in Guerneville, canoeing. Fishing. That’s what he’s doing, I just know it.”
    â€œThat’s right,” she said. “He’s up there stream fishing with a Mepps double-zero. He orders them by the dozen—he keeps losing them on the rocks.”
    Bruno chuckled.
    â€œHe isn’t here,” she said. “He’s not hiding from you.”
    â€œHe’s hiding, Margaret, but I believe you, for the moment.”
    She was impressed by this, as though belief were a style of thought one could adopt or not, as one chose. “He’s up at the Yuba River,” said Margaret. “He needed to get away after—”
    â€œAfter the news,” said Bruno. He was silent for a moment. “I was stunned. I still am. It’s an outrage. They’ve ruled out terrorism, by the way. That entire part of Bloomsbury is gradually being renovated. It seems a welder’s torch set off a minor blaze. They thought the fire was out, but that night it returned to life.”
    His voice was sorrowful. “The art world has gone insane. Every Curtis Newns in existence has exploded in value. The trouble is that this was his only true masterpiece, the only work that the world simply had to possess. Of course, he may never paint another quite like it.”
    He was quiet for a moment. Perhaps he expected her to respond. But she was suddenly filled with hope, so full of feeling that she could not speak.
    He continued, “That’s really why I’m here, as perhaps you know.” He turned to look at her. “We need him to try, Margaret.”
    She said, softly, “Curtis may surprise you.”
    Bruno dabbed at his graying mustache with the napkin and gave her a steady look. “I want to see what he’s been doing.”
    â€œThere’s nothing really.” She had a feeling that surprised her: she did not want Bruno to see the drawings, the images of her body.
    â€œI can hardly wait.”
    Bruno no longer looked avuncular and amusing. His eyes were glittering.
    She said, in a way that had to sound teasing, “I don’t think you’d really be interested.” She wanted to protect herself and Curtis, their life together.
    â€œThe talent flowers again,” said Bruno, with a slightly threatening air behind his gentleness. “We knew you could do it.”

9
    They paused just outside the studio.
    There was always a feeling of trespass about entering the studio, especially when Curtis was not there.
    Mr. Beakman, the starling, jounced from food dish to perch to leather toy in his cage. He made a watery cackle, and then offered a strange, faraway sounding murmur, a noise that hinted at motion and power. Distant traffic, thought Margaret. He’s imitating traffic, or perhaps the rumble of a jet. She had known this before, but it stopped her thoughts: animals are alive to the world.
    Through the window there was an expanse of water, cliffs, green hills, a view that gave Margaret the feeling of being at the end of something. It was the end of a continent, of course, but also the end of what it was possible for humans to accomplish. To the east, the view seemed to tell her, lies all that people can do. To the west is everything else, the ocean, the wind.
    â€œThe work is over here,” she said. She knew how to control herself, make her voice steady. She wasn’t a weak person.
    But Bruno was quiet in a way that told her how unkind he could be, a large cat of a man.
    â€œHis studios were always so spacious,” said Bruno. “He was afraid of chaos, among other things. He was always