Free Mortal Love by Elizabeth Hand

gallery?”
    â€œA private club. At least it was, a hundred years ago. It’s in private hands now. And it’s not open to the public. But . . .”
    Larkin leaned toward him. He could smell her hair: a woodsy scent, crushed bracken and a sharper underlying smell like green apples.
    â€œ... I know how to get in. There’s not much there, some oddments. A small painting by Jacobus Candell. Do you know him?”
    Daniel was so entranced that it was a moment before he realized that this demanded a reply. “Uh, no,” he stammered. “Another Tristan?”
    â€œNothing that normal. Candell’s a bit of a loony,” she confided, and laughed. “But he knew all those people—Swinburne and Burne-Jones and Rossetti, and—”
    â€œKnew them until he was locked away,” broke in Nick. He stood in the doorway, staring at them; Daniel wondered how long he’d been there. “I’m surprised you’ve never heard of him, Daniel. He’s just your sort of person.”
    â€œObscure literary figure?”
    â€œHomicidal maniac.” Nick slipped back beside Larkin. “Hasn’t he bored you to tears yet, Lark? Has he started quoting Bulwer-Lytton on Gottfried of Strasbourg?”
    â€œOh, shut up, Nick.” Larkin turned her electric eyes on Daniel, who hoped the candles wouldn’t reveal his blush. “Nick’s just jealous. It’s a brilliant idea. Sexy, too—”
    Nick hooted. Larkin ignored him.
    â€œSo it’s to be an illustrated book, Daniel?”
    He shook his head. “Well, that’s the problem. I want images, but not the same old stuff. There’s supposedly some remnant of the frescoes Rossetti and Burne-Jones and Morris did at Oxford, Iseult embroidering the black sails—”
    â€œDoesn’t exist,” said Nick. “I know, because I wanted it as cover art for Black Sails.”
    â€œBut it did exist.” Behind them Sira appeared, holding a tray of steaming demitasse cups. “I remember hearing about it when I was at Oxford. They hadn’t prepared the surface properly, only whitewashed the brick, and the paint wouldn’t hold. The frescoes fell to bits and faded away. You can barely make out where they were in the gallery above Oxford Union Debating Chamber, just a few vague patches. Oh, dear, I forgot the milk!”
    She bustled back inside. “A lesson for us there,” said Nick. “Always do your prep work.”
    Daniel looked at Larkin. She smiled at him; he smiled back, rapturously, and Nick kicked him under the table.
    â€œExcuse me.” Larkin stood, resting her hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I’ve forgotten something upstairs.”
    As she left, Daniel felt a wave of vertigo. The acorn. He slid his hand into his pocket, and yes, it was still there. His fingers closed around it; he thought of tossing it over the railing, had begun to turn when Nick grabbed his arm.
    â€œDanny.” Daniel froze, certain that somehow Nick knew what he was up to. “Danny, listen—don’t.”
    His mouth went dry. “Don’t what?”
    â€œDon’t fall for her. Don’t fall for it.”
    Daniel’s hand relaxed. The acorn slid into his pocket as he stared belligerently at his friend. “What’re you talking about?”
    â€œHer. Larkin. Don’t fall for it, lad. It’s a trap. It’s just beauty, Danny, and you’re above all that.”
    â€œThe hell I am,” said Daniel. “You were the one wanted me to meet her. She’s . . . interesting. Intense.”
    â€œThat’s—”
    â€œNick!” called Sira. “Phone!”
    â€œDon’t move,” warned Nick. “Stay right there. Don’t touch her.”
    Nick stalked inside. Sira passed him in the doorway and slipped back into her chair.
    â€œIt’s the manager at Dingwall’s,” she told Daniel apologetically.