Free Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 by Josephine Pennicott Page B

biggest trade, and they always go for that sort of thing. I charge 10 per cent commission on any sales. Can you give me four to start with? I’m sure I could sell them.’
    I had to fight to look suitably casual about her offer, to keep the big delighted grin off my face.
    ‘Have you got time to sit and have a cup of tea with me? It’s such awful weather outside, you don’t want to go straight back out in it, do you?’
    I didn’t.
    ‘Did you know Johanna well?’ I asked, sipping a cup of peppermint tea. Wendy hesitated before replying, and her eyes slid uneasily away from mine.
    ‘Not well, no. Only through the business here. I had tried to involve her in some of the local women’s group activities, but she wasn’t interested. She was a bit of a loner, old Johanna. I do wish she had come along to our meetings. I’m sure that we would have benefited heaps from all her experience.’ Her eyes looked at mine, searching. I realised what she was hinting at and I tensed.
    ‘Do you have any of her paintings or drawings left?’ I asked in an effort to change the subject before she asked me to join her group.
    ‘Only one. It’s out the back. I was going to keep it for myself, actually.’ She disappeared, returning with a small, unframed oil painting. Two figures: a young girl like a fairytale creature, holding an owl; an elder female, an ancient Crone figure, with eyes piercing and sunken with age. Around the two women was a broken circle of light. It was a beautifully executed painting, but there was a sense of despair about the figures. The background was painted in various shades of black and shadows seemed to creep toward the women, who were caught in the broken circle. I frowned. Had I seen these women before? Was it in a book at my aunt’s? Maybe they were in another painting that she had done.
    ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. And it was. I felt the same sense of helplessness that I always did when I saw my aunt’s work. My own work in contrast appeared much more laboured, crude and clumsy compared to the astonishing array of emotions that Johanna managed to capture in oil.
    Wendy seemed embarrassed. ‘I’ll pay you for it, of course. I just really liked it, and I thought that I would get it framed.’
    I turned the painting over. On the back was scrawled, Khartyn and Rosedark — the circle is broken. I handed it back to Wendy, wishing that I could hang onto it, but it would seem churlish to reclaim it.
    ‘No, that’s all right,’ I lied. ‘I’m sure Johanna would have wanted you to have it.’
    ‘Is there much of her stuff up at the house?’ Wendy asked. She leaned closer to me, and I resisted the temptation to move away.
    ‘Heaps. Lots of studies, completed works and half-finished paintings. There’s a half-finished mural on the lounge room wall.’ I laughed nervously, not liking the intense way that Wendy was looking at me.
    ‘Well, any stuff that you want to get rid of, bring it to me. I’m sure that the craze for her work will continue. I know all the galleries are selling out of Johanna Develles. There was some journalist guy in here the other day after them. He’s planning on doing a book on her. I’m surprised that he hasn’t contacted you. By the way, if you ever come across a wooden box that she has in the house, then I’d be interested in purchasing it. It has a large shell on the lid of the box.’
    ‘I’ve seen that box,’ I said carefully, and I felt the energy between us change. Her tongue flicked her lips nervously, and I sensed her desire and need. ‘There’s no key to it. I was thinking of busting it open.’
    ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m interested in the box, key or no key. You might damage it if you force the lock. Besides, there is a key. Johanna told me. The key must be in the house.’
    I knew she was lying. The easygoing camaraderie that we had shared swiftly evaporated with that knowledge.
    ‘Well, I must be going,’ I said. ‘I’ve still got