Free Dust and Light by Carol Berg Page A

yet done. There was so much to convey.
    “Remeni!” At the brittle utterance of my name, someone yanked the page from under my hand. The loss of connection doused my frenzy like cold rain down my neck.
    “Give it back! It’s not done.” My right hand shook with pent urgency. I squeezed my eyes shut as if I could hold on to the vanishing lines and curves. But lacking a knot of completion, I could not hold on to the true image even for a few moments. Without touching the page, I was blind to my creation.
    “We’ve guests arriving.”
    Coroner Bastien crouched beside me, though he sounded as if he were at the bottom of a well. The yard was as quiet as the stone halls of the prometheum. Constance stood on the far side of the bier, holding her cloud-goddess cloak spread wide as a tent, as if to shield Bastien and me from the wind. Her pale eyes had grown to near half her thin face.
    I shook my head to clear it. “I should finish it now,” I snapped. “Details come sharper on the first connection. What’s wrong?”
    “Naught, I trust,” spat Bastien, mouth twisted into a sneer. “But you’re going to work inside the prometheum from now on. You attract far too much interest.” He snatched the stick of plummet away. “We’ll speak of it later. For now you stay with me.”
    The portrait wasn’t right. But without examining it, I’d no idea why. The image burning inside me would not manifest without my hand in contact with the page. In the main, I was pleased not to be constantly plagued with all the faces I’d drawn, but an unfinished work irritated like grit in a raw wound.
    Constance bawled for a yard boy to bring a sheet. As they covered the child and carried her away, Bastien’s expression, only half-masked by his unruly hair, was entirely grim.
    “Now,” he said, once we were alone, “I’ve a whore to question, and the other witnesses are dribbling in. Best you see how we do things. But don’t think you’ll escape this contract, no matter how much you dislike it.”
    Dull and shivering, I followed him across the yard. Never had it taken solong for my senses to clear. But then, I’d been very deep in the work and wasn’t used to being interrupted. What had set Bastien off about the contract?
    And how long had I worked? The light was failing. Snow drifted from lowering clouds, vanishing into the fire bowls with a quiet hiss. A few of the biers were draped with yellowed sheets, their occupants abandoned, but most were empty. Hours, then. Two, at least.
    Something was wrong. I pressed a fist to my forehead. Enchantment smoldered like a snuffed torch behind my eyes.
    “If you’re dissatisfied”—I matched my stride to the coroner’s—“I need to see the portrait to perfect the details.” Interrupted while drawing a living subject, I could always insist on a new sitting. But the dead must be burned or buried in a reasonable time, identified or not, and even if held back, I’d no idea how long a dead face would resemble a human person’s, much less its living antecedent’s.
    “Later,” snapped Bastien. “And you’d best have answers. That contract gives me remedies if you trick or deceive.”
    “I’ve never—” But he was clearly in no mood to listen. What was he talking about?
    My steps dragged as I crossed the smoky yard behind Bastien. Gods, how I wished to be home, bathing away the stink of this place!
    Most of the vendors had gone. The coffin maker’s girl huddled on a stool outside his stall. The purveyor of oils and unguents, pantaloons sagging in the damp, engaged in excited conversation with two of the yard workers. Their attention was fixed on the main gates.
    I kept my head down into the sharp north wind, uninterested in any newcomers.
    “Coroner!” Garibald’s sharp hail halted Bastien. Like an obedient donkey I paused, as well.
    The sexton cast a blistering glance my way and shook a dirty finger toward the gates. “Seems your prize has a visitor already—another