Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales)

by Freda Warrington

  On the fifth page of results, a title caught his eye. “Aurata’s Promise. Central panel of triptych, tempera and gold leaf on wood panel. Artist: Daniel Manifold.”

  He tapped on the link and found a website for an art gallery, a working studio whimsically called the Jellybean Factory. He scrolled a list of names with a thumbnail image beside each one. Mist pressed on the stamp-sized picture beside Daniel Manifold’s name and up came a bright image like a religious icon. He sat back, stunned.

  There was a red desert landscape and a city of towers, gold and pale yellow and white, so glassy and weightless they seemed to float. But their perfect shells were crumbling, open to the sky. Smoke rose. A woman with flowing auburn hair and the face of a feline goddess stared straight at him, enigmatic, one finger pointing at a volcanic crack in the ground, the other hand holding up an orb to the fiery sky.

  He recognized the place. Even with her stylized, cat-like features, he knew the woman, too.

  “What is it?” said Juliana, leaning forward.

  “Aurata,” Mist said softly. “My sister.”

  3

  Ghosts and Shadows

  Stevie dreamed she was drowning. She was on her back, fully immersed in cold green water, enveloped in cushiony moss. The surface rippled above her face. No air bubbles rose from her mouth. Her struggles had faded to calm acceptance. She was now like an amphibian, part of this watery, mossy realm. She had always been here, a forgotten sunken treasure, watching the hypnotic play of sunlight and shadows far above …

  A steel cord snared her, dragging her violently up to the surface. She gasped in the dry world like a hooked fish.

  The “steel cord” was actually the shrill of her alarm clock. Stevie slammed her hand on the button to silence it. Seven-thirty. Waking brought a rush of adrenaline, her usual reaction to such disturbing, recurring dreams.

  The boiler that supposedly heated the water and radiators clunked into life, jolting her back to reality. She stared at the sloping, off-white ceiling as she recalled the previous day’s events.

  She didn’t believe Daniel was dead. He’d always been wrapped in artistic visions, but had he been making a decent living? Didn’t a London studio equal success? Yet she knew too well that anyone could put on a confident front while quietly falling apart inside. Inner turmoil, provoking him to some crazy action … well, that was possible. But suicide? Surely not.

  Stevie hoped with all her heart that his mother was wrong.

  Daniel had been her savior. The first time she met him, she was seventeenish and working in a café, without family or hope. One lunchtime, there he was at a table, sketching. He looked up, caught her staring in fascination, and grinned. Warily sliding into the seat beside him, she saw that he was drawing her. They began to talk. He was so excited to be starting at art college that she decided, in a spontaneous rush of optimism, that she would apply too.

  She had nothing to lose.

  He’d helped her compile a rushed portfolio of artwork, told her what to say at the interview, and by a miracle, she scraped in. Horribly out of her depth at first, she abandoned fine art and found her vocation in working with metals.

  Daniel had been her first true friend, her first lover. Until then, her only brush with boys had been fighting off the unwanted advances of older foster-brothers, who’d all learned the hard way to keep their distance. Daniel was different: gentle, nervous and equally inexperienced. They discovered pleasure together, until their bond faded naturally back into friendship again.

  Did he have other girlfriends? Surely no one special; no one she could remember. Since leaving college, Stevie had had occasional brief affairs, all of which she’d ended because she never felt at ease. She’d concluded she must be too unconventional or damaged to connect with “normal” people. Perhaps both she and Danny were simply too weird to sustain a proper relationship.

  Stevie made to get out of bed, but paused, recalling something else. His painting style had changed radically after he’d met her, or so he claimed. “I drew anything and everything,” he’d told her, “but I had no real direction. Once I met you, though … I can’t explain. It’s like you give off an aura and my head’s suddenly full of images that are really important, even though no one understands them, least of all me.”

  Thanks, she thought, since you weren’t painting pretty portraits of me. No, it was grotesque stuff like saints with snake heads, angels with lion paws and beaks—images that made your lecturers shake their heads in despair.

  Some muse I was. No, Dan, you had no business trying to shift the credit for your bizarre visions onto me. Credit or blame, whichever—it wasn’t my doing.

  She decided that when she found him she was going to tell him exactly that.

  “So what’s going on, Danifold?” she murmured. Reluctantly she pushed back the bedcovers and felt the chill of the air. “What’s happened to you?”

  * * *

  The watery world of the dream haunted her as she took a barely warm shower and dried off. How frustrating, that she rarely dreamed of anything more pleasant than drowning. “Aquaphobia” was the official term for her fear of water, a doctor had once told her, although his simplistic diagnosis didn’t begin to cover what she felt.

  She chose a calf-length patchwork dress in blue-green shades, adding a thick jade-colored cardigan. Once dressed and sipping a mug of tea, Stevie finally stopped shivering. She smudged kohl on her eyelids and worked at her knotty hair until it was more a flow of russet-amber ripples, and less of a fright wig. Perhaps she should trim it to jaw-length, like Fin’s, if only to save five minutes of pain and swearing in the morning.

  But her hair was part of her, a kind of veil that gave her both identity and camouflage.

  She hung strands of rough-tumbled beads around her neck: orange carnelian and turquoise. The color clash pleased her. She added silver gem-set rings that she’d made herself, and bracelets with dangling charms. Her spectral cat, like a tiny leopard, lay watching her from the bed with its claws digging into the duvet.

  The water dream had been unusually intense. The triptych, the sudden reminders of Daniel and the past, awoke feelings she was always trying to bury.

  By eight-thirty, Stevie was down in the museum shop, counting money into the till, firing up the computer, ensuring all was neat and ready for opening time. She checked the upstairs gallery, where examples of metalcraft stood on display behind glass: jugs, trophies, world globes, even a model battleship hammered from silver and gold. Her favorites were five skeleton clocks, each one unique, with their inner workings of cogs and spindles revealed like elegant kinetic sculptures.

  She unlocked the doors to the factory, poked her head in and said, “Good morning,” to the ghosts. No apparitions were visible, but she greeted them anyway, out of courtesy and a mild dash of superstition.

  Back in the gift shop, she entered the exhibition space, put out fresh piles of leaflets and tacked up a poster advertising a jazz concert. The clockmaker’s bench in one corner was her addition. However, one of the staff, Alec, was a lifelong clock-obsessive and often requisitioned her workspace. To her annoyance, he was untidy and failed to keep her tools in pristine condition. His latest repair lay in pieces strewn all over the bench. Yet Stevie indulged him, because visitors loved to stand and watch a craftsman at work.

  Such a novelty, these days, to see anything made by hand.

  By nine, her part-timers were arriving: Ron the retired engineer and Margaret, a cheerful, matronly type who’d worked in the factory in her younger days. Stevie had a dozen casual staff to call on, retired folk who worked for sheer love of the museum’s history. This gave the place a happy atmosphere, and made it easy for her to be a popular boss.

  “Morning, Ron,” she called as he passed, leaving a trail of wet bootprints. “Still raining, I see?”

  “And ruddy freezing,” he replied, turning and noticing the mess he’d made. “Oh, look at that. I wiped my feet, honest. Sorry, I’ll grab the mop.”


  “Don’t worry, Alec can do it,” said Stevie. “Get the coffee machine on!”

  Stevie never went behind the café counter if she could help it. Preparing food was not her favorite activity. When Alec arrived, he headed straight for the workbench. Mildly irritated, she called out, “Hold on, Alec, would you mind cleaning the floor first?”

  He stopped, giving her an ironically grumpy look over his spectacles. “Who’s doing the tours today?”

  “It’s on the duty roster. You’ve got the two o’clock.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He went to collect a mop, adding wet footprints of his own.

  Stevie sighed and went behind the counter. Alec was the only staff member who acted up; he was old-school and resented women telling him what to do. At least his sense of humor redeemed him.

  In the back room, she unfolded Daniel’s panel on her desk. The flame-haired goddess resembled an angel, offering a choice between heaven and hell … but no, that interpretation wasn’t right. She frowned. Daniel’s work appeared as puzzling as ever.

  “Sorry I’m late!”

  Fin breezed in, throwing her coat over a chair and complaining about the slow and rainy school run, and how if it weren’t for her kids, she would be on a plane halfway to Florida by now. Without waiting for a response, she hurried into the café, reappearing minutes later with two large cappuccinos.

  “Thanks,” said Stevie, accepting the mug. “The coffee bribe always works.”

  “Third time this week, and you’re not going to tell me off?”

  Stevie took a breath. “No. I’m going to ask you an enormous favor.”

  “Oh-oh.” Fin took a sip of her cappuccino, which left foam on her upper lip. “What dreaded task have you lined up for me?”

  “Nothing awful. Mustache,” Stevie added, grinning.

  “Always happens.” Fin wiped her lip with a tissue. “How come you drink yours so daintily? I end up with a Santa Claus beard if I’m not careful. This favor…?”

  “Right, okay, about the mystery delivery…”

  Stevie explained about her phone call to Daniel’s mother. Fin froze, staring.

  “Oh my god. You don’t really think he’s done away with himself, do you? That’s terrible.”

  Stevie’s throat tightened. She gave a vehement shake of her head. “No. I can’t let myself believe that. But his mother’s in real distress, and she’s not one to ask for help unless she’s desperate. I promised I’d go and see her. Today. Now. Can you manage without me?”

  “Absolutely. No problem. I mean,” Fin corrected herself, “absolutely not, but we’ll struggle through somehow. You want me to do anything with the triptych?”

  “Leave it in the office for now. I’ll make a decision after I’ve seen Daniel’s mother.”

  “No problem. Yes, go, Stevie. After all, when do you ever take a day off?”

  Only on Mondays, and only because we’re closed, she thought. Days off, she never knew quite what to do with herself. Sometimes she’d go shopping, or to the library or cinema in the center of Birmingham, but often she’d find herself back in the museum, dusting, restocking or rearranging displays.

  Stevie had to admit that her life was, frankly, a bit sad.

  “Thank you. That wasn’t the big favor, though.” She gave an apologetic grin. “Please can I borrow your car?”

  “What?” Fin sounded more startled than horrified.

  “His mother lives in the wilds of Derbyshire. I could go by train and taxi, but that would take forever.”

  “Fine, but, er, do you actually possess a driving license?”

  “Yes, of course. Look.” She took her purse from under the counter and produced the document. “I live over the shop, and I can walk into town or take the tram, so there’s no point in me owning a car.”

  “I know.” Fin rolled her eyes. “And since my car’s an old banger, only fit to run my kids around in—”

  “Hey, I never suggested that.”

  “I’m stating a fact. Don’t expect leather luxury. Yes, fine, when do I refuse you anything? We’ll hold the fort.” Fin passed her the keys. “Ignore the chocolate wrappers and dog hairs. My insurance should cover you … I think … just don’t put any dents in it, okay? Any more dents.”

  “You’re my fairy godmother,” said Stevie. “Make sure Alec pulls his weight. Don’t let him sit playing with his clock all day … er, you know what I mean.”

  “Sure, and please be back in time for me collect the children—five at the latest—if you don’t want to be turned into a pumpkin,” Fin retorted cheerfully.

  * * *

  Frances Manifold lived in a small village called Nethervale, deep in the countryside on the Leicestershire-Derbyshire border. The drive took Stevie only an hour. It was years since she’d passed along these narrow, hedge-lined roads, but as soon as she reached the village boundary, every detail was familiar, as if she’d never left.

  She turned off the main street into a side lane that curved between a mixture of farmland, cottages, and barns converted into smart modern dwellings. A stream ran along the left-hand side. The wide, grassy bank was lined with trees. Crows cawed, high above in their leafless crowns. Presently she reached a row of old houses, each one set back in its own grounds.

  Stevie pulled in at the side of the lane. Fog hung in the air and moisture dripped from the trees, soaking the grass and asphalt beneath. The lane was deserted, the air saturated with the wintry farm smells of wet grass and manure.

  The Manifold residence was a small Georgian-style manor, poised on an incline in a walled, wooded garden. As Stevie walked up the curve of the gravel driveway, the house, with its greyish white walls and unpretentious shabbiness, woke vivid memories of Daniel.

  His father had died when Daniel was nine. Lung cancer. That was all Stevie knew. She could only guess how hard his death had hit his wife and son, because they’d rarely talked about him. Frances Manifold was not one to show emotion.

  Which was harder, Stevie wondered, losing a parent or having no family in the first place? The ache of chronic absence versus the acute pain of loss—could they even be compared?

  Her feeling of dread rose as she approached the front door. She recalled Frances Manifold as a tallish, thin, acerbic woman, with copper hair cut in a short bob. Angular and tough, she was a paleontologist and looked the part in trousers and shirt of pale khaki. Her outdoorsy clothes and air of suppressed energy had made her seem always ready for action. She was a professor at a Midlands university, but Stevie suspected she was restless in lecture halls and yearned to be out digging up fossils in the wilds.

  At their first meeting, Frances had shaken her hand, her grip powerful and bony, her eyes like those of an eagle locked on to prey.

  Stevie had felt instant admiration for this strong, educated woman, and a desire for approval. Frances, unfortunately, had not reciprocated. The moment they met, Stevie felt she had been judged and found wanting.

  Perhaps she subjected all Daniel’s friends to the same caustic probing, challenging them to earn her respect. She made no secret of the fact that she’d wanted Daniel to go into science, like his parents. Art was not a proper career. And she seemed to consider Stevie a dreamy, shady reprobate who’d come to steal her little boy.

  Stevie, shy and awkward in her presence, had never known how to break the ice.

  Now she raised her chin and reminded herself that she was a grown-up, a professional in her own right, equal to anyone.

  The door opened before she reached it. Frances Manifold stood waiting on the threshold. Superficially she looked the same, but Stevie saw signs of aging and stress. A few more lines around her eyes, her expression tight with worry. Grey roots striped the coppery hair. Always bony, Frances had lost weight, which made her appear more brittle than tough.

  “Hello, Stephanie.” No smile, but her tone was civil. “It’s so good of you to come.”

  She held the door open and Stevie went in, breathing a miasma of floor polish, damp dog and st
ale cooking. The house hadn’t changed. The large entrance hall was grand yet gloomy: defiantly unmodernized. The same black-and-white engravings of Victorian explorers still hung on the greying ivory walls. A grandfather clock ticked portentously. Two glass cabinets full of fossils stood opposite the door, as she remembered.

  A golden cocker spaniel came lolloping out of a doorway, skidding on the buffed floor tiles. This was new. He snuffed at Stevie’s knees, tail wagging wildly.

  “Settle down, Humphrey,” said the professor, as Stevie bent to stroke the silky head. “He’s two, but still acts like a puppy. I seem to recall you’re not a dog person?” The tilt of her eyebrows seemed to imply an accusation. “I can remove him, if he bothers you.”

  “Oh, no, he’s fine, he’s really sweet.” Stevie was determined to defuse the tension that Daniel’s mother created without trying.

  “Well, I never thought I’d see you again, after you and Daniel parted company.”

  Yes, the edge was still there in her voice. Stevie sighed inwardly. “We never quarreled. No hearts were broken. We drifted apart, but we stayed friends.”

  “Hmm. Oh, let me take your coat and scarf. Chilly, isn’t it? This sort of damp cold gets right into the bones.”

  Frances continued, as she hung the garments on a peg, “So-called friends these days don’t see each other from one year to the next. It’s all email and social networking. Perhaps if you and Daniel had stayed in closer touch—oh, I don’t know what I’m saying. Come through and I’ll make tea.”

  “Thank you, Professor Manifold.”

  “Call me Frances.”

  “Are you sure? And I’m Stevie, not Stephanie.”

  “I’m not calling you by a boy’s name. That would be like you calling me Frank. Ridiculous.”

  Was there a hint of humor in the remark? Trying not to fall over Humphrey as he swerved in front of her, she followed Frances into a large reception room overlooking the back garden.