Blackthorn Winter by Kathryn Reiss Page B

except Duncan Carrington, and he's not very talkative. At least not to me."
    Kate nodded. "Duncan's shy at first," she agreed. "But he'll loosen up, and once he starts talking—watch out. And by the way," she added, "his last name isn't Carrington actually; it's MacBennet. Quent Carrington is his stepfather."
    Had I already been told that? I couldn't remember. "So, why are you coming to the party tonight?" I queried. "I mean, I'm glad you are coming ... but it must mean your parents are artists, right? Because isn't this party about introducing my mom to the artists of Blackthorn?"
    "Neither of my parents is an artist," Kate said, "but
I
want to be. I mean, I am—rather. I'm quite interested in photography, you see, and I've been taking and developing my own pictures for about a year now. Oh, I know it's not really
art
—or at least that's what Mother says. It's just dabbling, I know that. But I saved up and bought myself this really good camera, and it's brilliant."
    "I think lots of people consider photography to be art," I countered, not much liking the sound of Kate's mother. "Loads of museums have exhibits of photographs. And there are tons of famous photographers—"
    "Dabbling, that's all it is," repeated Kate sadly, running her fingers over her camera. "Mother says. And she knows. She knows everything there is to know about art. That's why she's invited to this party—she likes to buy original artwork, and she especially loves discovering some new artist whose work isn't known. She's got several Carrington pieces, and she was especially excited about Nora Cooper—that was Duncan's mum—who was absolutely fabulous."
    "What about Liza Pethering?" I asked. "The one who has the portrait gallery—"
    "Oh her." Kate grimaced. "Don't even mention that woman's name around Mother! Mother is absolutely
furious
about a portrait she commissioned from Liza Pethering that turned out to be sort of—well, rather unflattering. Mother hates it. She says that's
it
for Liza Pethering. Mother says she's going to boycott the gallery and won't buy any more of Liza's work, and she'll tell other people not to."
    "Your mother feels betrayed?" I asked.
    "Exactly. Mother says, how
dare
Liza Pethering paint such a thing after all she has done for her?" Kate shook her head. "I hope Liza won't be at that party tonight."
    "Oh, but she will be," I told her, wondering daringly if maybe Liza had just painted Mother as she really looked, but Mother imagined herself some incredible beauty. "She'll be there. Guaranteed."
    "Oh dear," said Kate, the worried expression firmly back in place. "It may mean fireworks. And I do hate Mother's scenes..."
    She broke off as the Goops came running over, bleating that they were
freeeeeezing
cold and
staaaaarving
hungry. I introduced them to Kate, then said we'd better hurry home, but we'd see her that night. She walked with us back to the main road, then we said good-bye and set off in different directions. Edmund insisted on carrying home the glass bottle he had found, now filled with sand, seaweed, and water. A souvenir, he said it was, of their trip to Russia.
    "It's an ancient potion," Ivy informed me loftily. "Mrs. Bobblehead gave it to King Henry the Eighth."

6
    "
You're
the guest of honor, so why do
I
have to dress up for this party, too?" I sulked after dinner. Mom was standing in the doorway of my little bedroom, stunning in a slinky black number, high heels, a velvet jacket, silver earrings—the works. I was wearing jeans as usual, and the thick fleecy sweatshirt my friends Jazzy and Rosy had given me as a going-away-to-a-cold-land present, and I wanted to keep it that way. Our cottage was chilly, and the central heating that Liza had raved about didn't really do the job very well. The fire in the woodstove blazed cheerfully, but you had to stand close to feel its warmth. All afternoon I'd been wandering around, trying to help unpack things while cupping mug after mug of