she says, pleased at the prospect. “And you must rest,” she says firmly. “I only wished to ascertain that you were out of danger.” She pauses then and turns to face me one last time. “Remember we must be vigilant with both our physic
and
our soul,” she says pointedly. “The one cannot survive without the other.”
“Yes, mum.”
She leaves me then, with a little nod of condescension, and I am left holding her words.
Chapter Six
T he following day I return to my duties. I am anxious to confront my master about the vial at the first opportunity, though it is not clear to me how I should do so. My mistress has received word of the impending arrival of the portrait painter, and is busy making arrangements for his accommodation. She consults me over the suitability of his rooms, not wishing him to stay among the servants, as he has sat with royalty and her second cousin is his patron. But neither does she wish for him to be accommodated in the guest wing, for it is truly sumptuous, and by rights his status as a painter, even a talented one, places him only slightly higher than that of a craftsman. I suggest that he be given the tower room, above the library, for it is both apart from the servant’s quarters and austere in its decoration. It also benefits from much sunlight, and I remind her that such matters are important to a painter. She nods at this, and instructs the houseman to move a bed into the room at once.
I also propose that the painter might appreciate some volumes of history in his quarters, as he is due to remain for some days while he carries out his commission. My mistress agrees, and so I hurry to the library, where I know my master will be passing time among his books. I am short of breath by the time I reach the tower, not so much from tiredness as from anticipation, and I pause just outside the library door, my heart thumping in mychest. I can hear my master moving about inside; he has a peculiar shuffling gait due to one leg being slightly shorter than the other. I knock and enter when he bids me to, and he turns to face me, his hair disheveled and his eyes a little wild. Unlike his mother, he does not take much notice of his attire, and dresses in a melancholy manner, almost entirely in black, sometimes wearing the same dark tunic for several days at a time. He has a small mustache, which he is fond of stroking with his thumb and forefinger, and wears a tall, floppy, broad-brimmed hat whenever he goes out, lending him the appearance of a minstrel. His eyes are his most attractive feature, being large and round and tawny-colored, with long curly lashes like a woman’s. But what one notices most about him is his shape: for he is small in size, and his left shoulder protrudes sharply upward past his ear, so that his neck and head are almost always at a slight angle, a fact that I have always found unsettling when he speaks to me. That and his manner, which can only be described as somewhat absent, as if he is in a state of perpetual distraction.
He looks at me now in that slightly vacant way, as if his eyes are upon me but his vision has gone elsewhere, and I explain that I have come to borrow books on behalf of my mistress.
“What sort of books?” he asks skeptically, as my mistress keeps her own collection of psalms and Scripture in her antechamber, and is not fond of any other.
“History, sir. Or geography perhaps. They are for the portrait painter,” I add. “For his amusement.”
“Ah,” he says, and shuffles slowly to the far side of the room, selecting half a dozen volumes from a shelf. “These might interest him, if he is the reading sort, though he may well be illiterate. Many of them are, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, taking the books from him. He moves over to his desk then, and at the same time, our eyes both light upon the vial, resting on the silken pouch atop his desk. In an instant his face has dropped its vacant look.
“I owe you many thanks,” he
and
our soul,” she says pointedly. “The one cannot survive without the other.”
“Yes, mum.”
She leaves me then, with a little nod of condescension, and I am left holding her words.
Chapter Six
T he following day I return to my duties. I am anxious to confront my master about the vial at the first opportunity, though it is not clear to me how I should do so. My mistress has received word of the impending arrival of the portrait painter, and is busy making arrangements for his accommodation. She consults me over the suitability of his rooms, not wishing him to stay among the servants, as he has sat with royalty and her second cousin is his patron. But neither does she wish for him to be accommodated in the guest wing, for it is truly sumptuous, and by rights his status as a painter, even a talented one, places him only slightly higher than that of a craftsman. I suggest that he be given the tower room, above the library, for it is both apart from the servant’s quarters and austere in its decoration. It also benefits from much sunlight, and I remind her that such matters are important to a painter. She nods at this, and instructs the houseman to move a bed into the room at once.
I also propose that the painter might appreciate some volumes of history in his quarters, as he is due to remain for some days while he carries out his commission. My mistress agrees, and so I hurry to the library, where I know my master will be passing time among his books. I am short of breath by the time I reach the tower, not so much from tiredness as from anticipation, and I pause just outside the library door, my heart thumping in mychest. I can hear my master moving about inside; he has a peculiar shuffling gait due to one leg being slightly shorter than the other. I knock and enter when he bids me to, and he turns to face me, his hair disheveled and his eyes a little wild. Unlike his mother, he does not take much notice of his attire, and dresses in a melancholy manner, almost entirely in black, sometimes wearing the same dark tunic for several days at a time. He has a small mustache, which he is fond of stroking with his thumb and forefinger, and wears a tall, floppy, broad-brimmed hat whenever he goes out, lending him the appearance of a minstrel. His eyes are his most attractive feature, being large and round and tawny-colored, with long curly lashes like a woman’s. But what one notices most about him is his shape: for he is small in size, and his left shoulder protrudes sharply upward past his ear, so that his neck and head are almost always at a slight angle, a fact that I have always found unsettling when he speaks to me. That and his manner, which can only be described as somewhat absent, as if he is in a state of perpetual distraction.
He looks at me now in that slightly vacant way, as if his eyes are upon me but his vision has gone elsewhere, and I explain that I have come to borrow books on behalf of my mistress.
“What sort of books?” he asks skeptically, as my mistress keeps her own collection of psalms and Scripture in her antechamber, and is not fond of any other.
“History, sir. Or geography perhaps. They are for the portrait painter,” I add. “For his amusement.”
“Ah,” he says, and shuffles slowly to the far side of the room, selecting half a dozen volumes from a shelf. “These might interest him, if he is the reading sort, though he may well be illiterate. Many of them are, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, taking the books from him. He moves over to his desk then, and at the same time, our eyes both light upon the vial, resting on the silken pouch atop his desk. In an instant his face has dropped its vacant look.
“I owe you many thanks,” he
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