Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) by Freda Warrington Page B
Authors: Freda Warrington
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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 stale 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.
She looked around to see the same mismatched furniture, so antiquated it was almost in fashion again. Authentic “shabby chic.” Stevie breathed in the musty scents and listened to the heavy tick of the grandfather clock. Nothing had changed here either. At the rear of the room, glass doors stood open to a conservatory, if that was the right word for the dilapidated glass house attached to the back of the building. The space was so full of potted plants that she could hardly tell where the garden began.
Daniel used to paint in there.
“Sorry about the cold. I leave the doors open for the dog, you see. I’m used to it. Make yourself at home while I put the kettle on,” said Frances. She hurried through another door, Humphrey bounding after her. Chances were the kitchen hadn’t changed either; Stevie recalled green-painted cupboards, a vast black oven range and an oblong sink flanked by wooden draining boards.
Stevie wandered into the conservatory, where the pungent scent of
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 stale 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.
She looked around to see the same mismatched furniture, so antiquated it was almost in fashion again. Authentic “shabby chic.” Stevie breathed in the musty scents and listened to the heavy tick of the grandfather clock. Nothing had changed here either. At the rear of the room, glass doors stood open to a conservatory, if that was the right word for the dilapidated glass house attached to the back of the building. The space was so full of potted plants that she could hardly tell where the garden began.
Daniel used to paint in there.
“Sorry about the cold. I leave the doors open for the dog, you see. I’m used to it. Make yourself at home while I put the kettle on,” said Frances. She hurried through another door, Humphrey bounding after her. Chances were the kitchen hadn’t changed either; Stevie recalled green-painted cupboards, a vast black oven range and an oblong sink flanked by wooden draining boards.
Stevie wandered into the conservatory, where the pungent scent of