The Crimson Shard by Teresa Flavin

to fun as they got.
    Jeremiah eventually whipped the paper off the table and shook it, blowing off the excess charcoal. He took up Sunni’s quill pen and drew over his sketch. When it was finished, he left it to dry and threw a feather down on top of it. “You may dust off charcoal lines with that.”
    “You is a right genius, Mr. Starling,” said a deep male voice somewhere near them.
    “Hear, hear,” drawled another voice.
    All heads jerked up to see two men in dark clothing looming behind them.

T he first man was tall and slender, with a long nose and chin. The other was slight but well proportioned, with a smirking face. Both had ebony-colored hair pulled back tightly under their three-cornered hats.
    “Egad,” Jeremiah erupted. “The two of you shall stop my heart dead one day!”
    “Apologies,” said the smaller man, tipping his hat with one black-gloved hand and revealing a parcel tucked under his other arm. “Delivery.”
    “Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Sleek,” grumbled Jeremiah, leading the men away and whispering something to them as they went.
    The tall man gnawed on a fingernail and pointed to a large wrapped parcel against a wall. “Brought you a rather a significant delivery tonight, Mr. Starling.” He tripped over the
r
’s in his words, morphing them into soft
w
sounds.
    “Thank you, Mr. Fleet.”
    Sunni and Blaise stared after Fleet, who had the look of a greyhound ready to bolt on command, and the feline Sleek, who moved smoothly and silently beside him. In their dusky clothes of no nameable color, they brought the night’s darkness in with them.
    “Who are they?” Sunni whispered to Toby.
    The boys had scattered back to their seats, but Toby was seated close by.
    “They work for Mr. Throgmorton. They bring us artworks to copy for our learnin’ and take them away when we are finished.”
    Sleek tilted his head to study Sunni and Blaise. His smirk made Sunni feel that he had figured out her secret within five seconds, but when he shifted his gaze to Blaise, his expression did not change.
    “New apprentices,” Sleek said, raising his forefinger in greeting and touching it to the brim of his hat.
    “Rather different from the others,” Fleet observed. “What poorhouse did he find these in?”
    “I have not been told,” Jeremiah said. “Their origins matter not to me.”
    Sleek raised his eyebrows and did not remove his gaze from the pair.
    “Odd.”
    “Odd?” Fleet repeated. “What is odd, Sleek?”
    Sleek tapped his forefinger against his lips. “Well fed.”
    “Aye, they is rather well fed, now you mention it,” said Fleet.
    “Mr. Throgmorton is selective in his new apprentices,” Jeremiah said abruptly. “Now, show me the specimens.”
    Fleet unwrapped the cloth that protected his painting and threw it over his shoulder. He just managed to hold both edges of the wide gilded frame and gave the painting a critical once-over.
    “Not a mark on it,” Fleet said, leaning it against the wall. “Painted by the French master, Caradas.”
    Jeremiah peered at the portrait of a young man in musketeer’s clothing and examined the signature. A brief cloud of anger crossed his face as he pulled the cloth off Fleet’s shoulder and draped it across the painting, tucking it in firmly at the back.
    “Does the picture vex you, Mr. Starling?” asked Fleet.
    “Not in the least.” Jeremiah took the other package from Sleek and unwrapped it, revealing a small drawing of a lady with pearls woven through her braided hair.
    “Italian,” said Sleek, brushing his gloved hands together.
    “Florentine,” Jeremiah added. He gently covered up the lady and placed her on a high shelf away from the candles and paints.
    “Has you anything needing to be taken away, Mr. Starling?” asked Fleet.
    “I do, sir, as it happens.” Jeremiah moved toward three loosely wrapped paintings propped against a wall. “The Flemish angel is not ready, but that still life may go. Pray also remove the drawing