The Crimson Shard by Teresa Flavin Page A

of the sleeping shepherdess. Jacob will soon be finished working upon the Tuscan landscape, now that he has enough vermilion paint.”
    Fleet lifted a cloth covering to reveal the Flemish angel, and Sunni’s pulse quickened. “I recognize that painting,” she whispered to Blaise.
    “So do I. We saw it in the National Gallery yesterday.”
    “How did those two get hold of a famous painting?”
    Fleet scooped the packaged artworks up and handed the smallest to Sleek.
    “Mr. Fleet, Mr. Sleek, our business is concluded,” said Jeremiah. “Please see yourselves out.”
    But neither man moved.
    “Old Slaughter’s,” said Sleek with a glint in his eye.
    “Aye! I nearly forgot. But Mr. Sleek misses nothing,” said Fleet. “You was discussed at Old Slaughter’s coffeehouse last night, Mr. Starling.”
    “By whom?” asked Jeremiah, fumbling for his snuffbox.
    “By all who was there, Mr. Starling. All the gentlemen remarked upon your rather long absence from their company and drank your good health.”
    “What else was said of me?”
    “No more than that,” said Fleet. “There wasn’t nothing else said, was there, Sleek?”
    His companion shook his head. “Nothing.”
    “How did you come to be at Old Slaughter’s? That is hardly your sort of . . .” Jeremiah stopped. “Did you say anything to them? Anything of me?”
    Fleet stroked his long chin. “Nay, of course not, Mr. Starling. We was just passing by and heard the jabber.”
    “Discretion,” said Sleek with his finger to his lips.
    “Aye, discretion,” said Fleet. “Secrets is always safe with us.”
    With that, he and Sleek gave the boys a parting glance and slipped out of the workshop, arms wrapped around their packages. Sunni and Blaise waited for the sound of shoes on stairs but heard nothing. It was as if the two men had sprouted wings and floated down the stairwell, making no noise and barely causing the candles on the landing to twitch.
    Sunni and Blaise managed to make five halfhearted drawings under Jeremiah’s watchful eye. At times, fear gripped Sunni and she battled to keep it under control. She kept telling herself to be cool and alert, in case a chance of escape came, and concentrated on drawing obediently. From skulls to shells to horned beetles, she had drawn and redrawn, erased with the feather, and inked in with her quill pen. Even so, she constantly checked the painted door, praying it would rematerialize and they could make a dash for it.
    Eventually Sunni’s eyes swam in the warm lantern light and her chin dropped to her chest. She awoke with a jerk, looking around to see whether anyone had noticed. But all the boys, Blaise included, were engrossed in their work, and Jeremiah was downstairs, attending Throgmorton’s dinner.
    When her resistance to sleep finally broke, she slumped forward and the quill rolled out of her hand. The next thing she knew, Gus and Toby were standing over her.
    “You’d best go down to Mistress Biggins,” said Toby. “She’s made you a bed near the kitchen.”
    Her mouth was parched, and a red lump was coming up on her middle finger, where the quill pen rubbed as she drew. “See you at midnight, I guess.”
    “We need to talk,” Blaise whispered as she passed.
    “I know. Later.” Sunni wound down the stairs, perking up at the sound of laughter and voices from below. The door to the dining parlor was ajar, its interior glowing with candlelight. The room hummed with men’s voices, punctuated by ladies’ laughter.
    She hovered by the door.
I could just go in and tell them we’re being held prisoner. But would they believe me over Throgmorton?
    Just as Sunni was getting her courage up, Mary burst from the dining parlor, laden down with dirty tureens and plates.
    “Take something!” the servant girl hissed, a greasy sweat across her forehead.
    Sunni took the most precariously balanced bowls from her and led the way to the kitchen. She nearly toppled down the uneven stairs at the bottom of