Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (2 page)

Please exhibit for me. Sorry can’t explain. D.

“Who was that?” Fin, her assistant, called from a back room that served as an office-cum-kitchen. Stevie could hear the soft rattle of computer keys.

“Grumpy courier with a parcel,” she called back.

“Didn’t know we were expecting a delivery.”

“Nor me.”

The crate stood waist-high, heavy but manageable. She laid it flat, grabbed a screwdriver from a drawer behind the counter and set to work. Removing the screws and prizing off the wooden lid took only a minute. Inside she found a thick sandwich of bubble wrap, apparently protecting a canvas of some kind. She sat back on her heels, puzzled.

“Surely I didn’t arrange an exhibition and simply forget about it?” Raising her voice, she called, “Fin, is there anything in the diary?”

“About what?”

“Someone’s sent us artwork, I think.”

The sender had sealed the package in overzealous haste, as if to make unwrapping it as frustrating as possible. Stevie took scissors to the job. A sea of bubble wrap mounted around her as she pulled off layer after layer.

“Who’s the artist?” said Fin, emerging from the office.

In her heart, Stevie knew, but she needed to be certain. “See if you can find the documentation.”

Fin inspected the crate and freed a label from a see-through sleeve. “Sent five days ago from a place called ‘the Jellybean Factory.’ North London postcode … Does that ring a bell?”

Stevie frowned. “Oh, yes, it’s familiar. So’s the handwriting.”

“If someone’s sent them on spec, that’s naughty. It is normal etiquette to ask first.”

“Unless I agreed to something that’s slipped my mind. Am I going nuts?”

“I reserve my right not to answer that,” said Fin, pushing her reading glasses into her curly brown hair.

Stevie pulled a face at her. She liked Fin, who was energetic, blunt and good-hearted. They made a good team. “Seriously. We didn’t, did we?”

The annex housing the gift shop, café and further galleries had been refurbished in sleek modern style, in contrast to the factory. A large open arch led into a second room that they used as exhibition space. A clockmaker’s bench occupied one corner. Fin glanced in and said, “There’s not much spare wall area, and we’ve got the needlework guild next month … Any clues?”

“There’s a note.”

Fin took the scrap, dropping her glasses back onto her nose. “‘
The world needs to see this
’?” She raised an eyebrow. “Modest. What was the artist thinking? ‘Hmm, shall I submit my masterpiece to a famous institution in London or New York? No, I’ve a better idea—I’ll send it to an obscure gallery in the outskirts of Birmingham.’ Mysterious.”

“Hey, not so obscure! We didn’t win a ‘best small museum’ award for nothing, you know. We’re world-famous.”

“Okay, but still … Who’s D?”

Stevie didn’t answer. As the last pieces of wrapping and protective paper floated away, she rose to her feet with the object between her hands. The weight was unexpected. It was not canvas after all, but a wooden panel shaped like a Gothic arch, covered by two hinged flaps.

A triptych.

Stevie carried the panel to the counter and spread the side leaves at angles so that the structure stood up on its own. She felt a thrill of magic in opening the panel to reveal the artwork inside, like a child with an Advent calendar window.

She saw a vibrant wash of orange and red, lots of bright gold leaf reminiscent of a Byzantine icon, a pair of fiery female eyes staring at her … In the gloom, the effect was luminous.

“Wow,” said Fin behind her. “This is your brain on drugs!”

The central image showed a goddess-like figure in a mountainous red desert. In the foreground lay a tumble of stonework: a fallen temple? The female, stepping from behind the stump of a column, had auburn hair swirling around a pale golden face with glaring eyes. A face or a mask? Her complexion had the sheen of fur, and strong-boned features more feline than human. A regal, feral cat deity. One hand was holding a crystal sphere up to the heavens, the other pointing at a molten yellow fissure in the earth.

The brushstrokes were so precise and detailed that everything seemed to be in motion, vibrating and rushing around the central figure. There was so much light and energy, it hurt the eyes.

The side panels showed equally enigmatic visions. On the left sat statues of a king and queen, side by side like pharaohs in a ruined palace. On the right, a silver globe emitted a beam of light towards the stars. In the background stood a priest-like figure with a severe expression.

Stevie was silent, wondering.

“The artist’s gone a bit crazy with the gold and silver leaf, hasn’t he?” said Fin. “I need sunglasses. The way he’s caught the light is amazing, but it looks like everything’s vibrating. I wouldn’t want it on my wall, would you? Imagine confronting that, with a hangover.” She bent closer. “I can’t read the signature.”

“I can. I know the artist.” Stevie gave a soft laugh. “I went to college with him. Danifold.” A strange shiver went through her. “Well, bloody hell.”

“Who?”

“Daniel Manifold,” said Stevie. “We used to call him ‘Danifold.’ I’d know his work anywhere. He was obsessed by Byzantine religious icons and that was his thing, adapting those methods to his own ideas. He was always arguing with his lecturers, who frowned on his non-modern style, but he stuck to his guns. This is amazing.”

“What’s it supposed to be, though? It’s all sort of … wrong. It doesn’t look like any religious subject I’ve ever seen.”

“No,” said Stevie. “He took the style and played with it. Dreams, folklore, myths … whatever came into his head, I suppose.”

“He sounds very creative.”

“You could say that. Passionate. Driven.”

“So, have you been in touch with him lately?”

“No, hardly at all since we left college.” She smiled wistfully. “Since he’s working in London, why would he send stuff to me? It doesn’t make sense.”

Fin began to pick up discarded wrapping, only to stop with a panicked glance at the clock. “Damn, look at the time! I have to collect the kids from the minder. I’ve counted the cash, locked it in the safe and put the figures on your desk. Everything’s done.”

“Yes, it’s fine, you go,” said Stevie, startled out of a semi-trance. “I made the mess, so I’ll clear it up.”

“Okay, let me shut down the computer,” Fin continued as she went behind the counter into the office. “How long since college?”

“Oh … seven years. We drifted apart.”

Fin reappeared in a black overcoat and scarf, settling her bag on her shoulder. “Was he an old flame?” she said, her lips quirking.

“Not really. Well, sort of.” Stevie deflected Fin’s cheerful nosiness with a flick of her hand. “It was a very long time ago. I’m more than happy to exhibit his work, but an email or phone call would have been nice. This is odd, even for Daniel.”

“Is there some way you can contact him?”

“Not sure.” She stood with arms clasped, trying to outstare the fiery goddess. “Probably. I’ll have a think.”

Fin plucked car keys from her bag. Hesitating, she added, “Look, why don’t you come to ours for supper tonight?”

Stevie didn’t mean to be unsociable, even though she felt like the anti-Fin: slightly built, willowy and untidily bohemian in appearance, her hair a long shaggy mess of amber shades—an oddball, in so many ways. Fin was a tall sporty type, dark, chic but … “ordinary” wasn’t a fair description. Fin was simply of the mainstream; down-to-earth, bright and breezy, normal. That didn’t stop them being friends, but …

Stevie thought about Fin’s house. The rooms would be ablaze with light and warmth, cooking smells, two children arguing in front of the television, Fin’s jokey, talkative husband, a couple of large dogs bounding around … The mere thought of all that heat, food and chatter was enough to wake a thin headache behind her eyes.

“I’d love to, but maybe another time? It’s been a long day. I need an early night.”

Fin nodded in resignation. “It can’t be great for you, living alone in that grotty apartment. You’re welcome any time, you know.”

“Thank you.” Stevie mustered a smile. “It really isn’t
that
grotty. Anyway, I need groceries, and I have paperwork to finish. We’ll deal with Daniel tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait,” said Fin. “Hey, you want a lift to the supermarket? It’s foul out there.”

“No. I’ll walk. I don’t mind the rain, and I do need the exercise.”

*   *   *

And space to think
, Stevie added to herself.

With Fin gone, Stevie tidied the sea of bubble wrap, stowed the triptych and packing crate safely in the office, finished her final checks. All was clean and neat in the café, mini-spotlights in the display cases turned off. In the exhibition room, distorted shadows of the wording engraved on the windows—
Soames & Salter, Metalsmiths
, and in smaller letters beneath,
Birmingham Museum of Metalwork. Preserving the industrial heritage of the Jewellery Quarter—
slid repeatedly across the polished oak floorboards. She pulled down the blinds, set the alarm and let herself out of the rear exit.

Outside, the wind stung her face. Stevie lived in a small apartment above the museum gift shop, just a few steps across a yard to a fire escape that wound two stories up to her front door. She’d thought of taking Daniel’s triptych upstairs, but decided not to risk rain damage. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted those disturbing images staring at her all night.

Rain fell hard as Stevie walked the length of Vyse Street. The street was dark and shiny, awash with traffic on a typically British December evening: wet and piercingly cold. She hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, so she wrapped her long Indian cotton scarf several times around her neck, pushing her chin down into the folds. She passed the multistory parking garage and a long row of stores selling gems and watches.

The Jewellery Quarter wasn’t pretty, yet it possessed a unique character. The streets had an industrial feel. Buildings of Victorian grandeur were interspersed with rows of old red-brick houses—mainly occupied by jewelry stores, with design studios and repair workshops on the upper floors—and marred by occasional blocky constructions from the 1960s. There were tiny shops stuffed with antiques, glamorous high-end boutiques, contemporary designers, discount gold merchants, clockmakers and more, all nestled side by side along every street in the vicinity.

Stevie loved the place. She’d fallen in love the moment she stepped off the new light railway at Hockley station, looked up and saw the station sign: a modern sculpture of cogs, like a giant skeleton clock. An air of dilapidation persisted in places, but historical conservation projects were restoring the area into a prime heritage site. Stevie was proud to be playing a part, however modest.

She wasn’t her own boss as such. She’d been deputy curator/manager for five years, officially supervised by tiers of city council administrators. Fortunately, they left the day-to-day running to her. The pay wasn’t great, but Stevie was happy. The job came with an apartment, and the museum was her life. There was nothing more she needed.

On the opposite side of the road, a cemetery lay dark and peaceful, untouched by the bustle around it. Reaching the Jewellery Quarter clock—a handsome green and gold tower—she crossed the road to a small supermarket on the far side.

The store’s harsh lighting made her blink as she bought basics: milk, bread, a ready meal and a bottle of wine. Soon she was on her way back, with rain blowing into her eyes, half her shopping list forgotten. All she could think about was Daniel.

Tall and skinny, with spiky brown hair, bright blue eyes shining through his crooked glasses, a permanent grin … the memories were vivid and fond. She still missed him. He’d been her first lover, the first person she’d ever allowed close to her.

Art college had been a great time in her life. Although her talent for fine art proved minimal, the college let her transfer to a jewelry-making course of study that suited her better. The curriculum covered all kinds of metalwork, allowing her fascination with clocks and other mechanisms to blossom alongside her love of gold and gems.

When college ended and her fellow students went their separate ways, she felt bereft. For those four years, she’d been part of a large, flamboyant family.

With Daniel at the center, like a flame.

Fin had guessed right: she and Daniel had been an item at college, although it hadn’t exactly been a grand passion. The initial excitement of sexual discovery faded within a year or so. Affection remained, but sheer physical chemistry seemed to be lacking between them. He’d always been eccentric, verging on unstable, and Stevie had her own interests, so they poured their ardor into work rather than each other. Yet there had been a sweetness in their mostly platonic love that still made Stevie smile. By the end, they were more like brother and sister.

Then the search for work took them in different directions. Daniel’s mother hadn’t helped, of course; she disapproved of his career choice and disliked his friends, Stevie in particular. Really, it had been easier to let him go than fight his mother or cope with his driven self-absorption.

Still, Daniel was special. She would always love him. Sending artwork with an urgent, cryptic note attached … even for him, that was damned weird.

Something was wrong.

As she passed the cemetery, she felt an ominous prodrome, a fizzing in the top of her head …
No, not now
, she told herself, but couldn’t push the feeling away.

The world changed around her in a horrible, indefinable way. Reality tilted. Traffic faded to silence. A cobalt glow replaced the darkness and sparks danced in the corners of her vision. Static tingled on her skin. She was dizzy, holding her breath with an overwhelming sense of a presence behind her … watching her … something dark and slithery, so close she could feel its breath on her neck.

And in front was a white shape, kitten-sized, like an animal specter. It kept glancing back, drawing her onward.

Stevie kept walking, willing herself not to run or otherwise behave crazily in the street. This feeling could last for half an hour or more. And every time, it was no less terrifying.