Crown of Shadows by C. S. Friedman Read Free Book Online Page A

offer.”
    “This is fine.” The water was cool and refreshing, and the glass gave him something to do with his hands. “Thank you.”
    When she was satisfied that he was going to be all right, she returned to her seat opposite him. He noticed that her hair had one narrow streak of white in it, falling from a spot just above her left temple. A natural discoloration, or faddish vanity? For some reason he hoped it was the former. She seemed a wholly natural creature, more like the timid nudeer that wandered free on his estate than the painted beauties he usually dated. Though such women had never appealed to him before, this one had him totally captivated.
    She was paging through the pile of sketches, studying each one in turn. One meticulous rendering of a’ county coronet. Ten pages of details, in perfect scale. Other drawings, other items. She shook her head in amazement as she went through them. “You did a beautiful job on these.”
    “I traced the artist’s originals.” When she looked up at him in curiosity, he added, “My ancestor saved everything.”
    How bizarre this conversation was, he thought. How utterly bizarre to be discussing the archival habits of Gerald Tarrant in this cool and offhand manner, as if men hadn’t wept and suffered and died for that very coronet.
    “In sterling?” she asked.
    “If that was the original metal.”
    She nodded. “Silver was customary up until the sixth century. I take it this is older than that.”
    He nodded.
    “It must have been beautiful,” she mused aloud. Her eyes traced the lines of his drawings with obvious relish, and he knew in that instant that she was the artist who would be translating his sketches into reality. The thought pleased him. “Revivalist, right?”
    “I think so.”
    “Neocounty?” She smiled as he affirmed that, too, her dark eyes sparkling. “I’ve never worked for nobility before.”
    The words caught in his throat; he had to force them out. “We haven’t... we don’t use the title. Not for a long time.”
    “Are these from the same period?” She had found the sketches of armor at the bottom of the pile: breastplate and bracers of fine steel with embossed and inlaid motifs. “Armor?”
    “I should have removed those,” he said quickly. Reaching for the sketches. “That’s a different job, I know you don‘t—”
    “But we do. At least, Gresham does. My boss,” she explained. “He used to do this kind of work. There isn’t much of a call for it, you know. Not enough to base a business on. But I think he would love to work on these.” The dark eyes were fixed on him again; he didn’t dare meet them. “Unless you have someone else in mind, that is.”
    “No,” he managed. “Not at all.”
    “Then I’ll show these to him. He can probably get you an estimate on all this by ... say, Thursday?”
    Estimate. He felt something knot up inside himself at the sound of the word. Estimate meant another interview about these damned pieces, more questions, always more questions ... and he couldn’t begin to answer them because he didn’t know why Calesta wanted these things made, only that he did.
    “I don’t need an estimate,” he said quickly. Trying to get the words out before he could have second thoughts. “Whatever it takes. Just make everything as much like the originals as you can. Whatever that costs.”
    She hesitated. “It’s going to be expensive.”
    “That’s all right.”
    “Really expensive. This is all gold here, look.” She showed him one of the sketches, her finger tracing the line of decoration on a breastplate. “The materials alone—”
    “Money’s not an issue. Really.”
    She sat back, and for a moment said nothing. He could see curiosity burning bright in her eyes, but knew she wouldn’t question him about his wealth. Not directly.
    “He’ll want a deposit,” she said at last.
    He reached into his jacket to where his traveling purse was secured and removed it. Untying its clasp, he