Guardian of the Green Hill by Laura L. Sullivan Read Free Book Online Page B

only of gravity in the rest of us), and the age spots that dotted her neck. Yes, it was exactly like her, and that is a thing very few women are happy to see.
    Phyllida was a beautiful eighty-four-year-old woman, but she was still eighty-four. When she pictured herself in her mind’s eye she was twenty, or thirty, or perhaps even a hale and vital forty. She never quite remembered she was old until she looked in the mirror, and then she could compensate somewhat by holding her head just so, looking up slightly, dimming the lights. This stark reminder worked a spell on her far stronger than any of Gwidion’s conjurings. She stood abruptly, pushing the parchment away.
    â€œYou are a very fine artist, I’m sure,” she said coldly, “but I do not need any such frivolity as a portrait. I’ll buy this”—if only so she could destroy it—“but then you must be on your way. Perhaps the historical society would like your picture of the church. Good day.”
    Gwidion’s jaw dropped in his skull-like face. What a powerful woman! What resistance! He hadn’t thought it possible she could defy that spell. He concentrated for a moment, focusing his efforts on Meg and the ideas he’d planted the night before in the bluebell wood.
    â€œOh, please, Phyllida,” Meg said, leaning against her arm affectionately. “I would so love to see a portrait of you.”
    But Phyllida, her pride piqued, was steadfast.
    â€œCan’t he paint one of us, then?” Meg asked.
    â€œWe don’t need such fripperies.” She wasn’t inclined to reward the man who reminded her she was no longer young.
    â€œBut he paints so beautifully,” Meg persisted, appealing as a kitten. “I only wish I could paint so well.”
    Gwidion pounced on the opening.
    â€œI give lessons too, m’lady. That is in fact my specialty. For the children, or for you.” He kept his attention on Phyllida, not realizing she was already a lost cause. Vanity would keep her safer than a legion of bodyguards.
    â€œPlease, Phyllida,” Meg said.
    â€œOh, please!” chimed Silly.
    â€œWe’d like to very much,” Rowan said more soberly.
    Finn didn’t say anything. He was looking at the sketch of Meg, thinking it was really rather good.
    â€œIt may be pleasant for the children,” Lysander said. “Give them some distraction from…” He had been about to say from wars and danger and death, then remembered there was an outsider among them and let the sentence trail off. “What do you say, old girl?” He put his arm around her.
    Old girl? It was really too much. Lysander had used that term of endearment for his wife since their early calf-eyed courting, and it always made her smile, but not today. She stalked out of the room with a backward wave of her hand, saying, “Do whatever you like.”

You’ll Pay for That
    A ND SO THEY DID. It was arranged that Gwidion should stay in an empty keeper’s cottage on the grounds and give the children art lessons each morning. No time was fixed for his departure.
    â€œCan we start right away?” Meg asked.
    â€œWhy not?” Gwidion said. What did it matter if Phyllida refused to be painted? He was now a member of the household and would have the leisure to study her even without her consent. In the meantime, here were the children of her bloodline. Perhaps some use could be made of them.
    He declared that they would paint al fresco, and when Silly asked, “Who’s he?” Gwidion explained it meant outside in the fresh air.
    Finn snorted (though he hadn’t known who al fresco was either) and said snidely, “The ignorant children can fingerpaint.”
    Carried away by this new, unexpected diversion, they forgot about searching for Moll (which was mostly an excuse for adventure to everyone but Meg) and fluttered about like titmice, gathering folding tables and bits of broken