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“YES, ALMOST, -” GARTY said.
He continues sketching the brown bird. Now flown away.
“Like a rum, old boy.”
Jazzon pushes Garty’s arm. His pencil drew a line across the page.
Garty pauses and sucks in a dark breath. Jazzon raises his brows; does not apologize.
“No, thank you Jazzon,” Garty said.
“I was about to go to my room...” he says, packing up.
Jazzon calls Sack to join him for a rum. The innkeeper was busy tending Jazzon’s horses. The lazy man.
The man stirred an uneasy spirit inside Garty’s soul. He was not afraid of Jazzon, but he was worried about Joanne.
At lunch, Garty did not see Joanne or her brother. Also, at the evening meal, they were absent.
He called to Madam Etty.
“Are the Weasley siblings joining me this evening?”
“They are tired after their long journey.”
Etty gives this trite reason.
“I see. Very well. I shall dine alone this evening.”
“Yes.”
Etty places a dish of vegetable on his table.
I hate turnips! Garty takes a sharp breath and begins his meal.
“Etty, I shall settle my account after dinner.”
She looks up.
“I shall pay forward as well, in case I must depart?”
“As you wish.”
She removes extra plates from the adjoining table and heads to her hot kitchen.
So, they should be here! His forehead creases.
Garty sits up late into the night, burning the oil lamps, checking out bits of paper with scraps of information he desired to collate. He looks through the sketches he made, and compared them to the picture of the queen. None seemed a match at this stage.
As he checked the file he had borrowed from the orphanage, he notes all the detail. He read the illegible entry using his magnifier. This file can give him some clue. A scrap of cloth is in the fold. He picks it up with a tool he had made. He examines its fibers, scarlet with some golden threads. It disintegrates easily. Made by gypsies. A clue to the truth. The princess exists.
Finding a jug of ale and a glass in the kitchen, Garty returns to his quarters, vowing to pay for this extra sustenance on the morrow.
Being careful, he places the tiny piece into a small envelope. He will clarify its details in the morning light.
Someone around here may recognize its origin?
Pleased with himself, he undresses and dons his night shirt and underpants, although it was not a chilly night. However, if he desired to go in haste, it would save him time, he reckons.
He is turning down the oil lamp when he gets a soft tap on his door. Garty grabs his pistol.
“Who’s there?” He asks as quietly as possible. If Brill has a problem, it will be the innkeeper. But, he reasons, it is late, after 11:00 PM. They have retired to their own quarters. They rise early.
Garty cracks the door open. Joanne. The knight whisks her inside. She wears a blue nightdress, carrying a bottle. Her hair tumbles over her bare neck and onto her shoulders. Garty is taken aback. He stares in shock.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Joanne says, sauntering into his domain.
“I thought you might like a bedtime drink. Plum wine. Do you have an extra glass here?”
“Yes, I have one here. I stole this from the pantry.”
“Naughty Garty.”
She pours plum wine into each glass. She looks into his eyes as he draws closer. Her cheeky grin made her face shine. And he drowns in her eyes. He must speak.
“What is going on?”
She laughs.
“My wicked brother.”
She twirls around as she speaks. He watches, fascinated by her movements and the drink in her hand. She does not spill a drop.
“What about your brother?”
“Asleep! He is sound asleep after drinking a lot of rum. All day long!”
Her eyes drown in his once again! She twirls in front of him.
“I am free.”
Jumping up and down on the bed.
A nymph or mermaid, in blue.
“Let us drink to that.”
Then it happens!
She bounces off the bed and almost falls; recovers her composure and holds her glass. Garty reaches out and steadies her feet. Who is this woman? Garty wonders. Perhaps she escaped from an asylum? But, no, she is lovely and sane. He rejects his negativity.
“Thanks for saving me! Let’s drink. To the world’s most expensive plum wine.”
Crystal vibrates.
“To a good wine, and life.” Joanne says.
“I second that!”
What cost if they clinked too much?
He doesn’t know what her purpose is. To enter his boudoir at such a late hour of the night is unethical.
“We must dance.”
“We must?”
She empties the contents of her glass in one gulp and places the empty glass on a nearby shelf.
“This is where music will flow. Wait one moment!”
Dashing out the door, Joanne returns.
The nymph holds a little box in her hands. She stops to wind it with a small brass key.
“Music.”
She winds it.
The music plays, and it is joyous, soft and melodious.
The night nymph holds out her hand and he bows, kisses her hand and they waltz around the room together. He is an awkward, untrained dancer and had long ago given up the notion of ever mastering dance. I have two left feet! Now I shall dance? He laughs.
She flings herself into the music.
He is swept away by her floating movements. His feet catch on.
The music is unending. They twirl together, come close, move apart, join hands, frolic together a little as their feet keep step with the music playing. Its tune moves from a slow tempo to faster and faster again, until his head spins with a wildness of movement. The magical music thrills their emotions with every note.
Garty and Joanne are infatuated to continue until the music stops. Garty falls onto the bed, arms, and legs akimbo. Joanne falls on top of him. They face each other and burst out laughing until tears run down.
Her face is a small glow in the lamplight nearby. She seems like someone in a dream. She waits, her face expectant.
“I am still puzzled. Why did you come?”
She turns away, looking towards the ceiling. Her chest heaves with exhaustion from the dancing madness.
“I wanted to see the portrait.”
“It is unfinished.”
Garty caresses her soft face with its pinkish lips and sleepy eyes. He shuts his eyes and kissed her soft lips. This was my dream earlier! She heaves a great sigh and lays her head on his bare shoulder. She senses his strength and safety. Her hair caresses his neck and soothes his senses.
Garty rubs his stiff shoulder with his hand. He looks into the shaft of light through the gap in the curtains.
Warmth in the place where she had laid means she was here. But where is the blue nymph?
Opening the curtains across in one swift movement with his arms, he stretches his arms high and gazes into the garden. It is full of light, sun streaking in variegated forms over each flower bed, roses, hydrangeas, daffodils popping yellow heads as if competing with the sunshine. Why hadn’t he seen these beautiful living things before, he wonders, thumping his chest? Roosters crow, birds of all kinds whistle as if in a chorus of delight, seeing a new morning. Resurrection day has arrived. The light heals his soul.