The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [272]
Prosper Cain stood and faced his daughter, who had not sat down. Her face was full of energy and her eyes glittered. She had been, since she was born, the creature he loved most in the world, and he was partly angry that he had noticed no change in her, no softening or excitement that might suggest she was in love. He felt full of energy. He was a military man, faced with a difficult situation, out of which he must extricate everyone with no losses. He looked from his daughter to his beloved, who was looking at the tablecloth. He loved Imogen, he wanted Imogen. That was a source of power. He loved Florence, he would find what was best for her, which might or might not be Geraint Fludd, and because he loved her, he would find a way to open a path for her. It came to him, as he stood there, that he must marry Imogen very soon, as Imogen’s position was anomalous. This delighted him. He raised his glass to Florence, and included Geraint in the gesture.
“I wish you both every happiness. We have much to talk of and think about. Now, if you are all in agreement, I think we should do as we planned, and make our way to the Firing. It is possible that my old friend Benedict is already at Purchase House.”
And he more or less swept them all out of the parlour, and into the traps and dog carts that were waiting to take them to Purchase House.
The sun was setting. Over the wide, flat expanse of the Marsh, the sky was red and seething with brightness. There was a red light on the salty grass, and a strange fiery liquid dancing over the slate-dark liquid of the sewers and ponds they passed as they drove. They went past Rye golf course, where the players were silhouetted against the hot ball, black and two-dimensional, waving a club, trundling a buggy. Flocks of plovers wheeled and re-formed, and wheeled again. The few strips of cloud were purple, and violet, and mauve, and shifting in the light. Everything had a metallic sheen, like a lustre glaze. Even the fat sheep had radiant rosy patinas on their creamy fleeces.
The Firing was going, as far as Philip could see, smoothly. He had been steadily baiting the fire, controlling as best he could the amount of smoke and the evenness of the flames. He peered in through various spy-holes at the roaring scarlet holocaust, the odd swirl and spatter of flame, the brilliance, the dull edges. He had willing helpers with the baiting but he had to oversee what was fed into the fireholes. Ware irregularly fired, or fired with impure fuels, could become sulphured, discoloured, gloomy and dulled. Too much oxygen meant sulphur vapour; so did too little. He was keeping back the best wood for the finish. An enthusiastic helper was Tom Wellwood, who had carried many of the crates and boxes which had made up the Dark Tower in the play, and thrust them in at the fireholes. He had also brought his army of puppet-scarecrows—”They can go in at the end, into the fiery furnace” said Tom. Philip checked them for components that would contaminate the flame, or make it burn unevenly. Dorothy was there—it was the weekend, she was not studying—with Griselda and the Germans, who were helping to carry wood. Everyone was remembering the tale of Palissy, thrusting his own furniture into a firehole to complete the trial burning and testing of the new white glaze. The sun went down further, and the sky grew