The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [57]
“You could have had some yourself,” she said.
“Oh! I didn't know, I thought it was only for the initiated. What a pity. I shall make certain to go forward next week.”
She relented a fraction. “You plan on coming back, then?”
“Of course! If nothing else I'd like to hear The Master—isn't that what you call him? I thought he was always here.”
“He usually is, but there are times when his body is emptied of Self, and he cannot attend in his corporeal person. He was, no doubt, here in spirit.”
“Oh!” I squeaked, as if a ghost stood at my shoulder. “Good, I so look forward to meeting him. Yolanda Adler told me about him. Do you know Yolanda?”
“Certainly, she's one of the—one of our regulars.” I wondered what she had been about to say. One of the initiated? The Leading Lights, as it were?
“Oh, and would anyone mind if I went to look at the painting up front? It's by her husband, isn't it?”
She had begun to gather her things to leave. Now she paused to look at me more closely. “It is. Most people don't even notice it's a painting.”
“Really? I'd have thought it was unmistakable.” I stepped towards her, forcing her to give way and let me into the centre aisle. I thought she might follow, but I heard her say good night to some of the others, and she left.
The painting was nearly all black. Its texture came from hundreds of circles, ranging from tiny dots to those the size of a thumb-nail. All showed the same pattern of light: droplets on a window, reflecting a cloudless night sky. In each and every one, a long streak of light indicated the moon, distorted by the droplets' curve; around the streak a sprinkling of smaller spots were stars.
It was subtle, complex, and breathtaking.
I don't know how long I stood there, oblivious to the emptying room and the tidying away of the altar and candelabrum, but eventually Millicent Dunworthy, sans ring and robe now, came to shut the painting away behind its doors. I stepped back reluctantly, eyeing the feeble padlock and thinking that this was one Adler I should not mind having on my sitting room wall. …
But I was investigating, not planning an art theft. “Oh!” I exclaimed. (Such a useful sound, that, for indicating an empty head.) “It's like raindrops on a window!”
“Yes, it's lovely, isn't it?” She paused, and we both gazed at it. “Did you enjoy the service?”
I suppressed a degree of the empty-headed enthusiast, for this woman was more perceptive than the sharp-nosed woman I had stood beside. “Oh, it was ever so fascinating, all that about the light and the dark. It makes such sense, don't you think?”
Miss Dunworthy did think. “I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Do come again, and bring your friends.”
“Oh, I will, most definitely. In fact, it's because of a friend I'm here—Yolanda Adler, Damian's wife,” I clarified, gesturing at the painting.
“You know the Adlers?”
“Her more than him, but yes. They've been coming here for a while, haven't they?”
“Well, Mrs Adler certainly. And him from time to time. Such a nice young man, he reminds me of my brother. Who was killed,” she added sadly. “At Ypres.”
“I'm sorry. But the Adlers weren't here tonight.”
“No. Something may have come up.”
“You haven't talked to her, then?”
“Not for the past week, no.” There was an air of puzzlement in her voice, indicating that she not only had no idea where Yolanda Adler was, she was surprised not to have seen her.
“Such an interesting person, isn't she?” I gushed. “So exotic. Where was it she's from? Singapore?”
“I thought it was Shanghai?”
“You're right! I'm a bit of a fool when it comes to geography. But I just love her accent.”
“It is charming, although it's so light, with your eyes shut you'd think she grew up in London.”
“How long is it she's been coming here, anyway?” I asked it absently, my attention on the painting.
“She was here at the beginning. January, meetings began. Although I have to say, she's never seemed as thoroughly committed to The Master's work as some of us. Over the past months, she seems to have lost interest.”
“Does she have any particular pals, among the Children?