The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [62]
Poe was sitting at the desk, writing.
“What do you think of utopias?” he asked without turning around.
“I’m for them, myself,” said Charles.
“It would depend,” said Jack. “I worry that we’d grow stagnant as a civilization if we truly lived in a utopia.”
“Your mentor, Master Wells, had the same worry,” said Poe. He turned around and looked at John, his eyes huge in the dim light of the candle. “Do you know what kind of problem I have with utopias?”
John blinked. “I’m sure I have no idea,” he said.
“Pistachio nuts,” Poe said. “None of them mention pistachio nuts. I love them myself—but they seem to get left out of all of the perfect societies. Would you like a pistachio nut?”
Without waiting for an answer, he held out his hand and dropped a nut into each of the companions’ hands. He popped one into his mouth and crunched on it, so the others did the same.
“Follow me,” Poe said, rising from the chair, still chewing. “I’d like to show you something.”
He led John, Jack, Charles, and Bert down a long hallway that became taller and narrower as they went. Near the end, they found they had to turn sideways just to squeeze through.
“You all right, Jack?” asked John.
“Yes,” Jack grunted. “Just regretting eating so many of Mrs. Moore’s meat pies.”
At the end of the hall was a wide atelier lit by a massive chandelier, and at the far side of the room, near a window, sat a man, painting.
“Basil Hallward, our resident artist,” Poe said in introduction. “Oscar Wilde discovered the young man at Magdalen and found he had a remarkable gift for portraiture. We brought him here and commissioned him to create the portraits of past Caretakers.”
Hallward glanced over at the companions and nodded distractedly, then did an abrupt double take. He jumped to his feet and threw a sheet over the canvas in progress.
“I say,” Charles remarked, “were you by chance painting a portrait of me?”
Hallward choked, then looked to Poe, who calmly returned the artist’s gaze before looking up at Charles.
“Ransom,” Poe said simply. “He was painting Alvin Ransom.”
“You do look quite similar, Charles,” said Jack.
“My word,” Charles exclaimed. “I hope nothing’s happened to the poor fellow.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Poe answered. “It’s just a precaution. What’s useful for us Caretakers is also useful for our apprentices.”
Hallward nodded. “Useful, yeah. Useful.”
“I agree,” a voice said behind them. It was Defoe. “Nothing like having someone handy who can—literally—paint the illusion of life,” he said cheerfully.
Poe looked askance at Hallward. “You’ve painted pictures for some of the others?”
“I’ve considered availing myself of his services once or twice,” Defoe said, smirking.
“Now, Daniel,” said Bert, wagging a finger in warning, “we’ve cautioned you about that before. Caretakers only. It’s too dangerous to have others hanging around the gallery who might overhear our secrets without the oath of secrecy to bind them.
“And you,” he finished, pointing at Hallward. “No freelancing.”
“Yes, sir,” the painter said, chagrined.
“Caretakers only?” Jack whispered to Charles. “But didn’t he just say that Hallward was completing a painting of Ransom?”
“Poe said apprentices, too,” Charles reminded him.
“May I have a word?” Defoe said to Poe. “I’d like to discuss the Kipling situation.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bert. “I’ll see the lads to their rooms.”
He led the companions back out of the atelier and closed the door. “Defoe and Kipling were close,” he explained. “This has got to be quite a blow for him.”
“For us all,” said Jack. “I just wish we’d said something earlier.”
“Not everything can be forecast,” said Bert. “Not even the things we already know will happen.”
“Isn’t it risky that so many future events are known and being acted on?” asked Jack. “Won’t that disrupt the future—or worse, corrupt the prophecies?”
“Jules and I decided some time ago to view everything as being the past,” said Bert. “That’s one advantage of having