At the Edge of Summer by Jessica Brockmole Page A

friend.” I propped up the pad on my knees.
    He dipped his head. “I’m sorry.”
    “Head up and sit still!”
    Silence stretched, though less companionable than our usual quiet. Even the insects were subdued. A green chestnut fell.
    “Do you—” I began, as he said, “Have you—”
    He nodded. “Go ahead.”
    I hesitated. “Luc…do you think my mother thinks of me?”
    He didn’t answer directly, but instead asked, “What made you think of that?”
    I pulled my braid over my shoulder. “I’m never not thinking of it.” I adjusted the sketch pad. “But she used to sit with her paintbrush outside under a tree, like this.”
    A bee buzzed near his ear, but he didn’t flinch. I sketched the bee into my drawing.
    “Is that why I always find you out here, under the chestnut tree?”
    “That, out here, I’ll feel closer to her? That I might capture a little of whatever she always tried to capture?” My pencil traced the curve of his face. “Maybe.”
    “What would she paint when she was outside?” He smiled. “Buildings?”
    If she painted, she never showed me. All I saw were those empty canvases. “I don’t know.” I’d watch her from the window, all dressed in pink and perched on a stool before her easel. Nanny Proud would let me watch as long as I liked, but Miss May would pull me away by the hair. “But she looked so lovely and so
happy
out there in front of her easel. Inside the house, with Father, she never looked happy.”
    He stretched, but kept his head still.
    “It was almost as though she loved the idea of being an artist as much as she loved creating. She loved to set up her easel just so, to sharpen her pencils, to hold her palette.”
    He brushed a blade of grass from his shoe. “She missed her days at the School of Art?”
    “She missed a lot of things, I think.”
    His gaze slipped sideways and he was quiet. “I’m sure she still does,” he said finally. “Miss things.”
    I couldn’t trust myself to voice my hope. Instead, I let the scratching of my pencil and the coppery buzz of cicadas fill the silence, until Luc cleared his throat.
    “Your turn.” I remembered. “What were you going to ask earlier?”
    “Your grandfather, have you heard from him?”
    “No.” I kept my gaze on the sketch. “He’s off playing with languages somewhere.”
    “Didn’t he raise your mother? Maman said that when they were girls, playing on the banks of the Tummel, it was Monsieur Muir alone up there at the big house.”
    “Exactly. He’s already raised one child. Why would he want to raise another?” My pencil dug into the paper. “Mother always said that he wasn’t very good at it anyway. That he kept to his work and left her to the nannies and governesses.” So much like Father, who hardly ever came out of his study after Mother left, who rarely came to see me recite in the schoolroom. And yet I had the comfort of knowing he was
there,
that he was looking out at the same stars I was. “Anyway, it’s been six years since we’ve seen each other. We’re practically strangers.”
    “So are you and I,” he pointed out.
    “And yet I’d stay forever, if you asked me.”
    The impulsive sentence hung between us. A thrush took up singing somewhere above. For half a moment I wondered if he
would
ask me.
    I cleared my throat, smudged a line on my drawing. “Would you like to take a look?” Without waiting for his answer, I flipped the sketch pad around.
    I waited with fingers tight on the corners of the pad, watching him. Already I could see errors and I knew he could, too, the way his eyes tightened in the corners. He was thinking of polite things to say.
    “This is silly.” I tried to turn it back, but he caught the edge of the pad, his fingers brushing mine.
    “No, it’s quite good.”
    “It’s not.”
    “This is only your first time, after all.”
    “You’re lying and I should stick to buildings and fruit.” I moved to tear it from the book, but he stopped my