The Skies Discrowned by Tim Powers Page A

sir.”
    They walked on, past another block.
    “I am not going to relieve you of your kitchen duties, though. Oh, I know it was an accident! That’s not what I mean. I think you should continue to work in the kitchen, under Pons’ direction, for the same reason I’d tell you to keep trying to ride a horse that had thrown you, or to keep practicing fencing after you’d taken a bad cut. Don’t let these things defeat you, eh?”
    “Right,” agreed Frank without much enthusiasm.
    “Good. Kathrin Figaros boyfriend wanted to cut your throat, by the way. I told him he’d probably need a bit of help, and he stormed out. Next time, spill the salad on him.”
    Frank laughed weakly.
    “A penny to see a dancing dog?” came a plaintive cry from the alleymouth they were passing. Orcrist stepped aside and handed the old woman some coins before he and Frank continued their walk.
    “That was Beardo’s mother,” Orcrist remarked. “They don’t get along real well.”
    Frank didn’t say anything.
    The next time he saw Kathrin Figaro he was relaxing in Orcrist’s sitting room, having finished his forgery of the difficult Monet canvas. Hewas dressed in an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, over which he had thrown the white silk smoking jacket Beardo had given him.
    The front door opened just as Frank was pouring himself a well-deserved (he told himself) glass of scotch. Assuming that it was Orcrist, he spoke casually over his shoulder. “I figured you wouldn’t mind my taking a glass, sir,” he said, and turned around to see Orcrist standing in the doorway with Miss Figaro on his arm.
    “You’ve grown lax in your treatment of kitchen boys, Sam,” said Miss Figaro sharply. She stepped forward and slapped the glass out of Frank’s hand. It bounced on the carpet, splashing scotch on the bookshelves.
    “I hate this sort of thing,” declared Orcrist. “Kathrin, he
isn’t
a kitchen boy. He’s an apprenticed thief, and a junior partner of mine. Frank, pour yourself another glass. Pour me one too. Will you join us, Kathrin?”
    “No,” she said icily. “Why is he dressed like a hobo mandarin? And why do you have him serve dinner if he’s a junior partner?” Plainly, she thought Orcrist was having a joke at her expense.
    “I was doing that because we felt I’d be better off for some kitchen experience,” explained Frank, who was beginning to enjoy this. “And I’m dressed in my painting clothes. This is a smoking jacket.”
    “He paints as well, does he?”
    “Yes,” Orcrist answered. “It’s a hobby of his. Still lifes, puppies, sad children with big eyes—you know.”
    Kathrin looked close to tears. “Sam, if you and this horrible boy are making fun of me, I’ll …”
    “We’re not, I swear,” said Orcrist placatingly as he put his arm around her shoulders. “Frank, draw something, show her we’re not kidding.”
    “All right.” There was a salt shaker on the coffee table, a relic of a bout of tequila drinking the night before, and Frank shook salt onto the dark table top until it had a uniformly frosted look. Then, with his left forefinger, he drew a quick picture of Kathrin. It caught a likeness, and even conveyed some of her apparently habitual irritability.
    “There, you see?” said Orcrist. “I wasn’t kidding.”
    “You aren’t a kitchen boy?”
    “Not basically, no,” Frank answered.
    “Oh. Well then, I’m sorry I spilled your drink. No, I’m not! You ruined my dress.”
    “Let’s forget all of it,” said Orcrist, “and be friends.”
    “Okay,” said Frank agreeably.
    “All right.” Kathrin still seemed sulky.
    The afternoon progressed civilly, and once, when Orcrist left the room, Kathrin turned to Frank with a hesitant smile.
    “Could you … teach me how to draw, sometime?” She looks much younger when she smiles, he thought. I’ll bet she’s about my age.
    “Sure,” he said.
    Rain was somehow falling down the sunlight shaft onto Orcrist’s breakfast table. Frank