Garty smiles briefly and continues sketching the brown bird, that has now flown.
“Like a rum, old boy?” He pushes Garty’s arm so roughly that his pencil drew a line across the page.
Garty pauses and sucks in a deep breath. Jazzon does not apologise but smirks cheekily.
“No! Thank you Jazzon,” Garty says. “I was about to go to my room…” he says, packing up his few things around the table and exiting.
Jazzon is now busily calling Sack to join him for a rum as the Innkeeper fed the horses and tied up the twin sulky for Jazzon, who was too lazy to do so.
Something about this man stirred an uneasy spirit inside Garty’s soul. He was not afraid of Jazzon but he was concerned about what might happen to his sister if he interfered too much in her daily rituals.
At lunch, Garty did not see Joanne or her brother. Also, at the evening meal, they were absent. He called to Madam Etty and asked if everything was okay with the couple?
“I haven’t seen them for a time. I did expect some interaction at supper,” Garty says, displaying his concern. I have a genuine concern for Joanne.
“They prefer their own room service today. I suppose they might be tired after their long journey here?” Madam Etty says, giving this trite reason to Garty as if it was a napkin he needed.
“I see. Very well. I shall dine alone this evening,” he tells her.
“Perhaps you shall meet them in the morning when they feel more inclined towards company,” she replies, placing a fine dish of vegetables, mainly turnips, on his table, freshly cooked.
I hate turnips! Garty takes a deep breath.
“By the way, Etty, can I settle my account after dinner, pay in advance as well, just in case something eventuates and I need to depart speedily?” he asks politely, putting down his utensils and looking into her broad face.
“Certainly, you may do just that!” She takes the unused cutlery and extra plates from the table and heads for her hot kitchen.
So, she was expecting them to be at this table! Now I am really concerned.
Garty sits up late into the night, burning the oil lamps, checking out bits of paper with scraps of information he needed to collate. He looks through the sketches he made recently and compared them to the picture of the queen. None seemed a match at this stage. As he looked through the file he had borrowed from the orphanage once again, he took stock of all the details thereupon. He read the entry that was barely legible by now, being years in the files and covered in sticky dust. He extracts his magnifier and studies each word carefully. The parchment is now becoming more fragile and he is sorry about its dilapidated state. He is sure there remains something in this file that can give him some clue and direction as to where the princess might have gone after being at the orphanage. And then he sees it, the smallest piece of cloth, right at the bottom of the fold in the file. Gently, he picks it up with a small metal tool he bent to pick up minute items. He examines its structure with his magnifier, another practical tool he often uses. Its fibres are scarlet with some golden threads. It is such a tiny piece of cloth that it begins to disintegrate as he touches it. He examines the weave of the cloth, and determines it was possibly made by gypsies. That is such a clue to the existence of the princess that he decides to celebrate, alone.
He finds his way to the pantry and manages to find a jug of ale and a glass. He returns quietly to his quarters, vowing to pay for this extra sustenance on the morrow.
As careful as a man can be, he places the tiny piece of cloth into a small envelope and tucks it in the file. He needs to clarify its maker in the morning, when he can see it more clearly in daylight.
Someone around here may be able to recognise its origin?
Pleased with himself, he undresses and dons his night shirt and long johns, although it was not a cold night. However, if he needed to go in haste, it would save him time, he reckons.
He is about to turn down the oil lamp when he hears a soft knock on his door. He wonders who on earth can be here at this time of night. Taking his pistol in his hand, he keeps it behind his back.
“Who’s there?” He asks as quietly as possible. If there is a problem with Brill, it will be one of the Innkeepers. But, he reasons, it is late, after 11:00 PM and he expects them to have gone to their own quarters at this hour because they rise early.
He opens the door a smidgen and knows at once that it is Joanne. Quickly, he opens the door and whisks her inside. She is wearing a glowing blue night dress and carrying a little box in one hand and a dark bottle in the other. Her hair tumbles over her bare neck and onto her shoulders. Garty is taken aback. He looks at her in shock.
“What on earth are you doing here at this time of night? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Joanne says, sauntering into his domain. “I thought you might like a bedtime drink,” she says, holding up the dark bottle and a glass. “Plum wine,” she explains. “Do you have an extra glass here?”
He is concerned that she might attempt to visit the kitchen or dining area of the establishment to find suitable drinking glasses and awaken her brother or the Innkeepers.
“Yes, I have one here.” He finds his glass near the table. “I stole this from the pantry,” he says lightly.
“Naughty Garty,” Joanne chides. She pours plum wine into his glass and into her own glass. She looks into his eyes as he draws closer. Her cheeky grin is magical and he drowns in her eyes. He can barely speak, but must.
“What is going on” he did not finish his thoughts, inside her head?
She laughs lightly.
“My bad brother,” she begins. She twirls around as she speaks. He watches, fascinated by her movements and the drink in her hand. She does not spill a drop.
“What about your brother?” Garty asks, genuinely concerned, if not for his own welfare, for hers too.
“Asleep! He is sound asleep after drinking a lot of rum. All day long!”
Her eyes drown in his once again! She twirls in front of him again and again.
“I am free,” she exclaims, jumping on his partly unmade bed, looking like something he could only imagine was a vision of a ghost in pale blue transparencies leaping around his bed. A nymph or mermaid without water perhaps, drowning my sorrows, he is thinking.
“Let us drink to that,” Garty suggests tentatively.
Then it happens!
She bounces off the bed and almost falls on her knees, but quickly recovers her composure, and holds her glass high. Garty reaches out and lifts her to her feet. What or who is this woman? Garty wonders. Perhaps she escaped from an asylum? But, no, she is lovely and sane, he rejects his negativity.
“Thanks for saving me! We drink,” she says, standing next to Garty with her hand out to toast his glass.
“This happens to be the world’s most expensive plum wine,” she adds.
He raises his glass and she joins in, clinking together, making a vibrating sound. “Solid crystal,” she mentions the fact.
Garty’s mind is in a quandary. He wonders just how solid it should be if they clinked a little too much. Another bill! I have money now he reminds himself.
He feels confused and still doesn’t know what her purpose is to enter his boudoir at such a late hour of night. They sup together.
“We must dance,” she says suddenly excited at the prospect of dancing again.
“We must?” he asks glibly, pandering to her mood. She empties the contents of her glass in one gulp and places the empty glass on a nearby shelf.
“This is where the music will be streaming,” she says. “Wait one moment!” She dashes through the door and within a minute returns, breathless. She holds a little box in her hands. She stops to wind it with a small brass key.
“It is not why I came, but it will do for now,” she says in a mysterious tone that fascinates him for a moment.
The music plays and it is joyous, soft and melodious. Garty likes it. This is sweet music! He had heard music boxes before but this one is different, ethereal and a little spooky. She holds out her hand and he bows, kisses her hand and they waltz around the room together. He is an awkward untrained dancer and had long ago given up the notion of ever mastering dance steps. I have two left feet! Now I shall dance?
She, however, seems adept and flings herself emotionally into the music. He is swept away by her floating movements and his feet seem to be catching on in a very speedy manner.
The music goes on for a long time. They twirl together, come close, move apart, join hands, frolic together a little as their feet keep step with the music playing. Its tune moves from slow tempo to faster and even faster until his head spins with wildness of movement. Then it changes pitch and slows its tempo, so the pair can change their movements and directions at will. It is as if the music has a heart and it is pounding out emotions with every note.
Garty and Joanne are totally infatuated by its tone and power of suspense and do not stop until the music stops. Garty falls onto the bed, arms and legs akimbo. Joanne falls on top of him. They are exhausted. They look into each others’ faces and burst out laughing. It is a belly laugh that keeps them laughing until tears run down their faces.
Her face is a small glow in the lamp light nearby. She seems like someone in a dream. She waits, her face expectant.
“Why did you come here tonight?” Garty stares and waits for her answer. She turns away, looking towards the ceiling. Her chest heaves with exhaustion from the dancing madness.
“The portrait, I wanted to see the portrait,” she says, turning her face back to converse.
“You are my portrait,” he says softly, with tears filling his eyes.
He leans over and touches her beautiful soft face with its pinkish lips and sleepy eyes. He closes his eyes and gently kissed her soft lips. This was my dream earlier! She heaves a great sigh and lays her head on his bare shoulder. She senses his strength and safety. Her hair caresses his neck and soothes his senses.
In robot mode Garty rubs one shoulder with his hand. It is slightly stiff. Opening his eyes he sees a shaft of light penetrating the gap in the thick curtaining on his window.
It is early morning. But where is his dream woman, the blue nymph of the night? He feels warmth in the place where she had laid on his shoulder, but where did she go? He sits upright and notices the lamp has burned itself out.
He swishes the curtains across in one swift movement with his arms, then stretches his arms high and gazes into the garden through clear glass panels. It is full of light, sun streaking in variegated forms over each flower bed, roses, hydrangeas, daffodils popping yellow heads as if competing with the sunshine. Why hadn’t he seen these beautiful living things before, he wonders, thumping his chest and feeling like yelling for joy? He listens for a moment. He hears roosters crowing, birds of all kinds whistling as if in a chorus of delight at seeing a new morning. Had his eyes been deceiving him for the light was so bright, beautiful and calming to his soul?