Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
The screen cleared to show an elfin face with huge blue-green eyes, a nose dotted with freckles, and masses of honey blond hair pushed back with a metal band coated in fine gemstones. Behind her arched wings of the same honeyed tone. Her skin glowed the shade of cream mixed with sunlight, her cheeks dusted with a powder that made them gently sparkle. She’d painted her lips a sweet pink.
If he hadn’t known her age, he’d have taken her for a much younger angel.
“Lady Céline,” he said.
She pressed her hands together. “Oh, it really is you! When Sataki told me you’d called, I was sure he must be mistaken. I hate to say it, but he is a bit of a dunderhead.” A whisper. “Pretty to look at but not much going on between the ears, I’m afraid. My worst failing is hiring staff based on their decorative nature. And you must call me Celi. I insist. I’m no lady!”
It would’ve been easy to take her at face value, to accept the bubbly personality and the bright eyes and the delight…but Aodhan felt as if he was viewing a painting. A meticulously constructed facade designed to obscure Céline’s true self.
That could mean nothing, this an affectation that amused her, her outward personality and tone elements of herself she changed from time to time as other angels changed their hair color or style of dress.
“Thank you for your time,” he said, keeping it polite.
“Of course, mon chéri! What can I do for Aodhan himself? Perhaps you want to make a joint artwork, oui?” She giggled at her own words. “You must excuse me. I am as giddy as a schoolgirl. I have long been a follower of your work.”
Her accent had morphed from vaguely New York to heavily French between her words of greeting and this. An artifact of age or another mask? Just playing with altering herself. Perhaps that was the truth of it—that Céline’s greatest artwork was Céline.
“I wished to ask you about your gloves,” he said, and explained what he was after.
“Oh, Fia keeps track of that sort of thing.” She waved a hand. “I’ll have her send the list to you at once. One of my few sensible hires—fully functioning gray cells.” Turning her head, she called out the name of the assistant.
A low murmur in the background soon afterward, with Céline asking the other woman to send Aodhan what he needed tout de suite!
Another murmur, before Céline turned back.
“There,” she said, “it is done.” A beaming smile. “How diverting, to be involved in a mystery all the way in Archangel Raphael’s territory. What has happened?” She held up a hand, showcasing nails painted two shades darker than her lips. “Non, non! Do not tell Celi. I will make up far more interesting stories in my head.”
“I appreciate your help,” Aodhan said when she finally paused for breath. “If I may ask another question—have you made any direct sales in the past year or given pairs to friends?”
“I do not do direct sales,” she said at once. “As for gifts to friends—not for a decade at least. My cherished intimates are heartily sick of my gloves as gifts, have threatened to gift them back to me if I dare offer them another pair.” Another burst of laughter, her eyes dancing…and still, Aodhan couldn’t quite make himself buy the insouciant affect.
“I thank you,” Aodhan said, his intention to cut off the call after a polite goodbye.
But Céline leaned forward. “What is it like, to work under the Hummingbird?” A shimmer in her voice that might even have been real. “I thought once to importune her to be my mentor, but alas, it struck me that I have not the staying power she requires of her protégés. Is that not true? It’s what I’ve heard. But honestly, it’s all gossip and conjecture from what I see of those she’s mentored.”
“She is a brilliant artist, and a teacher beyond compare,” Aodhan answered with utmost honesty.
Céline sighed, her hands pressed to her chest. “Perhaps one day, I will have an audience with her. I wonder if she’ll even see me.”
Aodhan could’ve told Céline that the Hummingbird had two of her pieces, but he couldn’t make himself be friendly to this woman who wore a mask so jarring to his senses. “I cannot presume to speak for her” was all he said. “I will leave you to your work now, Lady Céline.”
“No, please,” she said with a little pout that soon dissolved into a smile. “Do stay and let us speak a touch longer. You are quite the most interesting person I’ve spoken to in literally years. Bordeaux is beginning to lose its charm, become a bore of old buildings and terrible soirees.”
No French accent anymore. Her voice was that of an old angel who had grown up speaking so many languages that her accent was a mélange—though this, too, could be a facade, it seemed apt to be closer to reality than the rest.